THE WORKS 



OP 



D'ISEAELI THE YOUNGER 



IN ONE VOLUME. 



'fni'^/ 



tfowTAiriya 



VIVIAN GREY. 
THE YOUNG DUKE, 
CONTiRlNI FLESIING, 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY, 
THE RISE OF ISKANDER, 
HENRIETTA TEJIFLE, AND VENETIA. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

JESPER HARDING. 

18 50. 



t5^ 









ih 



VIVIAN GREY 



" Why then the woriff s mine oyster, 
)Miich I wiih sworJ will optii." 



VIVIAN GREl'. 



BOOK THE FIRST. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE COIfSULTATIOir. 

I AM not aware that the infancy of Vivian Groy 
was distinguished by any pxtraordinary incident. 
The solicitude of the most affectionate of mo- 
thers, and the care of the most attentive of nurses, 
did their best to injure an excellent constitu- 
tion. But Vivian was an only child, and these 
exertions were therefore excusable. For the first 
five years of his life. Master Vivian, with his curly 
locks and his fancy dress, was the pride of his 
own, and the envy of all neighbouring establish- 
ments ; but in process of time the hoiTible spirit 
of boyism began to develope itself, and Vivian not 
only would brush his hair "straight," and rebel 
agai-nst his nurse, but actually insisted upon being 
— breeched ! At this crisis it was discovered that 
he had been spoiled, and it was determined that 
he should be sent to school. Mr. Grey observed, 
also, that the child was nearly ten years old, and 
did not know his alphabet, and Mrs. Grey re- 
marked, that he was getting very ugly. The fate 
of Vivian was decided. 

" I am told, my dear," observed Mrs. Grey, one 
day after dinner to her husband, " I am told, my 
dear, that Dr. Flummery's would do very well for 
Vivian. Nothing can exceed the attention which 
is paid to the pupils. There are sixteen young 
I^Ues, all the daughters of clergymen, merely to 
atSend to the morals and the hnen — terms very 
moderate — one hundred guineas per annum, for 
all under six years of age, ayd few extras, only 
for fencing, pure milk, and the guitar. Mrs. Met- 
calfe has both her boys there, and she says their 
progress is astonishing, Percy Metcalfe, she as- 
sures me, was quite as backward as Vivian. Ah ! 
indeed, much backwarder; and so was Dudley 
Metcalfe, who was taught at home on the new 
system, by a pictorial alphabet, and who persisted 
to the last, notwithstanding all the exertions of 
Miss Barrett, in spelling A-P-E — monkey, merely 
because over the word there was a monster munch- 
ing an apple." 

•' And quite right in the child, my dear — Picto- 
rial alphabet ! — pictorial fool's head !" 

'• But what do you say to Flummery's, Grey 1" 

" My dear, do what you like. I never trouble 

myself, you know, about these matters ;" and Mr. 

Grey refreshed himself, after this domestic attack, 

witl^ a glass of claret. 

Mr. Grey was a gentleman who had succeeded, 
when die heat of youth was over, to the enjoy- 



ment of a life interest in an estate of about 2000/, 
per annum. He was a man of distinguished lite- 
rary abilities, and he had hailed with no slight 
pleasure, his succession to a fortune, which, though 
limited in its duration, was still a very great thing 
for a young litterateur about town ; not only with 
no profession, but with a mind utterly unfitted for 
every species of business. Grey, to the astonish- 
ment of his former friends, the wits, made an ex- 
cellent domestic match ; and, leaving the whole 
management of his household to his lady, felt 
himself as independent in his magnificent library, 
as if he had never ceased to be that true freeman, 

A MAX OF CHAMBEnS. 

The young Vivian had not, by the cares which 
fathers are always heirs to, yet reminded his pa- 
rent that boys were any thing else but playthings. 
The intercourse between father and son was, of 
course, extremely limited ; for Vivian was, as yet, 
the mother's child; Mr. Grey's parental duties 
being confined to giving his son a glass of claret 
per diem, pulling his ears with all the awkward- 
ness of literary aflection, and trusting to God 
" that the urchin would never scribble." 

" I won't go to school, mamma," bawled Vi- 
vian. 

" But you must, my love," answered Mrs. Grey; 
" all good boys go to school ;" and in the pleni- 
tude of a mother's love, she tried to make her off- 
spring's hair curl. 

" I won't have my hair curl, mamma ; the boys 
will laugh at me," reBawled the beauty. 

"Now, who could have told the child thatl" 
monologized mamma, with all a mamma's admira- 
tion. 

" Charles Appleyard told me so — his hair curled, 
and the boys called him girl. Pajja, give me some 
more claret — I won't go to school." 



CHAPTER n. 

PROGKESS. 

Three or four years passed over, and the mind 
of Vivian Grey most astonishingly developed itself. 
He had long ceased to wear frills, had broached 
the subject of boots three or four times, made a 
sad inroad during the holidays in Mf . Grey's afore- 
said bottle of claret, and was reported as having 
once sworn at the footman. The young gentle- 
man began also to hint, during every vacation, that 
the fellows at Flummery's were somewhat too small 
for his companionship, and (first bud of puppy- 
ism !) the former advocate of straight hair, now 
expended a portion of his infant income in tho 
purchase of Macassar oil, and began to cultivaia 
A 2 5 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



his curls. Mrs. Grey could not entertain for a 
moment, the idea of her son's associating with 
children, the eldest of whom (to adopt his own 
account) was not above eight j^ears old ; so 
Flummery's, it was determined, he should leave. 
But where to go ] Mr. Grey wished Eton, but 
his lady was one of those women whom nothing in 
the world can persuade that a public school is any 
thing else but a place where boys are roasted 
alive ; and so with tears, and taunts, and suppli- 
cations, the point of private education was con- 
ceded. As for Vivian himself, he was for Eton, 
and Winchester, and Harrow, and Westminster, 
all at once; the only point that he made was, 
" not Rugby, it was so devilish blackguard." 

At length it -was resolved that the only hope. 
should remain at home a season, until some plan 
should be devised for the cultivation of his pro- 
mising understanding. During this year, Vivian 
became a somewhat more constant intruder into 
the library than heretofore ; and living so much 
among books, he was insensibly attached to those 
silent companions, that speak so eloquently. 

How far the character of the parent may in- 
fluence the character of the child, I leave the me- 
taphysician to decide. Sure I am, that the cha- 
racter of Vivian Grey underwent, at this period 
of his life, a sensible, a prodigious change. Doubt- 
less, constant communion with a mind highly 
refined, severely cultivated, and much experienced, 
cannot but produce a most beneficial impression, 
even upon a mind formed, and upon principles 
developed : how infinitely greater must the in- 
fluence of such communion be upon a youthful 
heart, ardent, innocent, and inexperienced ! As 
Vivian was not to figure in the microcosm of a 
public school, a place for which, from his temper, 
he was almost better fitted than any young genius 
Avhom the " playing fields" of Eton, or " the lulls" 
cf Winton, can remember; there was some difficulty 
in fixing upon his future academus. Mr. Grey's 
two axioms were, first, that no one so young as 
his son should settle in the metropolis, and that 
Vivian must consequently not have a private tu- 
tor ; and, secondly, that all private schools were 
quite worthless ; and, therefore, there was eveiy 
probability of Vivian not receiving any education 
whatever. 

At length an exception to axiom second started 
up in the establishment of the Eeverend Everard 
Dallas. This gentleman was a clerg^mian of the 
church of England, a profound Grecian, and a 
poor man. He had edited the Alcestis. and mar- 
ried his laundress — lost money by his edition, and 
his fellowship by his match. In a few days, the 
hall of Mr. Grey's London mansion was filled 
with all sorts of portmanteaus, trunks, and travel- 
ling cases, directed in a boy's sprawling hand to 
" Vivian Grey, Esquire, at the Reverend Everard 
Dallas, Burnsley Vicarage, Hants." 

" God bless you, my boy ! write to your mother 
soon, and remember your journal." 



CHAPTER m. 

PRIVATE EDUCATION, 

The rumour of the arrival of " a new fellow," 
circulated with rapidity through the inmates of 
Burnsley Vicarage, and about fifty young devils 



were preparing to quiz the new-comer, when the 
school-room door opened, and Mr. Dallas, accom- 
panied by Vivian, entered. 

" A dandy, by Jove !" whispered St. Leger 
Smith. " What a knowing set out," squeaked 
Johnson se.rundus. "Mammy-sick," growled Bar- 
low primus. This last exclamation was, however, 
a most scandalous libel, for certainly no being ever 
stood in a pedagogue's presence with more perfect 
sang froid, and with a bolder front, than did, aw 
thi.'? moment, Vivian Grey. 

One principle in Mr. Dallas' regime, was always 
to introduce a new-comer in school hours. He 
was thus carried immediately in medias res, and 
the curiosity of his comates being in a great de- 
gree satisfied, at a time when that curio.sity could 
not personally annoy him, the new-comer was, of 
course, much better prepared to make his way, 
when the absence of the ruler became a signal yijr 
S07ne oral conversation with " the arrival." 

However, in the present instance the young 
savages at Burnsley Vicarage had caught a tartar ; 
and in a very few days Vivian Grey was decidedly 
the most popular fellow in the school. He was 
" so dashing ! so devilish good-tempered ! so com- 
pletely up to every thing !" The magnates of the 
land were certainly rather jealous of his success, 
but their very sneers bore witness to his popularity. 
" Cursed puppy," said St. Ledger Smith. " Thinks 
himself knowing," squeaked Johnson secundus. 
" Thinks himself witty," growled Barlow primus. 

Notwithstanding this cabal, days rolled on at 
Burnsley Vicarage only to witness the increase of 
Vivian's popularity. Although more deficient than 
most of his own age in accurate classical know- 
ledge, he found himself in talents and various ac- 
quirements immeasurably their superior. And sin- 
gular is it, that at school, distinction in such points 
is ten thou.sand times more admired by the multi- 
tude, than the most profound knowledge of Greek 
metres, or the most accurate acquaintance with the 
value of Roman coins. Vivian Grey's English 
verses, and Vivian Grey's English themes, were 
the subject of universal commendation. Some 
young lads made copies of these productions, to 
enrich, at the Christmas holidays, their sisters' 
albums ; while the whole school were scribbling 
etnbr3'o prize-poems, epics of tv\'enty lines on '"the 
ruins of Prestum, ' and " the temple of Minerva ;" 
" Agrigentum," and "the cascade of Terni." — I 
suppose that Vivian's productions at this time, 
would have been rejected by the commonest two- 
penny publication about town — yet they turned 
the brain of the whole school ; while fellows who 
were writing Latin dissertations, and (ireek odes 
which might have made the fortune of the Classi- 
cal Journal, were looked on by the multitude as as 
great dunderheads as themselves : — and such is the 
advantage which, even in this artificial world, 
every thing that is genuine has over every thing 
that is false and forced. The dunderheads who 
wrote " good Latin," and " Attic Greek," did it 
by a process, by means of which the youngest 
fellow in the school was conscious he could, if he 
chose, attain at the same perfection. Vivian Grey's 
verses were unlike any tiling which had yet ap- 
peared in the literary annals of Burnsley Vicarage, 
and that which was quite novel was naturally 
thought quite excellent. 

There is no place in the world where greater 
homage is paid to talent than at an English school. 



VIVIAN GRE ^. 



At a public school, indeed, if a youth of great 
talents is blessed with an amiable and generous 
disposition, he ought not to envy the minister of 
England. If any captain of Eton, or prefect of 
Winchester, is reading these pages, I would most 
earnestly entreat him dispassionately to consider, 
in what situation of Ufe he can rationally expect 
that it will be in his power to exercise such influ- 
ence, to have such opportunities of obliging others, 
and be so confident of an affedionute and grate- 
ful return. Ay, there's the rub ! — Bitter, bitter 
thought ! that gratitude should cease the moment 
we become men. 

And sure I am, that Vivian Grey was loved as 
ardently, and as faithfully, as you might expect 
from innocent young hearts. His slight accom- 
jjlishments were the standard of all perfection ; 
his sayings were the soul of all good fellowship ; 
and his opinion the guide in any crisis which 
occurred in the monotonous existence of the Uttle 
commonwealth. And time flew gayly on. 

One winter evening, as Vivian, with some of 
his particular cronies, was standing round the 
school-room fire, they began, as all schoolboys do 
when it grows rather dark, and they grow rather 
sentimental — to talk of home. 

" Twelve weeks more," said Augustus Etherege, 
" twelve weeks more, and we are free ! The glo- 
rious day shall be celebrated." 

" A feast, a feast," exclaimed Poynings. 

" A feast is but the work of a night," said 
Vivian Grey : " something more stirring for me ! 
What say you to private theatricals 1" 

The proposition was, of course, received with 
enthusiasm, and it was not until they had unani- 
mously agreed to act, that they universally remem- 
bered that acting was not allowed. And then 
they consulted whether they should ask Dallas, 
and then they remembered that Dallas had been 
asked fifty times, and then they " supposed thej' 
must give it up ;" and then Vivian Grey made a 
proposition which the rest were secretly sighing 
for, but which they were afraid to make them- 
selves — he proposed that they should act without 
asliing Dallas — " Well, then, we'll do it without 
asking him," said Vivian ; — " nothing is allowed 
in this life, and every thing is done : — in town 
there's a thing called the French play, and that's 
not allowed, yet my aunt has got a private box 
there. Trust me for acting — but what shall we 
perform 1" 

This question was, as usual, the fruitful source 
of jarring opinions. One proposed Othello, chiefly 
because it would be so easy to black a face with a 
burnt cork. Another was for Hamlet solely be- 
cause he wanted to act the ghost, which he pro- 
posed doing in white shorts and a night-cap. A 
third was for JuHus Gssar, because the murder 
scene " would be such fun." 

" No ! no !" said Vivian, tired at these various 
and varying proposals, " this will never do. Out 
upon tragedies ; let's have a comedy !" 

" A comedy I a comedy ! — ! how delightful I" 



CHAPTER IV. 

PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

After an immense number of propositions, 
&nd an equal number of repetitions, Dr. Hoadley's 



bustling drama was fixed upon, Vivian was to 
act Ranger, Augustus Etherege was to personate 
Clarinda, because he was a fair boy and always 
blushing ; and the rest of the characters found 
able representatives. Every half-holiday was de- 
voted to rehearsals, and nothing could exceed 
the amusement and thorough fun which all the 
preparations elicited. Every thing went we]l-»- 
Vivian wrote a most pathetic prologue, and a most 
witty epilogue. Etherege got on capitally in the 
mask scene, and Poynings was quite perfect in 
Jack Meggot. There was, of course, some diffi- 
culty in keeping all things in order, but then 
Vivian Grey was such an excellent manager ! and 
then, with infinite tact, the said manager conci- 
liated the classiqucft, for he allowed St. Ledger 
Smith to select a Greek motto — from the Andro- 
mache, if I remember right — for the front of the 
theatre ; and Johnson secundus and Barlow pri- 
7nus were complimented by being allowed to act 
the chairmen. 

But, alas ! in the midst of all this sunshine, the 
seeds of discord and dissension were fast flourish- 
ing. Mr. Dallas himself was always so absorbed 
in some freshly imported German commentator, 
that it was a fixed principle with him, never to 
trouble himself with any thing that concerned his 
pupils, " out of school-hours." The consequence 
Vi'as, that certain powers were necessarily delegated 
to a certain set of beings called Ushers. In t!ie 
necessity of employing this horrible race of human 
beings, consists, in a great measure, the curse of 
what is called, private education. Those, who, 
in all the fulness of parental love, guard their 
oflspring from the imagined horrors of a public 
school, forget that, in having recourse to " an aca- 
demy for young gentlemen," they are nccessarilij 
placing their children under the influence of black- 
guards ; it is of no use to mince the phrase — such 
is the case. And is not the contagion of these 
fellows' low habits and loose principles much more 
to be feared and shunned, than a system, in which, 
certainly, greater temptations are oflfered to an 
imprudent lad ; but under whose influence boys 
usually become gentlemanly in their habits and 
generous in their sentiments 1 

The usherian rule had, however, always been com- 
paratively light at Burnsley Vicarage, fir the good 
Dallas, never for a moment intrusting the duties of 
tuition to a third person, engaged these deputies 
merely as a sort of police, to regulate the bodies, 
rather than the minds of his youthful subjects. 
One of the first principles of the new theory 
introduced into the establishment of Burnsley 
Vicarage by Mr. Vivian Grey, was, that the ushers 
were to be considered by the boys as a species of 
upper servants ; were to be treated with civility, 
certainly, as all servants are by gentlemen ; but 
that no further attention was to be paid them, and 
that any fellow voluntarily conversing with an 
usher, was to be cut dead by the whole school. 
This pleasant arrangement was no secret to those 
whom it most immediately concerned, and, of 
course, rendered Vivian rather a favourite with 
them. The men, who were sufficiently vulgars, 
had not the tact to conciliate the boy by a little 
attention, and were both, notwithstanding, too 
much afraid of his influence in the school to 
attack him openly ; so thev waited with that 
patience which insulted beings can alone endure. 

One of the.se creatures must not be forgotten 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



his name was Mallet ; he was a perfect specimen 
of the genuine usher. The monster wore a black 
coat and waistcoat ; the residue of his costume 
was of that mysterious colour known by the name 
of pepper-and-salt. He was a pallid wretch with 
a pug nose, white teeth, and marked with the 
small-pox ; and long, greasy, black hair ; and 
small, black, beady eyes. I'his demon watched 
the progress of the theatrical company with eyes 
gloating with vengeance. No attempt had been 
made to keep the fact of the rehearsal a secret 
from the police ; no objection on their part, had as 
yet been made ; the twelve weeks diminished to 
six ; Eanger had secretly ordered a dress from 
town, and was to get a steel handled sword from 
Fentum's for Jack Meggot ; and every thing was 
proceeding with unexpected success, when one 
morning as Mr. Dallas was apparently about to 
take his departure, with a volume of Becker's 
Thucydides under his arm, the respected dominie 
stopped, and thus harangued : " I am informed 
that a great deal is going on in this family, with 
which it is intended that I shall be unacquainted. 
It is not my intention to name any body or any 
thing at present ; but I must say that of late the 
temper of this family has sadly changed. Whether 
there be any seditious stranger among you or not, 
I shall not at present even endeavour to discover, 
but I will warn my old friends of their new ones:" 
and so saying, the dominie withdrew. 

All eyes were immediately fixed on Vivian, and 
tlie faces of the dassiqucs were triumphant with 
smiles ; those of the manager's particular friends, 
the romantiqiies, we may call them, were clouded ; 
but who shall describe the countenance of Mallet 1 
In a moment the school broke up with an agitated 
and tumultuous uproar, " No stranger !" shouted 
St. Ledger Sniith ; " No stranger," vociferated a 
prepared gang, Vivian's friends wei-e silent, for 
they hesitated to accept for their leader the insult- 
ing title. Those who were neither Vivian's friends, 
nor in the secret, weak creatures who side always 
with the strongest, immediately swelled the insult- 
ing chorus of Mr. St. Ledger Smith. That worthy, 
emboldened by his success and the smiles of Mallet, 
contained himself no longer : " Down with the 
manager!" he cried. His satellites chorussed. 
But now Vivian rushed forward — " Mr. Smith, I 
thank you for being so definite ; — take that !" and 
he struck Smith with such force that the Cleon 
staggered and fell ; but Smith instantly recovered, 
and a ring was as instantly formed. To a com- 
mon observer, the combatants were most unequally 
matched ; for Smith was a burley, big-limbed 
animal, alike superior to Grey in years and strength. 
But Vivian, though delicate in frame, and more 
youthful, was full his match in spirit, and thanks 
to his being a cockney ! ten times his match in 
science. He had not built a white great-coat, nor 
drunk blue ruin at Ben Burns' for nothing. 

O ! how beautiful he fought ! how admirably 
straight he hit ; and his stops quick as lightning ! 
and his fulloivings up confounding his adversary 
with their painful celerity ! Smith, alike puzzled 
and punished, yet proud in his strength, hit round, 
and wild, and false, and foamed like a furious 
elephant. For ten successive rounds the result 
was dubious ; but in the eleventh the strength of 
Smith began to foil, and the men were more fairly 
matched. " Go it, Ranger ! — go it, Ranger !" hal- 
owed the Greyites. " No stranger ! — no stranger !" 



eagerly bawled the more numerous party. " Smith's 
floored, by Jove !" exclaimed Poynings, who was 
Grey's second, " At it again ! at it again !" ex 
claimed all. And now, when Smith must certainly 
have given in, suddenly stepped forward Mr. Mal- 
let, accompanied by Dallas ! " How, Mr. 

Grey ! No answer, sir ; I understand that yoxi 
have always an answer ready. I do not quote 
Scripture lightly, Mr. Grey ; but ' Take heed that 
you offend not, even with your tongue.' Now, 
sir, to your room." 

When Vivian Grey again joined his com- 
panions, he found himself almost universally 
shunned. Etherege and Poynings were the only 
individuals who met him with their former frank- 
ness. " A horrible row. Grey," said the latter. 
" After you went, the doctor harangued the whole 
school, and swears you have seduced and ruined 
us all : — every thing was happiness until you 
came, &c. Mallet is of course at the bottom of 
the whole business ; but what can we do 1 Dallas 
says you have the tongue of a serpent, and that 
he will not trust liimself to hear your defence. 
Infamous shame ! I swear ! And now, every fel- 
low has got a story against you : some say you 
are a dandy — others want to know, whether the 
next piece performed at your theatre will be ' the 
Stranger ,-' — as for myself and Etherege, we shall 
leave in a few weeks, and it does not signify to 
us ; but what the devil you're to do next half, by 
Jove, I can't say. — If I were you, I would not 
return." " Not return, eh 1 but that will I, though; 
and we shall see who, in future, can complain of 
the sweetness of my voice ! Ungrateful fools !" 



CHAPTER V. 

A NEW FRIEND, 

The vacation was over, and Vivian returned to 
Burnslcy Vicarage. He bowed cavalierly to Mr, 
Dallas on his arrival, and immediately sauntered 
up into the school-room, where he found a tolera- 
ble quantity of wretches, looking as miserable as 
schoolboys, who have left their pleasant homes, 
generally do for some four-and-twenty hours. 
"How jye do, Greyl" "How d'ye do, Greyl" 
burst from a knot of unhappy fellows, who would 
have felt quite dehghted, had their newly arrived 
comate condescended to entertain them, as usual, 
with some capital good story fresh from town. 
But they were disappointed, 

" We can make room for you at the fire, Grey," 
said Theophilus King. 

" I thank you, I am not cold." 

" I suppose you know that Poynings and Ethe- 
rege don't come back. Grey ?" 

" Everybody knew that last half:" and so he 
walked on. 

" Grey, Grey !" halloed King, " don't go in the 
dining-room ; Mallet's there alone, and told us not 
to disturb him. By Jove, the fellow's going in : 
there'll be a greater row this half, between Grey 
and Mallet, than ever." 

Days — the hea^'y first days of the half, rolled i 
on, and all the citizens of the little commonwealth 
had returned, 

" What a dull half this will be !" said Eardly, 
" how one misses Grey's set ! — After ail they kept 



VIVIAN GREY. 



me schoo alive. Poyningswas a first-rate fellow; 
and Etherege so deused good-natured ! I wonder 
whom Grey will crony with this half I Have yoii 
seen him and Dallas speak together yet T He cnt 
j the doctor quite dead at Greek to-day." 
\ " Why, Eardly ! Eardly ! there's Grey walking 
round playing fields with Mallet!" hallooed a 
sawney who was killing the half holiday by looking 
out of the window. 

" The devil ! I say, Mathews, whose flute is 
that ? It's a devilish handsome one !" 

" It's Grey's ! I clean it for him," squeaked a 
little boy. '' He gives me sixpence a week !" 
" 0, you sneak !" said one. 
" Gut him over !" said another. 
" Roast him !" cried a third. 
" Whom are you going to take the flute to ?" 
asked a fourth. 

" To Mallet," squeaked the little fellow ; " Grey 
lends his flute to Mallet every day." 

" Grey lend his flute to ]\Tallet ! the deuse he 
does ! So Grey and Mallet are going to crony .?" 

A wild exclamation burst forth from the little 
party; and away each of them ran to spread in 
all directions the astounding intelligence. 

If the rule of the ushers had hitherto been light 
at Burnsley Vicarage, its character was materially 
changed during this half year. The vexatious and 
tyrannical influence of Mallet was now experienced 
in all directions ; meeting and interfering with the 
comfort of the boys, in every possible manner. 
His malice accompanied too by a tact, which could 
not have been expected from his vulgar mind, and 
wliich, at the sanse time, could not have been pro- 
duced by the experience of one in his situation. 
It was quite evident to the whole community that 
his conduct was dictated by another mind, and 
that that mind was once versed in all the secrets 
of a schoolboy's life, and acquainted with all the 
worlungs of a schoolboy's mind: a species of 
knowledge wliich no pedagogue in the world ever 
yet attained. There was no difficulty in discover- 
ing whose was the power behind the throne. Vi- 
vian Grey was the perpetual companion of Mallet 
in his walks, and even in the school ; he shunned 
also the converse of every one of the boys, and 
did not affect to conceal that his quarrel was uni- 
versal. Superior power, exercised by a superior 
mind, was for a long time too much even for the 
united exertions of the whole school. If any one 
complained. Mallet's written answer (and such 
Dallas always required) was immediately ready, 
explaining every thing in the most .satisfactory 
manner, and refuting every complaint with the most 
triumphant spirit. Dallas, of course, supported 
his deputy, and was soon equally detested. This 
tjTanny had continued through a great part of the 
long half year, and the spirit of the school was 
almost broken, when a fresh outrage occurred, of 
such a. nature, that the nearly enslaved multitude 
conspired. 

The plot was admirably formed. On the first 
bell ringing for school, the door was to be imme- 
diately barred, to prevent the entrance of Dallas. 
Instant vengeance was then to be taken on Mallet 
and his companion — the sneak ! the spy J the 
traitor .' — The bell rang : the door was barred ; 
four stoat fellows seized on Mallet,; four rushed to 
Vivian Grey ; but stop ! he sprang upon his ie.ak, 
and, placing his back against the wall, held a pistol 
at the foremost ! " Not an inch nearer, Saiilh, 



or — I fire. Let me not, however, balk your ven« 
geance on yonder hound : If I could suggest any 
refinements in torture, they would be at your ser- 
vice." Vivian Grey smiled, while the horrid cries 
of Mallet indicated that the boys were " roasting'^ 
him. He then walked to the door, and admitted 
the barred-out dominie. Silence was restored. 
There was an explanation, and no defence : and 
Vivian Grey was — expelled. 



CHAPTER VI. 



THE crASSICS. 



VrviATf GnET was now seventeen ; and, the 
system of private education having so decidedly 
failed, it was resolved that he should spend the 
years antecedent to his going to Oxford at home. 
Nothing could be a greater failure than the first 
weeks of his '^course of study." He was per- 
petually violating the sanctity of the drawing-room 
by the presence of scapulas and hederics, and out- 
raging the propriety of morning visiters, by burst- 
ing into his mother's boudoir with lexicons and 
green slippers. 

" Vivian, my dear," said his father to him, " this 
will never do ; you must adopt some system for 
your studies, and some locality for your reading. 
Have a room to yourself; set apart certain hours 
in the day for your books, and allow no considera- 
tion on earth to influence you to violate their 
sacredness ; and above all, my dear boy, keep 
your papers in order. I find a dissertation on 
' the commerce of Carthage,' stuck in my large 
paper copy of 'Dibdin's Decameron,' and an 
' Essay on the Metaphysics of Music' (pray, 
my dear fellow, beware of magazine scribbling) 
cracking the back of Montfauccn's Monarchic." 

Vivian apologized, promised, protested, and final- 
ly sat down "to read." He had laid the first 
foundations of accurate classical knowledge under 
the tuition of the learned Dallas ; and twelve 
hours a day, and self-banishment from society, 
overcame, in twelve months, the ill effects of his 
imperfect education. The result of this extra- 
ordinary exertion may easily be conceived. At 
the end of twelve months, Vivian, like many 
other young enthusiasts, had discovered that all 
the wit and wisdom of the world were concentrated 
in some fifty antique volumes, and he treated the 
unlucky moderns with the most sulilime spirit of 
hauteur imaginable. A chorus in the Medea, 
that painted the radiant sky of Attica, disgusted 
him with the foggy atmosphere of Great Britain ; 
and while Mrs. Grey was meditating a sejour at 
Brighton, her son was dreaming of the gulf of 
Salarais. The spectre in the Persaj was his only 
model for a ghost, and the furies in the Agamem- 
non were his perfection of tragical machinery. 

Most ingenious and educated youths have fallen 
into the same error ; but few, I trust, have ever 
carried such feelings to the excess that Vivian 
Grey did ; for while his mind was daily becoming 
more enervated under the beautiful but baneful 
influence of classic kevkkie, the youth lighted 
upon Plato 

Wonderful is it, that while the whole soul (;f 
Vivian Grey seemed concentrated and wrapped up 
in the glorious pages of the Athenian — while with 



10 



©'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



keen and almost inspired curiosity, he searched, 
and followed up, and meditated upon, the definite 
mj'stery, tlie indefinite developement, — while his 
spirit alternately bowed in trembling and in ad- 
miration, as he seemed to be listening to the secrets 
of the universe revealed in the glorious melodies 
of an immortal voice ; — wonderful is it, I say, that 
the writer, the study of whose works appeared to 
the young scholar, in the revelling of his enthu- 
siasm, to be the sole object for which man was 
born and had his being, was the cause by which 
Vivian Grey was saved from being all his life a 
dreaming scholar. 

Determined to spare no exertions, and to neg- 
lect no means, by which he might enter into the 
very penetralia of his mighty master's meaning, 
Vivian determined to attack the latter Platonists. 
These were a race of men with whom he was 
perfectly unacquainted, and of whose existence he 
knew merely by the references to their productions, 
which were sprinkled in the commentaries of his 
" best editions." In the pride of boyish learning, 
Vivian had limited his library to classics, and the 
proud leaders of the latter schools did not conse- 
quently grace his diminutive bookcase. In this 
dilemma he flew to his father, and confessed by 
his request that his favourites were not all-suffi- 
cient. 

" Father ! I wish to make myself master of the 
latter Platonists. I want Plotinus, and Porphyiy, 
and lamblichus, and Syrianus, and Maximus Ty- 
rius, and Proclus, and Hierocles, and Sallustius, 
and Damascius." 

Mc Grey stared at his son, and burst into a fit 
of laughter. 

" My dear Vivian ! are you quite convinced 
that the authors you ask for are all pure Plato- 
nists 1 or have not some of them placed the great 
end rather in practical than theoretic virtue, and 
thereby violated the first principles of your master, 
wliich would be very shocking ! Are you sure, 
too, that these gentlemen have actually ' withdrawn 
the sacred veil which covers from profane eyes the 
luminous spectacles V Are you quite convinced 
that every one of these worthies lived at least five 
hundred years after the great master ; for I need 
not tell so profound a Platonist as yourself, that it 
was not till that period that even glimpses of the 
great master's meaning were discovered. Strange ! 
that TIME should alike favour the philosophy of 
theorj', and the philosophy of facts. Mr. Vivian 
Grey, benefiting, I presume, by the lapse of further 
centuries, is about to complete the great work 
which Proclus and Porphyry commenced." 

" My dear sir, you are pleased to be very amus- 
ing this morning." 

" My dear boy ! I smile, but not with joy. Sit 
down, and let us have a little conversation to- 
gether : father and son, and father and son on such 
terms as we are, should really communicate oftener 
together than we do. It has been, perhaps, my 
fault ; it shall not be so again." 

" My dear sir !" 

" Nay, nay, it shall be my fault now. Whose 
it shall be m future, Vivian, time will show. My 
dear Vivian, you have now spent upwards of a 
year under this roof, and your conduct has been 
as correct as tlie most rigid parent might require. 
I have not wished to interfere with the progress 
of your mind, and I regret it. I have been negli- 
gent, but not wilfully so. I do regret it ; because, 



whatever may be your powers, Vivian, I at least 
have the advantage of experience. I see you smile 
at a word which I so often use. Well, well, were 
I to talk to you forever, you would not understand 
what I mean by that single word. The time will 
come, when you will deem that single word — 
eivry thing. Ardent young men in their closets, 
Vivian, too often fancy that they are peculiar be- 
ings ; and I have no reason to believe that you ar« 
an exception to the general rule. In passing one 
whole year of your life, as you have done, you 
doubtless imagine that you have been spending 
your hours in a manner which no others have 
done before. Trust me, my boy, thousands have 
done the same ; and what is of still more import- 
ance, thousads are doing, and will do the same. 
Take the advice of one who has committed as 
many, ay, more follies than yourself; but who 
would bless the hour that he had been a fool, if 
his experience might be of benefit to his beloved 
son." 

" My father !" 

"Nay, nay, don't agitate yourself; we are con- 
sulting together. Let us see what is to be done. 
Endeavour to discover, when you are alone, what 
are the chief objects of your existence in this 
world. I want you to take no theological dogmas 
for granted, nor to satisfy your doubts by ceasing 
to think ; but, whether we are in this world in a 
state of probation for another, or whether we cease 
altogether when we cease to breathe, human feel- 
ings tell me that we have some duties to perform, 
— to our fellow creatures — to our friends — to our- 
selves. Pray, tell me, my dear boy, what possible 
good your perusal of the latter Platonists can pro- 
duce to either of these three interests ] 1 trust 
that mi/ child is not one of those who look with a 
glazed eye on the welfare of their fellow-men ; and 
who would dream away a useless life by idle 
puzzles of the brain ; creatures who consider their 
existence as an unprofitable mystery, and yet are 
afraid to die. You will find Plotinus in the fourth 
shelf of the next room, Vivian. Good morning 
to you." 



CHAPTER Vir. 



THE CLASSICS. 



The communications between father and son 
after this day were very constant ; and for some 
weeks Vivian employed his time rather in con- 
versing with his father than with books. It must 
not he concealed (and when the fact is stated, it 
must not be conceived that Vivian's mind was a 
weak one) that his fixed principles became daily 
loosened, and that his opinions were very soofi 
considerably modified. He speedily began to dis- 
cover that there were classics in other languages 
besides Greek and Latin, and patient inquiry and 
dispassionate examination soon convinced him of 
the futility of that mass of insanity and imposture 
— the Greek philosophy. Introduced to that Tiand 
of noble spirits, the great poets, and legislators, 
and philosophers of modern Europe, the mind of 
Vivian Grey recovered, in a study of their immor- 
tal writings, a gteat portion of its original freshness 
and primal vigour. Nor in his new worship did 
he blaspheme against the former objects of his 
adoration. He likened the ancient and new litera- 



VIVIAN GREY. 



11 



(v.rcs to the two dispensations of Holj^ Writ : — 
t'.ic one arose to complete the other. ^Eschylus 
was to him not less divine, because Shakspearc 
was immortal ; nor did he deny the inspiration of 
llemosthenes because lie recognised in Burke the 
divine ojjlutus. The ancient literature, lost in 
corruption, degraded, and forgotten, ceased to be- 
nefit society ; the new literature arose. It hurled 
fi om " the high places," the idols of corrupt un- 
derstandings and perverted taste ; but while " it 
purified the altars of the Lord," while it com- 
manded our rc'verence and our gratitude, the new 
literature itself vailed to the first gray fathers of 
the human mind. 



CHAPTER VIII. 



Ix England, personal distinction is the only 
passport to the society of the great. Whether 
this distinction arise from fortune, family, or talent, 
is immaterial ; but certain it is, to enter into high 
society, a man must either have blood, a million, 
or a genius. 

Neither the fortune nor the family of Mr. Grey 
entitled him to mix in any other society than that 
of what is in common parlance termed the middling 
classes ; but from his distinguished literary abilities 
he had always found himself an honoured guest 
among the powerful and the great. It was for 
this reason that he had always been anxious that 
his son should be at home as little as possible ; for 
he feared for a youth the fascination of London 
society. Although busied with his studies, and 
professing •' not to visit," Vivian could not avoid 
occasionally finding himself in company in which 
buys should never be seen ; and what was still 
worse, from a certain esprit (It socicte, an inde- 
finable tact with which nature had endowed him, 
this boy of nineteen began to think this society 
very delightful. Most persons of his age would 
have passed through the ordeal with perfect safety : 
they would have entered certain rooms, at certain 
tiours, with stilT cravats, and nugee coats, and black 
velvet waistcoats ; and after having annoyed all 
those who condescended to know of their existence, 
with their red hands, and their white kid gloves, 
they would have retired to a corner of the room, 
and conversationlzed with any stray four-year- 
oldcr not yet sent to bed. 

But Vivian Grey was an elegant, lively lad, 
with just enough of dandyism to preserve him from 
committing gaiickeries, and with a devil of a 
tongue. All men, I am sure, will agree with me 
when I say, that the only rival to be feared b}-- a 
man of spirit is — a clever boy. What makes 
them so popular with the women, it is not for me 
to explain ; however. Lady Julia Knighton, and 
Mrs. Frank Delmington, and half a score of dames 
of fashion, (and some of them very pretty,) were 
always patronising our hero, who really found an 
evening spent in their company not altogether 
dull ; for there is no fascination so irresistible to a 
boy, as the smile of a married woman. Vivian 
had really passed such a recluse life for the last 
^wo years and a half, that he had quite forgotten 
lUat he was once considered a very fascinating 
fellow ; and so, determined to discover what right 



he ever had to such a reputation. Master Vivian 
entered into all those amourettes in very beautiful 
style. 

But Vivian Grey was a young and tender plant 
in a moral hot-house. His character was develop- 
ing itself too soon. Although his evenings were 
now generally passed in the manner we have 
alluded to, this boy was, during the rest of the day, 
a hard and indefatigable student ; and having now 
got through an immense series of historical reading, 
he had stumbled upon a branch of study certainly 
the most delightful in the world, — but, for a boy, 
as certainly the most pernicious — tue study op 

POLITICS. 

And now every thing was solved ! the inexpli- 
cable longings of his soul, which had so often per- 
plexed him, were at length explained. The want, 
the indefinable want, which he had so constantly 
experienced, was at last supplied ; the great object 
on whicli to bring tlie powers of his mind to bear 
and work was at last provided. He paced his 
chamber in an agitated spirit, and panted for the 
senate. 

It will be asked, what was the cvW of all this ? 
and the reader will, perhaps, murmur something 
about an honourable spirit and youthful ambition. 
Ah I I once thought so myself — but the evil is too 
apparent. The time drew nigh for Vivian to leave 
for Oxford — that is, for him to commence his pre- 
paration for entering on his career in life. And 
now this person, who was about to be a pupil — ■ 
this boy, this stripling, who was going to begin his 
education, had all the feelings of a matured mind 
— of an experienced man ; was already a cunning 
reader of human hearts ; and felt conscious, from 
experience, that his was a tongue which was born 
to guide humaru beings. The idea of Oxford to 
such an individual was an insult ! 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE NEW THEOHT. 

I MUST endeavour to trace, if possible, more 
accurately the workings of Vivian Grey's mind at 
this period of his existence. In the plenitude of 
his ambition, he stopped one day to inquire in 
what manner he could obtain his magnificent ends. 

"The rah — pooh! law and bad jokes till we 
are forty ; and then, with the most brilliant success, 
the prospect of gout and a coronet. Besides, to 
succeed as an advocate, I must be a great lawyer, 
and to be a great lawyer I must give up my chance 
of being a great man. The seiivices in war time 
are fit only for desperadoes, (and that truly am I,) 
but, in peace, are fit only for fools. The cuuRcir 
is more rational. Let me see; I should certainly 
like to act Wolsey ; but the thousand and one 
chances against me ! And truly I feel my destiny 
should not be on a chance. Were I the son of a 
millionaire, or a noble, I might have all. Curse 
on my lot ! that the want of a few rascal counters, 
and the possession of a little rascal blood, should 
mar my fortunes !" 

Such was the general tenor of Vivian's thoughts, 
until, musing himself almost into madness, he at 
last made, as he conceived, the grand discotert. 
" Riches are power, says the economist : — and is 
not intellect? asks the philcsopher. And vei. 



u 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



while the influence of the millionaire is instantly 
felt in all classes of society, how is it that ' noble 
mind' so often leaves us unknown and unhonoured 1 
Why have there been statesmen who have never 
ruled, and heroes who have never conquered 1 
Why have glorious philosophers died in a garret 1 
and why have there been poets whose only ad- 
mirer has been nature in her echoes ! It must be 
that these beings have thought only of themselves, 
and, constant and elaborate students of their own 
glorious natures, have forgotten or disdained the 
study of all others. Yes ; we must mix with the 
herd ; we must enter into their feelings ; we must 
humour their weaknesses ; we must sympathize 
with the sorrows that we do not feel ; and share 
the merriment of fools. 0, yes ! to rule men, we 
must be men ; to prove that we are strong, we 
must be weak; to prove that we are giants, we 
must be dwarfs* even as the eastern genie was 
hid in the charmed bottle. Our wisdom must be 
concealed under folly, and our constancy under 
caprice. 

" I have been often struck by the ancient talcs 
of Jupiter's visits to the earth. In these fanciful 
adventures, the god bore no indication of the 
thunderer's glory ; but was a man of low estate, 
a herdsman, or other hind ; and often even an 
animal. A mighty spirit has in tradition, time's 
great moralist, perused ' the wisdom of the an- 
cients.' Even in the same spirit, I would explain 
.love's terrestrial visitings. For to govern man, 
even the god appeared to feel as a man ; and 
sometimes, as a beast, was apparently influenced 
by their vilest passions. Mankind, then, is my 
great game. 

" At this moment how many a powerful noble 
wants only wit to be a minister-, and what wants 
Vivian Grey to attain the same end ? That 
noble's influence. When two persons can so 
materially assist each other, why are they not 
brought together ? Shall I, because my birth balks 
my fancy — shall I pass my life a moping misan- 
thrope in an old chateau I Supposing I am in 
contact with this magnifico, am I prepared 1 Now 
let me probe my very soul. Does my cheek 
blanch 1 I have the mind for the conception ; 
and I can perform right skilfully upon the most 
splendid of musical instruments — the human voice 
— to make those conceptions beloved by others. 
There wants but one thing more — courage, pure, 
perfect courage ; — and does Vivian Grey know 
fear ]" He laughed an answer of bitterest derision. 



CHAPTER X. 



A LOUNGE. 



Is any one surprised that Vivian Grey, with a 
mind teeming with such feelings, should view the 
approach of the season for his departure to Oxford, 
with sentiments of thorough disgust ? After many 
hours of bitter meditation, he sought his father ; 
he made him acquainted with his feelings, but 
concealed from him his actual views, and dwelt 
on the misery of being thrown back in life, at a 
period when society seemed instinct with a spirit 
peculiarly active, and when so many openings 
were daily offered to the adventurous and the bold. 

" Vivian," said Mr. Grey, " beware of endea- 



vouring to be a great man in a hurry. One such 
attempt in ten thousand may succeed : these ara 
fearful odds. Admirer as you are of Lord Bacon, 
you may perhaps remember a certain parable of 
his, called ' Memnon, or a youth too forward. 
I hope you are not going to be one of those sons 
of Aurora, ' who, puffed up with the glittering show 
of vanity and ostentation, attempt actions above 
their strength.' 

"You talk to me about the peculiarly active 
spirit of society : if the spirit of society be so 
peculiarly active, Mr. Vivian Grey should beware 
lest it outstrip him. Is neglecting to mature your 
mind, my boy, exactly the way to win the race 1 
This is an age of unsettled opinions and contested 
principles : — in the very measures of our adminis- 
tration, the speculative spirit of the present day is, 
to say the least, not impalpable. Nay, don't start, 
my dear fellow, and look the very prosopopeia of 
political economy ! I know exactly what you're 
going to say ; but if you please we'll leave Turgot 
and Galileo to Mr. Canning and the House of 
Commons, or your cousin Hargrave and his de- 
bating society. However, jesting apart, get your 
hat, and walk with me as far as Evan's ; where I 
have promised to look in, to see the Mazarin 
Bible, and we'll talk this affair over as we go 
along. 

" I am no bigot, you know, Vivian. I am not 
one of those who wish to oppose the application 
of refined philosophy to the common business of 
life. We are, I hope, an improving race ; there 
is room, I am sure, for great improvement, and the 
perfectibility of man is certainly a very pretty 
dream. (How well that Union Club House comea 
out now, since they have made the opening.) But, 
although we may have steam kitchens, human na- 
ture is, I imagine, much the same this moment 
that we are walking in Pali-Mall East, as it was 
some thousands of years ago, when as wise men 
were walking on the banks of the Ilyssus. When 
our moral powers increase in proportion to our 
physical ones, then huzza for the perfectibility of 
man ! and respectable, idle loungers, like you and 
I, Vivian, may then have a chance of walking 
in the streets of London without having their 
heels trodden upon ; a ceremony which I have this 
moment undergone. In the present day we aro 
all studying science, and none of us are studying 
ourselves. This is not exactly the Socratic pro- 
cess; and as for the yvcuSi o-imtov of the more ancient 
Athenian, that principle is quite out of fashion in 
the nineteenth century. (I believe that's the 
phrase.) Self is the only person whom we know 
nothing about. 

" But, my dear Vivian, as to the immediate 
point of our consideration : — In my libraiy, unin- 
fluenced and uncontrolled by passion or by party, 
I cannot but see that it is utterly impossible that 
all that we arc wishing and striving for can take 
place, without some — without much evil. In ten 
years' time, perhaps, or less, the fever will have 
subsided, and in ten years' time, or less, your intel- 
lect will be matured. Now, my good sir, instead 
of talking about the active spirit of the age, and 
the opportunities offered to the adventurous and 
the bold, ought you not rather to congratulate 
yourself, that a great change is being effected, at a 
period of your life when you need not, individu- 
ally, be subjected to the possibihty of being injured 
by its operation ; and when you are preparing 



VIVIAN GREY. 



13 



vour mind to take advantage of the system, when 
that system is matured and organized 1 

" As to your request, it assuredly is one of the 
most modest, and the most rational, that I have 
lately been favoured with. Although I would 
much rather that any influence that I may exercise 
over your mind, should be the effect of my advice 
as vour friend, than of my authority as your father ; 
til! I really feel it my duty, parentally, to protest 
gainst this very crude proposition of yours. 
However, if you choose to lose a term or two, do. 
Don't blame me, you know, if afterwards you 
repent it." 

Here dashed b)"- the gorgeous equipage of Mrs. 
Ormolu, the wife of a man who was working all 
the gold and silver mines in Christendom. " Ah ! 
my dear Vivian," said Mr. Grey, " it is this w^hich 
has turned all your brains. In this age every one 
is striving to make an immense fortune, and what 
is more terrific, at the same time, a speedy one. 
This thirst for sudden wealth it is, which engen- 
ders the extravagant conceptions, and fosters that 
wild spirit of speculation which is now stalking 
abroad; and which like the dremon in Franken- 
stein, not only fearfully wanders over the whole 
wide face of nature, but grins in the imagined 
solitude of our secret chambers. O ! my son, it 
is for the young men of the present day that I 
tremble — seduced by a temporary success of a few 
children of fortune, I have observed that their minds 
il-coil from the prospects which are held forth by 
the ordinary, and, mark me — by the only modes 
of acquiring property — fair trade, and honourable 
professions. It is for you and your companions 
that I fear. God grant ! that there may not be a 
moral as well as political disorganization ! God 
grant ! that our youth, the hope of our state, may 
not be lost to us ! For, ! my son, the wisest 
has said — ' He that maketh haste to be rich, shall 
not be innocent.' Let us step into Clark's and 
take an ice." 



BOOK THE SECOND. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE MARaUESS OF CAKABAS. 

The Marquess of Carabas started in life as the 
cadet of a noble family. The earl, his father, 
like the woodman in the fairy tale, was blessed 
with tree sons — the first was an idiot, and was 
destined for the coronet ; the second was a man 
of business, and was educated for the commons ; 
the third was a roue, and was shipped to the 
colonies. 

The present marquess, then the Honourable 
Sidney Lorraine, prospered in his political career. 
He was semle and pompous, and indefatigable, 
and talkative — so whispered the world : — his friends 
hailed him as at once, a courtier and a sage, a 
man of business, and an orator. After revelling 
in his fair proportion of commissionerships, and 
under secretaryships, and the rest of the milk and 
honey of the political Canaan, the apex of the 
pyramid of his ambition was at length visible, for 
Sidney Lorraine became president of a board, and 
wriggled into the adylum of the cabinet 



At this moment his idiot brother died. To 
compensate for his loss of office, and to secure his 
vote, the Earl of Carabas was promoted in the 
peerage, and was presented with some magnificent 
office — meaning nothing, swelling with dignity, 
and void of duties. As years rolled on, \arious 
changes took place in the administration, of which 
his lordship was once a component part ; and the 
ministry, to their suq^rise, getting popular, found ' 
that the command of the Carabas interest was 
not of such vital importance to them as hereto- 
fore, and so his lordsiiip was voted a bore, and got j' 
shelved. Not that his lordship was bereaved of ^ 
his splendid office, or that any thing occurred, 
indeed, by which the uninitialed might have been 
led to su[)pose that the beams of his lordship's 
consequence were shorn ; but the marquess's secret 
applications at the treasury were no longer listened 
to ; and pert under secretaries settled their cravats, 
and whispered " that the Carabas interest was 
gone by." 

The most noble marquess was not insensible to 
his situation, for he was what the world calls 
ambitious ,■ but the vigour of his faculties had 
vanished beneath the united influence of years and 
indolence and ill-humour ; for his lordship, to avoid 
ennui, had quarrelled with his son, and then 
having lost his only friend, had quarrelled with 
himself. 

Such was the distinguished individual who 
graced, one day at the latter end of, the season of . 
18' — , the classic board of Horace Grey, Esquire. 
The reader will, perhaps, be astonished, that such 
a man as his lordship, should be the guest of such 
a man as our hero's father; but the truth is, the 
Marquess of Carabas had just been disappointed 
in an attempt on the chair of the president of the 
Royal Society ; which, for want of something 
better to do, he was ambitious of filling, and this 
was a conciliatory visit to one of the most distin- 
guished members of that body, and one who had 
voted against him with particular enthusiasm. 
The marquess, still a politician, was now as he 
imagined, securing his host's vote for a future St. 
George's day. 

The cuisine of Mr. Grey was superbe ; for 
although an enthusiastic advocate for the culti- 
vation of the mind, he was an equally ardent 
supporter of the cultivation of the body. Indeed, 
the necessary dependence of the sanity of the one 
on the good keeping of the other, was one of his 
most favourite theories, and one which this day he 
was supporting with very pleasant and facetious 
reasonings. His lordship was delighted with his 
new friend, and still more delighted with his new 
friend's theory. The marquess himself was, in- 
deed, quite of the same opinion as Mr. Grey ; for 
he never made a speech without previously taking 
a sandwich, and would have sunk under the esti- 
mates a thousand times, had it not been for the 
juicy friendship of the fruit of Portugal. 

The guests were not numerous. A regius 
professor of Greek ; an officer just escaped from 
Soekatoo ; a man of science, and two M. P.s, 
with his lordship, the host, and Mr. Vivian Grey, 
constituted the party. O, no ! there were two 
others. There was a Mr. John Brown, a fashion- 
able poet, and who, ashamed of his own name, 
published his melodies under the more euphonious 
and romantic title of " Clarence Devonshire," and 
there was a Mr. Thomas Smith, a fashionable 



14 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



novelist ; that is to say, a person who occasionally 
publishes three volumes, one half of which contain 
the adventures of a young gentleman in the 
country ; and the other volume and a half the 
adventures of the same young gentleman in tlie 
metropolis ; — a sort of writer, whose constant tattle 
about beer and billiards, and eating soup, and the 
horribility of "committing" puns, gives truly a 
most admirable and accurate idea of the conver- 
fiation of the refined society of the refined metro- 
polis of Great Britain. These two last gentlemen 
were "pets" of Mrs. Grey. 

The conver.sation may be conceived. Each per- 
son was of course prepared with a certain quota of 
information, without which no name in London is 
morally entitled to dine out ; and when the quota 
was expended, the amiable host took the burden 
upon his own shoulders, and endeavoured, as the 
phrase goes, " to draw out" his guests. 

O, London dinners ! empty artificial nothings ! 
and that beings can be found, and those too the 
flower of the land, who, day after day and day after 
day, can act the same parts in the same dull, dreary 
farce ! The officer had discoursed sufficiently about 
' his intimate friend, the Soudan," and about the 
chain armour of the Sockatoo cuirassiers; and one 
of the M. P.s, who was in the guards, had been 
defeated in a ridiculous attempt to prove, that the 
reast-platcs of the household troops of Great 
Britain were superior to those of the household 
troops of Timtomtamtomtoo. Mrs. Grey, to whose 
opinion both parties deferred, gave it in favour of 
the Soudan. And the man of science had lec- 
tured about a machine which might destroy fifteen 
square feet of human beings in a second, and yet 
be carried in the waistcoat pocket. And the clas- 
slque, who, for a professor, was quite a man of the 
world, had the latest news of the new Herculaneum 
process, and was of opinion that, if they could 
but succeed in unrolling a certain suspicious-look- 
ing scroll, we might be so fortunate as to possess 
a minute treatise on &;c., &c. In short, all had 
said their say. There was a dead pause, and Mrs. 
Grey looked at her husband and rose. 

How singular it is, that when this move takes 
place every one appears to be relieved, and yet 
every one of any experience, must be aware that 
the dead lore work is only about to commence. 
Howbeit, all filled their glasses, and the peer at the 
top of the table, began to talk politics. I am sure 
that I cannot tell what the weighty subject was 
that was broached by the ex-minister ; for I did 
not dine with Grey that day ; and had I done so, 
I should have been equally ignorant; for I'm a 
dull man, and always sleep at dinner. However 
the subject was political, the claret flew round, 
and a stormy argument commenced. The mar- 
quess was decidedly wrong, and was sadly bad- 
gered by the civil M. P. and the professor. The 
host, who was of no party, supported his guest as 
long as possible, and then left him to his fate. 
The military M. I', fled to the drawing-room to 
philander with Mrs. Grey ; and the man of science 
and the African had already retired to the intellec- 
tual idiotism of a May fair " at home." The no- 
velist was silent, for he was studying a scene — 
and the poet was absent, for he was musing a 
Bonnet. 

The marquess refuted, liad recourse to contra- 
diction, and was too acute a man to be insensible 
to the forlornness of his situation ; when, at this 



moment, a voice proceeded from the end of thn 
table, from a young gentleman, who had hitherto 
preserved a profound silence, but whose silence, 
if the company were to have judged from the 
tones of his voice, and the matter of his com- 
munication, did not altogether proceed from a 
want of confidence in his own abilities. " In my 
opinion," said Mr. Vivian Grey, as he sat lounging 
in his father's vacated seat — " in my opinion, his 
lordship has been misunderstood ; and it is, as is 
generally the case, from a slight verbal misconcep- 
tion in the commencement of this argument, that 
the whole of this diflerence arises." 

The eyes of the marquess sparkled — and the 
mouth of the marquess was closed. He was de- 
lighted that his reputation might yet be saved ; 
but as he was not perfectly acquainted how that 
salvation was to be effected, he prudently left the 
battle to his youthful companion. 

Mr. Vivian Grey proceeded with the utmost saw* 
froid : he commented upon expressions, split and 
subtilized words, insinuated opinions, and finally 
quoted a whole passage of Bolingbroke to prove 
that the opinion of the most noble the Marquess of 
Carabas was one of the soundest, wisest, and most 
convincing of opmions that ever was promulgated 
by mortal man. The tables were turned, the 
guests looked astounded, the marquess settled his 
ruflles, and perpetually exclaimed, " Exactly what 
I meant !" and his opponents, full of wine and 
quite puzzled, gave up. 

It was a rule with Vivian Grey, never to ad- 
vance any opinion as his own. He had been too 
deep a student of human nature, not to be aware 
that the opinions of a boy of twenty, however 
sound, and however correct, stood- but a poor 
chance of being adopted by his elder, though 
feebler, fellow-creatures. In attaining any end, it 
was therefore his system always to advance his 
opinion as that of some eminent and considerable 
personage ; and when, under the sanction of this 
name, the opinion or advice was entertained and 
listened to, Vivian Grey had no fear that he could 
prove its correctness and its expediency. He 
possessed also the singular faculty of being able 
to improvise quotations, that is, he could unpre- 
meditatedly clothe his conceptions in language 
characteristic of the style of any particular au- 
thor ; and Vivian Grey was reputed in the world 
as having the most astonishing memory that' ever 
existed ; for there was scarcely a subject of dis- 
cussion in which he did not gain the victory, by 
the great names he enlisted on his side of the ar- 
gument. His father was aware of the existence 
of this dangerous faculty, and had often remon- 
strated with his son on the use of it. On the 
present occasion, when the buzz had somewhat 
subsided, Mr. Grey looked smiling to his son, and 
said : " Vivian, my dear, can you tell me in what 
work of Bolingbroke I can find the eloquent pas- 
sage you have just quoted V — " Ask Mr. Hargravc, 
sir," replied the son, with the most perfect cool- 
ness ; then turning to the member : " You know, 
Mr. Hargrave, you are reputed the most profound 
political student in the House, and more intimately 
acquainted than any other person with the worka 
of Bolingbroke." 

Mr. Hargrave knew no such thing ; — but he 
was a weak man, and seduced by the compliment, 
he was afraid to prove himself unworthy of it by 
confessing his ignorance of the passage. 



VI V IAN GRE V. 



finished, I'll first give orders that we may not be 
disturbed ! and then we'll proceed immediately. 
Come, now, your manner takes me, and we will 
converse in the spirit of the most perfect confi- 
dence." 

Here as the marquess settled at the same time 
liis chair and his countenance, and looked as anx- 
ious as if majesty itself was consulting him on the 
formation of a ministry, in burst the marchioness, 
notwithstanding all the remonstrances, entreaties, 
threats, and supplications of Mr. Sadler. 

Her ladyship had been what they style a !<plen- 
did woman ; she was now pasata, although with 
the aid of cashemeres, diamonds, turbans, her tout 
ensemble was still very striking. Her ladyship was 
not remarkable for any thing ; save a correct tasle 
for poodles, parrots, and bijouterie ; and a proper 
admiration of Theodore Hook and John Bull. 

" O ! marquess," exclaimed her ladyship — and a 
llivourite green parrot, which came flying in after its 
accustomed perch, her ladyship's left shoulder, 
• •shrieked at the same time in concert — "O! mar- 
; quess, my poor Julie ! You know we've noticed 
how nervous she has been for some days past, and 
: I had just given her a saucer of arrow-root and 
'■ milk, and she seemed a little easier, and I said to 
Miss Graves, ' I really do think she is a leefle better,' 
and Miss Graves said, ' Yes, my lady, I hope she 
is ;' when just as we flattered ourselves that the 
dear little creature was enjoying a quiet sleep. 
Miss Graves called out, ' 0, my lady ! my lady ! 
Julie's in a fit !' and when I turned round she was 
lying on her back, kicking, with her eyes shut." 
And here the marchioness detected Mr. Grey, and 
gave him as fashionable a stare a^ might be expect- 
ed fi-om a lady patroness of Almacks'. 

"The marchioness Mr. Vivian Grey — my 

love, I assure you we're engaged in a most import- 
ant, a most " 

" ! my life, I wouldn't disturb you for the 
world, only if you will just tell me what you think 
ought to be done ; leeches, or a warm bath, or shall 
I send for Doctor Blue Pill V 

The marquess looked a little annoyed, as if he 

i^shed her ladyship in her own room again. 

iPe was almost meditating a" general reprimand, 
texed that his grave young friend should have wit- 
nessed this frivolous intrusion, when that accom- 
tViished stripling, to the astonishment of the future 
minister, immediately recommended " the warm 
bath," and a few grains ef " mustard seed," and 
then lectured with equal rapidity and erudition, on 
dogs and all diseases in general. 

The marchioness retired, " easier in her mind 
about Julie than she had been for some days," 
as Vivian assured her " that it was not apoplexy, 
but only the first symptom of an epidemic." And 
as ahc retired, she murmured her gratitude most 
gracefully to Julie's young physician ; and her 
Tjrime minister, the parrot, on her left shoulder, at 
Ihe same time cackled a compliment. 

" Now, Mr. Grey," said his lordship, endeavour- 
ing to recover his dignity, " we were discussing the 
public sentiments, you know, on a certain point, 
when this unfortunate interruption — " 

Vivian had not much difliculty in collecting his 
ideas, and he proceeded, not as displeased as his 
lordship with the domestic scena. 
' '• I need not remind your lordship, that the two 
great parties into which this state is divided, are 
apparently very unequally proportioned. Your 



lordship well knows how the party to which your 
lordship is said to belong, your lordship knows, I 
imagine, how that is constituted. We have no- 
thing to do with the other. My lord, I must speak 
out. No thinking man — and such, I trust, Vivian 
Grey is, — no thinking man can for a moment sup- 
pose, that your lordship's heart is very warm in the 
cause of a party which — for I will not mince 
my words — has betrayed you. How is it, it is 
asked by thinking men, how is it that the Mar 
quess of Carabas is — the tool of a faction V 

The marquess breathed loud ; " They say so, do 
they r' 

" Why, my lord, listen even to your servants in 
your own hall — need I say more 7 How then ! is 
this opinion true 1 Let us look to your conduct to 
the party to which you are sdid to belong. Your 
votes are theirs, your influence is theirs ; and for all 
this, what return, my lord marquess, what return 1 
My lord, I am not rash enough.to suppose that your 
lordship, ulone and unsupported, can make yourself 
the arbiter of this country's destinies. It would be 
ridiculous to entertain such an idea for a second. 
The existence of such a man would not be endured 
by the nation for a second. But, my lord, union i,« 
strength. Nay, my lord, start not — I am not going 
to advise you to throw yourself into the arms of op- 
position ; leave such advice for greenhorns. I am 
not going to advise you to adopt a line of conduct, 
which would for a moment compromise the consist- 
ency of your high character ; leave such advice for 
fools. My lord, it is to preserve 3'our consistency, it 
is to vindicate your high character, it is to make the 
Marquess of Carabas perform the duties which so- 
ciety requires from him, that I, Vivian Grey, a 
member of that society, and an humble friend of 
your lordship, speak so boldly." 

" My friend," said the agitated peer, " you can- 
not speak too boldly. My mind opens to you. I 
have felt, I have long felt, that I was not what I 
ought to be, that I was not what society requires 
me to be : — but where is your remedy, what is the 
line of conduct that I should pursue ?" 

" The remedy, my lord ! I never conceived for 
a moment, that there was any doubt of the ex- 
istence of means to attain all arid every thing. I 
think that was your lordship's phrase. I only 
hesitated as to the existence of the inclination on 
the part of your lordship." 

" You cannot doubt it now" said the peer in a 
low voice ; and then his lordship looked anxiously 
round the room, as if he feared that there had 
been some mysterious witness to his whisper. 

" My lord," said Vivian, and he drew his chair 
close to the mar(]uess, " the plan is shortly this. 
There are others in a similar situation with your- 
self. All thinking men know — your lordship 
knows still better — that there are others equally 
influential — equally ill treated. How is it that I 
see no concert among these individuals ? How is 
it that, jealous of each other, or each trusting that 
he may ultimately prove an exception to the system 
of which he is a victim ; how is it, I say, that 
you look with cold hearts on each other's situa- 
tions 1 My lord i~ ' ' 
these that I would 
would have act wit 
which is strength." 

" You are right, y( 
but we do not speali 
we are not intimate, 



18 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" My lord, you must not be daunted at a few 
difficulties, or at a little exertion. But as for 
Courtown or Beaconsfield, or fifty other offended 
men ; if it can be shown to them that their inte- 
rest is to be your lordship's friend, trust me, that 
ere six months are over, they will have pledged 
their troth. Leave all this to me — give mc your 
lordship's name," said Vivian, whispering most 
earnestly in the marquess's ear, and laying his 
hand upon his lordship's arm — "give me your 
lordship's name, and your lordship's influence, and 
I will take upon myself the whole organization of 
the Carabas' party." 

" The Carabas party ! — Ah ! we must thmk 
more of this." — 

The marquess's eyes smiled with triumph, as 
he shook Vivian cordially by the hand, and begged 
liirn to call upon him on the morrow. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE JIOTTO. 

I The intercourse between the marquess and 
Vivian, after this interview, was constant. No 
dinner party was thought perfect at Carabas House, 
without the presence of the young gentleman ; 
and as the marchioness was delighted with the 
perpetual presence of an individual whom she 
could always consult about Julie, there was appa- 
rently no domestic obstacle to Vivian's remaining 
in high favour. 

The Earl of Eglamour, the only child, in whom 
were concentrated all the hopes of the illustrious 
house of Lorraine, was in Italy. The only re- 
maining member of the domestic circle who was 
wanting, was the Honourable Mrs. Felix Lorraine, 
the wife of the marquess's younger brother. This 
lady, exhausted by the gayety of the season, had 
left town somewhat earlier than she usually did, 
and was inhaling fresh air, and of course studying 
botany, at the magnificent seat of the Carabas 
family, Chateau Desir, at which splendid place 
Vivian was to pass the summer. 

Mr. Grey watched the movements of his son 
with an anxious, but apparently with no curious 
eye. " If the marquess will give my son a good 
place, why Master Vivian's new system works 
rather better than I conceived it would, but how 
the young knave hath so — managed, shall I say 1 — 
the old fool, does, I profess, puzzle my philo- 
sophy." 

Alas ! when Mr. Grey jocosely used the phrase, 
" neiv system," he was little aware of the work- 
ings of his son's mind. But so it is in life ; a 
father is, perhaps, the worst judge of his son's 
capacity. Ho knows too much — and too little. 

In the mean time, as we before stated, all was 
sunshine with Vivian Grey. His noble friend and 
himself were in perpetual converse, and constantly 
engaged in deep consultation. As yet, the world 
knew nothing, except that, according to the Mar- 
quess of Carabas, " Vivian Grey was the most 
astonishingly clever and prodigiously accomplished 
fellow that ever breathed." And as the marquess 
always added, "resembled himself very much 
when he was young." 

But it must not be supposed, that Vivian was 
'o all the world the fascinating creature that he 



was to the Marquess of Carabas. Many com» 
plained that he was reserved, silent, satirical, and 
haughty. But the truth was, Vivian Grey often 
asked himself, " who is to be my enemy to-mor- 
row ?" He was too cunning a master of the 
human mind, not to be aware of the quicksands 
upon which all greenhorns strike ; he knew too 
well the danger of unnecessary intimacy. A smile 

FOR A FRIEXD, AND A SNEER FOR THE WORLD, iS 

the way to govern mankind, and such was the 
motto of Vivian Grey. 



CHAPTER IV. 



CHATEAU DESIR. 



How shall I describe Chateau Dksir, that 
place fit for all princes ? In the midst of a park of 
great extent, and eminent for scenery, as varied as 
might please nature's most capricious lover ; in the 
midst of green lawns, and deep winding glens, and 
cooling streams, and wild forests, and soft woodland, 
there was gradually formed an elevation, on which 
was situate a mansion of great size, and of that 
bastard, but picturesque style of architecture, called 
the Italian Gothic. The date of its erection was 
about the middle of the sixteenth century. You 
entered by a noble gateway, in which the pointed 
style still predominated, but in various parts of 
which, the Ionic column, and the prominent key- 
stone, and other creations of Roman architecture, 
intermingled with the expiring Gothic, into a large 
quadrangle, to which the square casement windows, 
and the triangular pediments or gable ends, sup- 
plying the place of battlements, gave a varied and 
Italian feature. In the centre of the court, from 
an immense marble basin, the rim of which was 
enriched by a splendid sculptured lotus border, rose 
a marble group, representing Amphitrite with her 
marine attendants, whose sounding shells, and 
coral sceptres sent forth their subject element in 
sparkling showers. This work, the chef d'oeuvre 
of a celebrated artist of Vicenza, had been pur- 
chased by Valemn. first Lord Carabas, wlio 
having spent th^^^ater part of his life as the j 
representative of his monarch at the ducal court | 
of Venice, at length returned to his native country ; { 
and in the creation of Chateau Besir, endeavourcJ I 
to find some consolation for the loss of liis gay 
palazzo on the bank? of iiie Adige. 

Over the gateway there rose a turreted tower, 
the small square window of which, notwithstand- 
ing its stout stanchions, illumined the muniment 
room of the House of Carabas. In the spandrils 
of the gateway, and in many other parts of the 
building, might be seen the arms of the family, 
while the innumerable stacks of chimneys, which 
appeared to spring from all parts of the roof, were 
carved and built in such curious and quaint de- 
vices, that they were rather an ornament than an 
excrescence. When you entered the quadrangle, 
you found one side solely occupied by the old hall, 
the immense carved rafters of whose oaken root 
rested on corbels of tlie family supporters, against 
the walls. 

The walls of the hall were of stone, but these 
were covered halfway from the ground with a . 
panelling of curiously carved oak : wlience were 
suspended the family portraits in massy frames, J 
painted partly by Dutch, and partly by Italiab i 



VIVIAN GREY. 



19 



artists. Near the dais, or upper part of the hall, 
there projected an oriel window, which, as you 
beheld, you scarcely knew what most to admire, 
the radiancy of its painted panes, or the fantastic 
richness of Gothic ornament, which was profusely 
lavislied in eveiy part of its masonry. Here, too, 
the Gothic pendant, and the Gothic fanwork, were 
intermingled with the Italian arabesques, which, 
at the time of the building of the chateau, had 
been recently introduced into England by Hans 
Holbein and John of Padua. 

How wild and fanciful are those ancient ara- 
besques ! Here at Chateau Dcsir, in the panelling 
of the old hall, might you see fantastic scrolls, 
separated by bodies ending in termini, and whose 
heads supported the Ionic volute, while the arch, 
which appeared to spring from these capitals, had, 
for a keystone, heads more monstrous than those 
of the fabled animals of Ctesias; or so ludicrous, 
that you forgot the classic griffin in the grotesque 
conception of the Italian artist. Here was a gib- 
bering monkey, there a grinning pulcincllo ; fiow 
you viewed a chattering devil, which might have 
figured in the temptation of St. Anthony ; and 
now a mournful, mystic, bearded countenance, 
which might have fitted in the back scene of 
a Witch's Sabbath. 

A long gallery wound through the upper story 
of two other sides of the quadrangle, and beneath 
were the show suite of apartments, with a sight 
of which the admiring eyes of curious tourists 
were occasionally delighted. 

The gray stone walls of this antique edifice 
were, in many places, thickly covered with ivy, and 
other parasitical plants, the deep green of whose 
verdure beautifully contrasted with the scarlet 
glories of the papyrus japonica, which gracefully 
clustered round the windows of the lower cham- 
bers. The mansion itself was immediately sur- 
rounded by numerous ancient forest trees. There 
was the elm with its rich branches, bending down 
like clustering grapes ; there was the wide-spread- 
ing oak, with its roots fantastically gnarled ; there 
was the ash, with its smooth bark and elegant leaf; 
and the silver beech, and the gi'acile birch, and the 
dark fir, ailbrding, with its rough foliage, a con- 
trast to the trunks of its more beautiful compa- 
nions, or shooting far above their branches with 
the spirit of freedom worthy of a rough child of 
tlie mountains. 

Around the castle were extensive pleasure- 
grounds, which realized the romance of the gar- 
dens of Verulam. And truly, as you wandered 
through their enchanting paths, there seemed no 
end to their various beauties, and no exhaustion of 
their pe»-petual novelt3^ Green retreats succeeded 
io winding walks ; from the shady herceau, you 
vaulted on the noble ten-ace ; and, if for an in- 
stant you felt wearied by treading the velvet lawn, 
you might rest in a mossy cell, while your mind 
was soothed hy the soft music of falling waters. 
Now your curious eyes were greeted by oriental 
animals, basking in a sunny paddock ; and when 
you turned from the white-footed antelope, and the 
dark-eyed gazelle, you viewed an aviary of such 
extent, that within its trellised walls the imprisoned 
songsters could build in the free branches of a tree, 
their natural nests. 

" O, fair scene !" thought Vivian Grey, as he 
approached on a fine summer's afternoon, the 
splendid chateau. " 0, fair scene ! doubly fair to 



those who quit for you the thronged and agitated 
city. And can it be, that those who exist within 
this enchanted domain, can think of any thing but 
sweet air, and do aught but revel in t'ae breath of 
perfumed flowers'!" And here he gained the gar- 
den gate : so he stopped his soliloquy and gave his 
horse to his groom. 



CHAPTER V. 



A NEW CHARACTER. 



TiiK marquess had preceded Vivian in his arrival 
about three or four days, and of course, to use the 
common phrase, the establishment " was quite set- 
tled." It was, indeed, to avoid the possibility of 
witnessing the domestic arrangements of a noble- 
man in any other point of view save that of per- 
fection, that Vivian had declined accompanving 
his noble friend to the chateau. Mr. G!c\, junior, 
was an epicurean, and all epicureans will quite 
agree with me, that his conduct on this head was 
extremely wise. I am not very nice myself about 
these matters ; but there are, we all know, a thou- 
sand little things that go wrong on the arrivals of 
even the best regulated families, and to mention no 
others, for any rational being voluntarily to encoun- 
ter the awful gaping of an English family, who 
have travelled one hundred miles in ten successive 
hours, appears to me to be little short of madness. 

" Grey, my hoy, quite hapjiy to see ye ! — later 
than I expected ; first bell rings in five minutes — 
Sadler will show you my room — father, I hope, 
quite well." 

Such was the salutation of the marquess ; and 
Vivian accordingly retired to arrange his toilet. 

The first bell rang, and the second bell rang, 
and Vivian was seated at the dinner table. He 
bowed to the marchioness, and asked after her 
poodle, and gazed with some little curiosity at the 
vacant chair opposite him. 

" Mrs. Felix Lorraine — Mr. Vivian Grey," said 
the marquess, as a lady entered the room. 

Now, although I am one of those historians who 
are of opinion that the nature of the personages 
they celebrate, should be developed rather by a 
recital of their conduct, than by a set character mi, 
commencement ; I feel it, nevertheless, incumhent 
on me to devote a few lines to the lady that has 
just entered, which the reader will be so good as to 
get through, while she is accepting an offer of 
some white soup : by this means he will lose none 
of the conversation. 

The Honourable Felix Lorraine, we have before 
laconically described as a rotie. To the initiated 
I need say no more ; they will all know what sort 
of a person a roue must be, who has the honour af 
being the son of an English earl. To the un- 
initiated, I shall only observe, that after having 
passed through a career with tolerable credit, 
which would have blasted the character of any 
common personage, Felix Lorraine ended by pi- 
geoning a young nobleman, wkom for that pui- 
pose he had made his intimate friend. The affair 
got wind ; after due examination, was proclaimed 
" too bad," and the guilty personage was visited 
with the heaviest vengeance of modern society — 
he was expelled his club. By this unfortunate 
exposure, Mr. Felix Ivorraine was obliged to give 



20 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



in a match, which was on the tapis, with the cele- 
i)rateJ Miss Mexico, on whose million he had de- 
termined to set up a character and a chariot, and 
at the same time pension his mistress, and sub- 
scriljc to the Society for the Suppression of Vice. 
Felix left for the continent, and in due time was 
made drum-major at Barbadoes, or fiscal at Cey- 
lon, or something of that kind ; I forget which. 
While he loitered in Europe, he made a conquest 
of the heart of the daughter of some German baron, 
who was ambassador extraordinary from his Serene 
Highness the Palsgrave of * * * * to his most Su- 
j)reme Excellency the Landgrave of * * * * and 
after six weeks passed in the most affectionate 
manner, each of the happy couple performing their 
respective duties with perfect propriety, Felix left 
for his colonial appointment, and also left — his 
lady behind him. 

Mr. Lorraine had duly and dutifully infonued 
his family of his marriage, and they as amiably 
and affectionately, had never answered his letters, 
which he never expected they would. Profiting 
by their example, ho never answered his wife's, 
who, in due time, to the horror of the marquess, 
landed in England, and claimed the protection of 
her " beloved husband's family." The marquess 
vowed he would never see her ; the lady, however, 
one morning gained admittance, and from that 
moment she had never quitted her brother-in-law's 
roof, and not only had never quitted it, but now 
made the greatest favour of her staying. 

The extraordinary influence which Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine possessed, was certainly not owing to her 
beauty, for the lady opposite Vivian Grey had ap- 
parently no claims to admiration, on the score of 
her personal qualifications. Her complexion was 
bad, and her features were indiflerent, and these 
characteristics were not rendered less uninterest- 
ingly conspicuous, by what makes an otherwise 
ugly woman ioute au contrairc, namely, a pair of 
expressive eyes ; for certainly this epithet could not 
be applied to those of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, which 
gazed in all the vacancy of German listlcssness. 

I'he lady did bow to Mr. Grey, and that was 
all ; and then she negligently spooned her soup, 
and then, after much parade, sent it away un- 
touched. As Vivian wined with the marchioness, 
lie was not under the necessity of paying any 
courtesy to his opposite neighbour, whose silence 
he plainly perceived was for the nonce, and con- 
sequently for him. But the day was hot, and 
Vivian had been fatigued by his ride, and the mar- 
quess's champagne was excellent ; and so, at last, 
the floodgates of his speech burst, and talk he did. 
He comj)limented her ladyship's poodle, quoted 
German to Mrs. Felix Lorraine, and taught the mar- 
quess to eat cabinet pudding with Curacoa sauce, 
(a custom which, by-the-by, I recommend to all ;) 
and then his stories, and his scandal, and his sen- 
timent ; — stories for the marquess, scandal for the 
n.archioness, and sentiment for the marquess's 
sister ! That lady, who began to find out her man, 
had no mind to l)e longer silent, and although a 
perfect mistress of the English language, began to 
articulate a horrible patois, that she might not be 
mistaken for an English woman, a thing which she 
particularly dreaded. But now came her punish- 
aient, for Vivian saw the effect which he had pro- 
duced on Mrs. Felix Lorraine, and that Mrs. Felix 
\. raine now wished to produce a corresponding 
(. upon him, and this he was determined ishc 



should not do ; so new stories followed, and new 
compliments ensued, and finally he anticipated het 
sentences, and sometimes her thoughts. The lady 
sat silent and admiring ! At last the important 
meal was finished, and the time came when good 
dull English dames retire ; but of this habit Mrs. 
Felix Lorraine did not approve ; and although she 
had not yet prevailed upon Lady Carabas to adopt 
her ideas on field days, still en domestiqiie, the 
good-natured marchioness had given in, and to 
save herself from hearing the din of male voices 
at a time at which during her whole life she had 
been unaccustomed to them, the Marchioness of 
Carabas — dozed. Her worthy spouse, who was 
prevented by the presence of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, 
from talking politics with Vivian, passed the bottle 
pretty briskly, and then conjecturing that " from 
the sunset we should have a fine day to-morrow," 
fell back in his easy chair, and — snored. 

Mrs. Felix Lorraine looked at her noble relatives, 
and shrugged up her shoulders with an air whicn 
baffled all description. " Mr. Grey, I congratulate 
you on this hospitable reception ; you see we 
treat you quite en familii. Come ! 'tis a fine 
evening, you have seen, as yet, but little of Cha- 
teau Desir : we may as well enjoy the fine air on 
the terrace." 



CHAPTER VL 

THE TEimACE. 

" You must know, Mr. Grey, that this is my 
favourite walk, and I therefore expect that it will 
be yours." 

" It cannot indeed fail to be such, the favourite 
as it alike is, of nature, and Mrs. Felix Lorraine." 

" On my word, a very pretty sentence I — and 
who taught you, young gentleman, to bandy words 
so fairly 1" 

" I never can open my mouth, except in the 
presence of a woman," bolted out Vivian, with 
the most impudent mendacity, and he looked in- 
teresting and innocent. 

" Indeed ! — and what do you know about such 
wicked work as talking to ivonie?i .-" and hero 
Mrs. Felix Lorraine imitated Vivian's sentimental 
voice. " Do you know," she continued, " I feel 
quite happy that you have come down here ; — I 
begin to think that we shall be very great friends." 

" Nothing appears to be more evident," said 
Vivian. 

" How delicious is friendship," exclaimed Mrs. 
Felix Lorraine : " delightful sentiment, that pre- 
vents life from being a curse ! Have you a friend, 
Mr. Vivian Grey V -ff- 

" Before I answer that question, I should like 
to know what meaning Mrs. Felix Lorraine at- 
taches to that important monosyllable, fne7id." 

" 0, you want a definition ! I hate definitions; 
and of all the definitions in the world, the one I've 
been most unfortunate in, has been a definition of 
friendship — I might say," — and here her voice 
sunk, — " I might say, of all the sentiments in the 
world, friendship is the one which has been most 
fatal to me; but I must not inoculate you with 
my bad spirits ; bad spirits are not for young blood 
like yours, leave them to old persons like myself." 

" Old !" said Vivian, in a proper tone of sur« 
prise. 

" Old ! ay oW;— how old do you think I am 1" 



VIVIAN GREY. 



21 



" Yoii may have seen twenty summers," gal- 
Ipiitly conjertured Vivian. 

The lady looked pleased, and almost insinuated 
tliat she had seen one or two more. Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine was about thirty. 

" A clever woman," thouc^ht Vivian, " but vain; 
I hardly know what to think of her." 

" Mr. Grey, I fear you find me in bad spirits 
to-day ; hut, alas ! I — I have cause. Although 
we see each other to-day for the first time, yet 
there is something in your manner, something in 
the expression of your eyes, that make me believe 
iKjj happiness is not altogether a matter of indiftl'r- 
rnce to you.'''' These words, uttered in one of 
the sweetest voices by which ever human being 
was fascinated, were slowly and deliberately 
spoken, as if it was intended that they should 
rest on the ear of the object to whom they were 
addressed. 

" My dear Mrs. Lorru'ine ! it is impossible that 
I can have but one sentiment with regard to you, 
that of " 

" Of what, Mr. Grey 1" 

" Of solicitude for your welfare." 

The lady gently took the arm of the young 
man, and then with an agitated voice, and a 
troubled spirit, dwelt upon the unhappiness of her 
lot, and the cruelty of her fortunes. Her hus- 
band's indifiference was the sorrowful theme of her 
lamentations, and she ended by asking Mr. Vivian 
Grey's advice, as to the line of conduct which she 
should pursue with regard to him ; first duly in- 
forming Vivian, that this was the onli/ time, and 
he the vnli/ person, to whom this subject had been 
ever mentioned. 

'' And why should I mention it here — and to 
whom 7 The marquess is the best of men, but — " 
and here she looked up in Vivian's face, and spoke 
volumes, " and the marchioness is the most amia- 
ble of women — at least, I suppose her lap-dog 
thinks so." 

Tlie advice of Vivian was very concise. He 
sent the husband to the devil in two seconds, and 
insisted upon the wife's not thinking of him for 
another moment, and then the lady dried her eyes, 
and promised to do her best. 

" And now," said Mrs. Felix Lorraine, " I must 
talk about your own atfuirs — I think your plan 
excellent^' 

'• Plan ! madam." 

" Yes, plan, sir ! The marquess has told me all. 
I have no head for politics, Mr. Grey ; but if I 
cannot assist you in managing the nation, I per- 
. haps may in managing the family, and my services 
are at your command. Believe me, you'll have 
enough to do ; there, I pledge you my troth. Do 
you think it a pretty hand 1" 

Vivian did think it a very pretty hand, and he 
performed due courtesies in a very gallant style. 

" And now, good even to you," said the ladv ; 
" this little gate leads to my apartments. You'll 
have no difficulty in finding your way back ;" — so 
saying, she disappeared. 



CHAPTER Vn. 



EARLT HISING. 



When Vivian retired to his room, he found a 
loteilette on his dressing-case, which contained 



two lines. They were as follows : — " A malk nn 
the terrace before breakfast, is the fashkni at 
Chateau Desir." The esprit of the note suffi- 
ciently indicated the authoress, even if the per- 
fumed paper, and the diminutive French gem, 
with its pi(juant and peculiar motto, had allowed 
him for an instant to hesitate. 

In spite of his travelling, and his champagne, 
and his sound sleep, Vivian rose early, and was 
on the terrace at a most reasonable hour, at lea^t 
for him : Mrs. Felix Lorraine was already there. 

" I congratulate Mr. Grey," said the lady, as sho 
extended him a finger, " on being an early riser. 
Nothing is so vulgar as getting up late. O ! 
what a pretty morning gown that is ! and how 
nice your hair curls! and that velvet stock! why 
I declare you've quite a taste in costume ! but it 
does not set quite ri?;ht. There, that's better," 
said Mrs. Lorraine, adjusting the stock for hiin, 
" not much heard yet I see ; you must take care 
to have one before you're a — privy counsc.Uor." 

" I rejoice," said Vivian, " that I can in return 
sincerely compliment you on your nwn good taste 
in costume. That buckle is, of course, fresh from 
Berlin, or — Birmingham — it's all the same you 
know at least at Howell and James's ; and of all 
things in the world, what I must admire are your 
black velvet slippers! But where's the mar- 
quess 1" 

" O ! we're not very early honoured with tlio 
presence of the Marquess of Carabas in his own 
house." 

" Why, what do you mean 1" 

" O ! I mean nothing, except that the future 
minister never rises till noon — bad habits, Mr. 
Grey, for a man of business !" 

" Bad habits, indeed ! we must endeavour to 
cure him, now that he is going, as you say, to bt; 
a man of business." 

" 0, certainly ! cure him by all means. He'll 
give you, I don't doubt, plenty of occupation. I 
advise you "regularly to reform the whole house. 
Your influence is so great, that you can do any 
thing with the marquess. Well, I hope he'll be- 
have better in future, for the castle will be full in 
a few days. There are the Courtowns coming, 
and Sir Berdniore and Lady Scrope, and the Bea- 
consfields — all next week ; and crowds of all sorts 
of people, whose names I forget, pawns in the 
great game of chess which is to be played by 
Vivian Grey, Esq. and the most noble Marquess 
of Carabas — against all England. There, there's 
the breakfast bell ; I hope your appetite's good." 



CHAPTER VIIL 

THE FIRST WEEK. 

TuK first week at Chateau Desir passed plea- 
santly enough. A'^ivian's morning was amply oc- 
cupied in maturing with the marquess the grand 
principles of the new political system : in weigh- 
ing interests, in balancing connexions and settling 
" what side was to be taken on the great ques- 
tions?" ! politics, thou splendid juggle ! — The 
whole business, although so magnificent in it3 
result, appeared very easy to the two counsellors, 
for it was one of the first principles of Mr. Vivian 
Grey, " thai every thing was possible." Men did 
fail in life to be sure, and after all, very Httle ivas 



S3 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



tlone by the generality ; but still all these failures, 
and all this inefhciency might be traced to a want 
of physical and mental courage. Some men were 
bold in their conceptions, and splendid heads at a 
grand system, but then, when the day of battle 
caine, they turned out very cowards ; while others, 
who had nerve enough to stand the bnmt of the 
hottest fire, were utterly ignorant of military tac- 
tics, and fell before the destroyer, like the brave 
untutored Indians before the civilized European. 
Now Vivian Grey was conscious, that there was 
at least one person in the world who was no craven 
either in body or in mind, and so he had long- 
come to the comfortable conclusion, that it was 
impossible that his career could be any thing but 
the most brilliant. And truly, employed as he 
now was, with a peer of the realm, in a solemn 
consultation on that realm's most important inte- 
rests, at a time when creatures of his age were 
moping in halls and colleges, is it to be wondered 
at, that he began to imagine that his theory was 
borne out by experience and by fact ] Not that 
it must be supposed, even for a moment, that 
Vivian Grey was what the world calls conc.cUtd. 
O, no ! he knew the measure of his own mind, 
and had fathomed the depth of his powers with 
equal skill and impartiality; but in the process he 
could not but feel, that he could conceive much, 
and dare do more. 

I said the favst week at Chateau Desir passed 
pleasantly enough, and so it did, for Vivian's soul 
revelled in the morning councils on his future 
fortunes, with as much eager joy, as a young 
courser trying the turf preliminary to running for 
the plate. And then, in the evening, were moon- 
lit walks with Mrs. Felix Lorraine ! and then the 
lady abused England so prettily, and initiated her 
companion into all the secrets of German courts, 
and sang beautiful French songs, and then she 
■would take him beside the luminous lake in the 
park, and vow it looked just like the dark blue 
Ehine ! and then she remembered Germany, and 
grew sad, and abused her husbanil ; and then she 
taught Vivian the guitar, and — some other fooleries 
besides. 



CHAPTER LX. 



Tfie second week of Vivian's visit had come 
round, and the flag waved proudly on the proud 
tower of Chateau Desir, indicating to the admiring 
country, that the most noble Sidney, Marquess of 
Carabas, held public days twice a week at his 
grand castle. And now came the neighbouring 
peer, full of grace and gravity, and the mellow 
baronet, with his hearty laugli, and the jolly 
country squire, and the middling gentry, and tlic 
jobbing country attorney, and the flourishing 
country surveyor. Some honouring by their pre- 
sence, some who felt the obligation equal, and 
others bending before the noble host, as if paying 
him adoration was almost an equal pleasure with 
that of guzzling his venison pasties and quaffing 
liis bright wines. 

Independent of all these periodical visiters, the 
house was full of permanent ones. There was the 
Viscount and Viscountess Courtown, and their 
L.-ee daughters, and Iiord and Lady Beaconsfield, 



and their three son?, and Sir Bcrdmore and LaJy 
Scrope, and Colonel Delmingtoii of the guards, 
and Lady Louisa Man vers, and her daughter 
.lulia. Lady Louisa was the only sister of tlie 
marquess — a widow, proud and penniless. 

'J'o all these distinguished personages, Vivian 
was introduced by the marquess as a " monstrous 
clever young man, and his lordship's most particular 
friend" — and then the noble Carabas left the game 
in his young friend's hands. 

And right well Vivian did his duty. In a week's 
time it would have been hard to decide with whom 
of the family of the Courtowns Vivian was the 
greatest favourite. He rode with the viscount, 
who was a good horseman, and was driven by his 
lady, who was a good whip ; and when he had 
sufficiently admired the tout ensemble of her 
ladyship's pony phaeton, he intrusted her, " in 
confidence," with some ideas of his own about 
martingales, a subject which he assured her lady- 
ship " had been the object of his mature considera- 
tion." The three honourable misses were the most 
difficult part of the business ; but he talked senti 
ment with the first, sketched with the second, and \ 
romped with the third. 

Ere the Beaconsfields could be jealous of the in- 
fluence of the Courtowns, Mr. Vivian Grey had 
promised his lordship, who was a collector of 
medals, a unique, which had never yet been heard 
of; and her ladyship, who was a collector of 
autographs, the private letters of every man of 
genius who ever had been heard of. In this divi- 
sion of the Carabas' guests, he was not bored with 
a famil)', for sons he always made it a rule to cut 
dead ; they are the members of a family who, on 
an average, are generally very uninfluential, for, 
on an average, they are fools enough to think it 
very knowing to be very disagreeable. So the wise 
man but little loves them ; but wo to the fool who 
neglects the daughters ! 

Sir Berdmore Scrope, Vivian found a more 
unmanageable personage ; for the baronet was 
confoundedly shrewd, and without a particle of 
sentiment in his composition. It was a great 
thing, however, to gain him ; for Sir Berdmore 
was a leading country gentleman, and having 
quarrelled with ministers about the corn laws, had 
been accounted disafi'ected ever since. The baro- 
net, however, although a bold man to the world, 
was luckily henpecked ; so Vivian made love to 
the wife, and secured the husband. 



CHAPTER X. 



MAnniAGE. 



I THINK that Julia Manverswas really the most 
beautiiul creature that ever smiled in this fair 
world. Such a symmetrically formed shape, such 
perfect features, such a radiant complexion, such 
luxuriant auburn hair, and such blue eyes, lit up 
by a smile of such mind and meaning, have seldom 
blessed the gaze of admiring man ! Vivian Grey, 
fresh as he was, was not exactly the creature to lose 
his heart very speedily. He looked upon marriage 
as a certain farce, in which, sooner or later, he 
was, as a well-paid actor, to play his part ; and could 
it have advanced his views one jot, he would have 
married the I'rincess Caraboo to-niorrow\ Bu 



VIVIAN GREY* 



23 



of all wives in the worlcl, a youn^ and handsome 
one was that which he most dreaded, and how a 
statesman who was wedded to a beautiful woman, 
could possibly perform his duties to the public, did 
most exceedingly puzzle him. Notwithstanding, 
however, these sentiments, Vivian began to think, 
that there really could be no harm in talking to so 
beautiful a creature as Julia, and a little conver- 
sation with her, he felt, would be no unpleasing 
relief to the difficult duties in which he was in- 
volved. 

To the astonishment of the Honourable Buck- 
hurst Stanhope, eldest son of Lord Beaconsfield, 
Mr. Vivian Grey, who had never yet condescended 
to acknowledge his existence, asked him one morn- 
ing, with the most fascinating of smiles, and with 
the most conciliating voice, " whether they should 
ride together 1" The young heir apparent looked 
stiff and assented. He arrived again at Chateau 
Desir in a couple of houRS, desperately enamoured 
' of the eldest Miss Courtown. The sacrifice of 
two mornings to the Honourable Dormer Stan- 
hope, and the Honourable Gregory Stanhope, sent 
them home equally au desespoir as to the remain- 
ing sisters. Having thus, like a man of honour, 
provided for the amusement of his former friends, 
the three Miss Courtowns, Vivian left Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine to the colonel, whose mustache, by-the- 
by, that lady considerably patronised, and then, 
having excited a universal feeling of gallantry 
among the elders, Vivian found his whole day at 
the service of Julia Manvers. 

" Miss Manvers, I think that you and I are the 
only faithful subjects in this castle of indolence, 
Here onj I lounging on an ottoman, my ambition 
reachiiig only so far as the possession of a cigar, 
whoso aromatic and circling wreaths, I candidly 
confess, I dare not here excite ; and you, of course, 
much too knowing to be doing any thing on the 
first of August, save dreaming of races, archery 
feats, and county balls — the three most delightful 
things which the country can boast, either for 
man, woman, or child." 

" Of course, you except sporting for yourself — 
shooting especially, I suppose." 

" Shooting ! O ! ah ! there is such a thing. No, 
I am no shot ; — not that I have not in my time 
cultivated a Manton ; but the truth is, having at 
an early age mistaken my most intimate friend for 
a cock pheasant, I sent a whole crowd of '■fours' 
into his face, and thereby spoilt one of the prettiest 
countenances in Christendom ; so I gave up the 
field. Besides, as Tom Moore says, I have so 
much to do in the country, that, for my part, I 
really have no time for killing birds and jumping 
over ditches . good work enough for country squires, 
who must, like all others, have their hours of ex- 
citement. Mine are of a different nature, and 
boast a different locality ; and so when I come 
into the couniry, ' 'tis for pleasant air, and beauti- 
ful trees, and winding streams,' things which, of 
course, those who live all the year round among, 
\o not suspect to be lovely and adorable creations. 
Don't you agree with Tom Moore, Miss Man- 
vers 1" 

" O, of course ! but I think it's very improper, 
that habit, that every one has, of calling a man 
of such eminence as the author of ' Lalla Rookh,' 
Tom Moore." 

" I wish he could but hear you ! But, suppose 
) -Tare to quote Mr. Moore, or Mr. Thomas Moore, 



would you have the most distant conception whom 
I meant 1 No, no, certainly not. By-the-by, did 
you ever hear the pretty name thev gave him at 
Paris!" 

" No ! what was it V 

" One day, Moore and Rogers went to call on 
Denon. Rogers gave their names to the Swiss, 
Monsieur Rogers et Monsieur Moore. The Swiss 
dashed open the library door, and to the great 
surprise of the illustrious antiquaiy, announced 
Monsieur 1' Amour ! While Denon was doubting 
whether the god of love was really paying him a 
visit or not, Rogers entered. I should like to have ' 
seen Denon's face." 

" And Monsieur Denon did take a portrait of 
Mr. Rogers as Cupid, I believe, Mr. Grey." 

"'Come, madam, no scandal about Queen Eliza- 
beth, I hope. Mr. Rogers is one of the most 
elegant-minded men in the country." 

" Nay ! don't lecture me with such a riant face, 
or else all your morale will be utterly thrown 
away." 

" Ah ! you have Retsch's Faust there. I did 
not expect on a drawing-room table at Chateau 
Desir, to see any thing so old, and so excellent. I 
thought the third edition of Tremaine v.'ould be a 
very fair specimen of your ancient literature, and 
Major Denham's hair-breadth escapes of your mo- 
dern. There was an excellent story a' .ut town, 
on the return of Denham and Clappeiton. The 
travellers took different routes, in order to arrive at 
the same point of destination. In his wanderings, 
the major came to an unheard-of lake, which, with 
a spirit which they of the Guards surely approved, 
he christened ' Lake Water loo J Clapperton ar- 
rived a few days after him ; and the pool was 
imm.ediately re-baptized ' Lake Trafalgar^ There 
was a hot quarrel in consequence. Now, if I had 
been there, I would have arranged matters, by 
proposing as a title to meet the views of all parties, 
' Tiie United Service Lake.' " 

" That would certainly have been very happy.' 

" How beautiful Margaret is I" said Vivian, 
rising from his ottoman, and seating himself on 
the sofa by the lady. " I always think that this is 
the only personification where art h;is not rendered 
innocence insipid." 

" Do you think so 1" 

" Why, take Una in the Wilderness, or Goody 
Two Shoes. These, I believe, were the most in- 
nocent persons that ever existed, and I'm sure you 
will agree with me, they always look the most 
insipid. Nay, perhaps, I was wrong in what I 
sa-id ; perhaps it is insipidity that always looks 
innocent, not innocence always insipid." 

" How can you refine so, Mr. Grey, when the 
thermometer is at 250° ! Pray, tell me some more 
stories." 

" I cannot, I'm in a refining humour : I could 
almost lecture to-day at the Royal Institution. 
You would not call these exactly prosopopeias of 
innocence 1" said Vivian, turning over a bundle 
of Stewart Newton's beauties, languishing, and 
lithographed. " Newton, I suppose, like Lady 
Wortley Montague, is of opinion that the face is 
not the most beautiful part of woman ; at least, if 
I am to judge from these elaborate ankles. Now 
the countenance of this doima, forsooth, has a 
drowsy placidity worthy of the easy chair she is 
lolling in, and yet her ankle would not disgrace 
the contorted frame of the most pious Faquir." 



24 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Well! I am an admirer of Newton's paintinjjs." 

" O ! so am I. He's certainly a cleverish fellow, 

Dut rather too much among the blues ; a set, of 

whom, I would venture to say. Miss Manvers 

kjioweth little about." 

" 0, not the least ! I\Iamma does not visit tliat 
way. What are they 1" 

" 0, very powerful people ! though ' Mamma 
iocs not visit that wai/.' They live chiefly about 
Cumberland Gate. Their words are Ukases as far 
as Curzon street, and very Decretals in the general 
vicinity of May fair ; hut you shall have a further 
description another time. How those rooks bore ! 
I hate staying with ancient families; you're always 
cawed to death. If ever you write a novel, Miss 
Manvers, mind you have a rookery in it. Since 
Tremaine, and Washington Irving, nothing will go 
down without." 

" ! hy-the-by, Mr. Grey, who is the author of 
Tremaine V 

. " I'll tell you who is not V 
" Whor' 
'^ Mr. Ogle." 

" But really, who is the author?" 
" O, I'll tell you in a moment. It's cither Mr. 
Ryder, or Mr. Spencer Percival, or Mr. Dyson, or 
Miss Dyson, or Mr. Dowles, or the Duke of Buck- 
ingham, or Mr. Ward, or a young officer in the 
Guards, or an old clergyman in the north of Eng- 
land, or a middle-aged barrister on the Midland 
circuit." 

" You're really so giddy, Mr. Grey. — I wish you 
could get me an autograph of Mr. Washington 
irving ; I want it for a particular friend." 

" Give me a pen and ink ; I'll write you one im- 
mediately." 

" O ! Mr. Grey." 

" There, now you've made me blot Faustus." 
At this moment the room door suddenly opened 
and as suddenly shut. 

" Who was that, Mr. Grey ]" 
" Mcphistophiles, or Mrs. Felix Lorraine ; one 
or the other — perhaps both." 
" Mr. Grey !" 

" What do you think of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, 
Miss Manvers !" 

"Oil think her a very amusing woman, a very 
clever woman, a very — but — " 
" But what ]" 

" But I can't exactly make her out." 
" Nor I — nor I ; she's a dark riddle ; and although 
I am a very CEdipus, I confess I have not yet un- 
ravelled it. Come, there's Washington Irving's 
autograph for you ; read it, isn't it quite in cha- 
racter ] Shall I write any more 1 One of Sir 
Walter's, or Mr. Southey's, or Mr. Milman's, or 
Mr. D'Israeli's 1 or shall I sprawl a Byron !" 

" Mr. Grey ! I really cannot patronise such un- 
principled conduct. You may make me one of Sir 
Walter's, however." 

" Poor Washington, poor Washington !" said 
Vivian, writing; "I knew him well in London. 
He always slept at dinner. One day as he was 
dining at Mr. Hallam's, they took him, when 
asleep, to Lady Jersey's rout ; and to see the Sieur 
Geottrey, when he opened his eyes in the illumi- 
nated saloons, was really quite admirable ! quite an 
Aral)ian tale.'' 

" 0, how delightful I I should have so liked to 
have seen him ! He seems quite forgotten now in 
England. How came we to talk of him 1" 



" Forgotten — O ! he spoilt his elegant talents in 
writing German and Italian twaddle with all ths 
rawness of a Yankee. He ought never to have leil 
America, at least in literature : — there was an un- 
contested and glorious lield for him. He should 
have been managing director of the Hudson Bay 
('ompany ; and lived all his Ufe among the 
beavers." 

"I think there is nothing more pleasant, Mr. 
Grey, than talking over the season in the country, 
in August." 

" Nothing more agreeable. It was dull, though, 
last season, very dull ; I think the game cannot be 
kept going another year. If it wasn't for the gene- 
ral election, we really must have a war for variety's 
sake. Peace gets quite a bore. Everybody you 
dine with commands a good cuisine, and gives you 
twelve difllrent wines, all perfect. And as for Dr. 
Henderson, he is the amateur importer for the whole 
nation. We cannot bear this any longer ; all the 
lights and shadows of life are lost. The only good 
thing I heard this year, was an ancient gentlewo- 
man going up to Gunter, and asking him for ' the 
receipt for that white stuif,' pointing to his Roman 
punch. I, who am a great man for receipts, gave 
it her immediately : — ' One hod of mortar to one 
bottle of Noyau.^ " 

" 0, that was too bad ! and did she thank you." 

" Thank me ! ay, truly ; and pushed a card into 
my hand, so thick and sharp that it cut through 
my glove. I wore my arm in a sling for a month 
afterwards." 

" And what was the card 1" 

" O you need not look so arch ! The old ladj 
was not even a faithless duenna. It was an invi 
tation to an assembly, or something of the kind, at 
a locale, somewhere, as Theodore Hook or John 
Wilson Croker would say, ' between Mesopotamia 
and Russell Square.' " 

" Do you know Mr. Croker, Mr. Grey 1" 

"Not in the least. I look upon Mr. Croker and 
myself as the two sublimest men in the United 
Kingdom. When we do meet, the interview will 
be interesting." 

" Pray, Mr. Grey, is it true that all the houses 
in Russell-square are tenantless 1" 

" Quite true ; the Marquess of Tavistock has 
given up the country in consequence. A perfect 
shame — is it not ? Let's write it up." 

" An admirable plan ! but we'll take the houses 
first ; of course we can get them at a pepper-corn 
rent." 

" What a pity. Miss Manvers, the fashion has 
gone out of selling oneself to the devil." 

" Good gracious, Mr. Grey !" 

" On my honour, I am quite serious. It doe* 
appear to me to be a very great pity. What a 
ca])ifal plan for younger brothers I It's a kind of 
thing I've been trying to do all my life, and ncve< 
could succeed. I began at school with toas'.es 
cheese and a pitchfork ; and since then I've in 
voked, with all the eloquence of Goethe, the cvr 
one in the solitude of the Hartz; but without sue 
cess. I think I should make an excellent bargair. 
with him : of course, I don't mean that ugly vulgai 
savage with a fiery tale. O, no ! Satan himself for 
me, a perfect gentleman ! Or Belial — Belial would 
be the most delightful. He's the fine genius of 
the inferno, I imagine, the Beranger of Pandemo- 
nium." 

" Mr, Grey, I really cannot listen to such non 



VIVIAN GREY 

AVhat would you have 



25 



Kcnso one moment longer, 
if Belial were herel" 

" Let us see.- Now, you shall act the spirit, antl 
I Vivian Grey. I wish wc had a shorthand writer 
here to take down the incantation scene. We'd 
send it to Arnold. — Cummengons — Spirit! I'll 
have a fair castle." 

The lady bowed. 

" I'll have a palace in town." 

The la/ly bowed. 

" I'll Have lots of the best Havanna cigars." 

The lady bowed. 

" I'll have a fair wife. — Why, Miss Manvers, 
you forget to how !" 

" O, dear ! Mr. Grey, I really beg your pardon !" 

" Come, this is a novel way of making an olfer, 
and, I hope, a successful one." 

"Julia, my dear," cried a voice in the veranda; 
" Julia, my dear, I want you to walk with me." 

"Say you are engaged with the marchioness," 
whispered Vivian, with a low but distinct voice ; 
his eyes fixed on the table, and his lips not appear- 
ing to move. 

" Mamma, I'm " 

" I want you immediately and particularly, 
Julia," cried Lady Louisa, with an earnest voice. 

" I'm coming, I'm coming. — You see I must go, 
Mr. Grey." 



CHAPTER XL 



THE PARK. 



"Confusion on that old hag! Her eye look- 
ed evil on me, at the very moment! Although a 
pretty wife is really the destruction of a young 
man's prospects, still, in the present case, the niece of 
my friend, my patron — high family — perfectly uiv 
exceptionable, &c. &c. &c. Such blue eyes ! upon 
my honour, this must be an exception to the general 
rule." Here a light step attracted his attention, 
and, on turning round, he found Mrs. Felix Lor- 
raine at his elbow. 

' O ! you're here! Mr. Grey, acting the solitaire 
in the park. I want your opinion about a passage 
in ' Herman and Dorothea.' " 

" My opinion is always at your service ; but if 
the passage is not perfectly clear to Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine, it will be perfectly obscure, I am con- 
vinced, to me." 

" 0, dear ! after all my trouble, I've forgotten my 
book. How mortifying ! Well, I'll show it you 
after dinner : adieu ! — and, by-the-by, Mr. Grey, as 
I am here, I may as well advise you not to spoil all 
the marquess's timber, by carving a certain per- 
son's name on his park trees. I think your plans 
in that quarter are admirable. I've been walking 
with liady Louisa the whole morning, and you 
can't think how I puffed you ! Cuurane, curalier, 
and we shall soon be connected, not only in friend- 
ship but in blood." 

The next morning at breakfast, Vivian was sur- 
prised to find that the Manvers party was suddenly 
about to leave the castle. All were disconsolate at 
their departure, for there was to be a grand enter- 
tainment at Chateau Desir that very day ; but 
particularly Mrs. Felix Lorraine, and Mr. Vivian 
Grey. The sudden departure was accounted for by 
t'ue arrival of " unexpected," &c. &c. There was 
HO hope — the green post-chariot was at the door — 



a feeble promise of a speedy return ! Julia's eves 
were filled with tears. — Vivian was springing foi- 
ward to press her hand, and bear her to the carriage, 
when Mrs. Felix Lorraine seized his arm — vowed 
she was going to faint, and, ere she could recover 
herself, or loosen her gi"asp, the Manvers — were 
gone. 



CHAPTER XIL 

A MORNING VISIT. 

The gloom which the parting had diffused over 
all countenances, was quite dispelled when tile 
marquess entered. 

" Lady Carabas," said he, " you must prej>are 
for crowds of visiters to-day. There are the Amer- 
shams, and Lord Alhambra, and Earnest Clay, and 
twenty other young heroes, who, duly informed that 
the Miss Courtowns were honouring us with their 
presence, are pouring in from all cjuarters — Isn't it 
so, Juliana 1" gallantly asked the marquess of 
Miss Courtown : " but who do you think is coming 
besides 1" 

" Who, whoT' exclaimed all. 

" Nay, you all guess," said the peer. 

"The Duke of Waterloo 1" guessed Cynthia 
Courtown, the romp. 

" Prince Hungary 1" asked her sister Laura. 

"Is it a gentleman]" asked Mrs. Felix Lor- 
raine. 

" No, no, you're all wrong, and all very stupid. 
It's Mrs. Million." 

" 0, how delightful," said Cynthia. 

" O, how annoying !" said the marchioness. 

" Y'ou need not look so agitated, my love," said 
the marquess ; " I have written to Mrs. Million, to 
say that we shall be most happy to see her ; but, as 
the castle is very full, she must not come with fifty 
carriages and four, as she did last year." 

" And will Mrs. Million dine with us in the hall, 
marquess!" asked Cynthia Courtown. 

"Mrs. Million will do what she likes; I only 
know that I shall dine in the hall, whatever hap- 
pens, and whoever comes ; and so, I suppose, will 
Miss Cynthia Courtown." 

Vivian rode out alone immediately after break- 
fast, to cure his melancholy by a hard gallop. He 
left his horse to choose his own road ; and, at 
length, he found himself plunged in a cornfield. 

" Hallo, sir I beg pardon ; but your horse's feet 
will do no good to that standing corn ; for when 
there's plenty of roads to ride over — my maxim ib 
keep out of enclosures." 

Vivian turned round, and recognised a friend 
in the person of a substantial and neighbouring 
farmer. 

Daniel Groves, or as he was commonly called, 
Mr. Groves, was one of those singular personages, 
whose eccentricities procure them, from all the sur- 
rounding neighbourhood, the reputation of being 
" quite a character." Daniel was a stout built, 
athletic man, with a fine florid countenance, and a 
few gray hairs straggling over his forehead, and 
beautifully C(jntrasting with his carnationed com- 
plexion. His hazel eyes were veiy small, but thev 
twinkled with perpetual action. A turncd-up nose 
gave his countenance a somewhat conceited ex- 
pression ; and as he was in the habit of being co?2- 
sulted by the whole country, this expression b« 
C 



26 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



came so habitual, that Mr. Groves always looked 
as if he himself quite agreed with the general opi- 
nion — that he was " one of the most long-headed 
fellows in these parts," an.! " quite a character." 
Daniel was not only opulent, hut flourishing ; but 
lie was not above attending to all the details of his 
farm, though frequently admitted to the tables of 
the principal neighbouring gentry. 

Eut by this time Mister Groves, with a particu- 
larly large pet pitchfork over one shoulder, and a 
handful of corn in the other hand, with which he 
occasionally nourished his ample frame in his toil- 
some march over the stubble, has reached the tres- 
pa-*ser. 

" What ! is it you, Mr. Grey 1 who thought of 
seeing you here 1" 

" O Mr. Groves, I wasn't aware I was trespass- 
ing on your corn." 

'• O ! no matter, no matter, friends are always 
welcome, that's my maxim. But if you could keep 
a itctle nearer to the hedge." 

" O ! I'll come out immediately. Which way are 
you going 1 I've been thinking of calling on you." 
" Well now, do, sir ; ride home with me and 
take a bit of something to cat. My mistress will 
be remarkable glad to see you. There's some nice 
cold pickled pork — we've an excellent cheese in 
cut ; and a fine barrel of ale in broach as you ever 
tasted.'* 

" Why, Groves ! really I can't turn back to-day ; 
for I want to look in at Conyers's, and ask him about 
that trout stream." 

" Well, sir, I'm sorry you're so pushed, but I do 
wish you'd come in some day quite promiscuous. 
You said you would, for I want your opinion of 
some port wine I'm going to take with a friend." 

" So I will with the greatest pleasure, but I'm 
not at all a good judge of port, it's too heavy for 
nic ; I'd sooner taste your ale." 

" Ah ! it's the fashion of you young squires to 
cry down port wine, but depend upon't it's the real 
stuff. We never should have beat the French, if 
it hadn't been for their poor sour wines. That's 
my maxim." 

" Shall you dine at the chateau to-day V 
" Why you see the marquess makes such a point 
of it, that I can't well be off. And the country 
should be kept together sometimes. — That's the 
ground I go upon." 

"01 do come — you must come — we can't do 
without you ; it's nothing without you. Groves." 

" Well, really, you're very good to say so, so I 
can't say but what I will ; but I hope there'll he 
something to eat and drink, which I know the 
name of, for the last time I 'tended there, there was 
nothing hut kickshaws ; my stomach's not used to 
such Frenchified messes, and I was altogether «o- 
/lou-ish by the time I got home. I said to my 
mistress, ' really,' says I, ' I don't know what's the 
matter with me, but my stomach's going remark- 
al)le wrong ;' so she advised me to take a good 
stiff glass of brandy and water, while she got a 
couple of ducks roasted for supper, for pease were 
just in ; sure enough that's all I wanted, for I 
slept well after it, and got up quite my own man 
again. There's nothing like a glass of brandy and 
water, cold, without sugar, when you're out of 
sorts. That's my maxim." 

" And a very good maxim too, Mr. Groves. I 
wish I could get you- one of these mornings to look 
at a horse for me." 



" I shall be very glad. The one you're on seem." 
rather weak in the fore legs : I should blister him, 
if he belonged to me. But as to getting you a 
horse, why, it's the wrong time of the year ; and 
I'm so remarkably pushed on that point, that I 
hardly know what to say, but still I always like to 
do a good turn for a friend, that's my maxim, so 
I can't say but what I'll see about it. There's 
Harry Mountcney now, he wants me to ride over 
to Woodbury, to look at a brown mare ; Stapylton 
Toad too, he says he's never satisfied without my 
opinion, though he generally takes his own in the ( 
long run. Ah ! those Londoners kn.'W nothing 
about horseflesh. Well, any day you'll call, I'm 
your man." 

" Well, thank you, thank you, I shall keep you 
to your promise." 

" Well sir ! good morning, pleasant ride to you. 
You'll keep to the roads, I'm sure, till harvest's in : 
though they mayn't be over good for a carriage, 
they're very fair for a bridle. That's the ground I 
stand upon." 

As Vivian was returning home, he intended to 
look in at a pretty cottage near the park, where 
lived one John Conyers, an honest husbandman, 
and a great friend of Vivian's. This man had, 
about a fortnight ago, been of essential service to 
our hero, when a vicious horse, which he was en- 
deavouring to cure of some ugly tricks, had nearly 
terminated his mortal career. 

" Why are you crying so, my boy ?" asked 
Vivian of a littleConyers, who was sobbing bitterly 
at the cottage door. He was answered only with 
desperate sobs. " Is your father at home V 

" 'tis your honour !" said a decent-looking 
woman, who came out of the cottage, " I thought 
they had come back again." J 

'• Come back again ! why, what's the matter, I 
darnel" 

" ! your honour, we're in sad distress ; there's 
been a seizure this morning, and I'm mortal fear'd 
the good man's beside himself!" 

" Good heavens ! why didn't you come to the 
castle 1 The marquess surely never gave orders 
for the infliction of this misery." 

" 0, your honour, we a'n't his lordship's tenants 
no longer; there's been a change for Purley Mead, 
and now we're Lord Mounteney's people. John 
Conyers has been behindhand ever since he had 
the fever, but Mr. Sedgwick always gave time, but 
Lord Mounteney's gemman says the system's bad, 
and so he'll put an end to it ; and so all's gone, 
your honour, all's gone, and I'm mortal fear'd the 
good man's beside himself." 

" And who's Lord Mounteney's man of busi- 
ness 1" 

" Mr. Stapylton Toad," sobbed the good dame. 

" Here, boy, leave off crying, and hold my 
horse. ; keep your hold tight, but give him rein, 
he'll be quiet enough then. 111 see honest John, 
dame (Jonyers." 

" I'm sure your honour's very kind, but I'm 
mortal fear'd the good man's beside himself, and 
he's apt to do very violent things when the tit's on 
him. He hasn't been so bad since young Barton 
behaved so wickedly to his sister." 

" Never mind ! I'll see hnn; there's nothing like 
a friend's face in the hour of sorrow." 

" I wouldn't advise your honour," said the good 
dame, with a fearful expression of countenance • 
" it's an awful hour when the fit's on him ; ae 



VIVIAN GREY. 



27 



tnows not friend or foe, and scarcely seems to 
know me, your honour." 

" Never mind, never mind, I'll see him." 

Vivian entered the cottage — but ! the scene 
of desolation, who shall describe 1 The room was 
entirely stripped, literally, of every thing ; there was 
nothing left, save the bare white-washed walls, and 
the red tiled flooring. The room was darkened ; 
and seated on an old block of wood, which had 
been pulled out of the orchard since the bailiff had 
left, was John Conyers. The fire was out, but his 
feet were still among the ashes. His head was 
buried in his hands, and bowed down nearly to his 
knees. The eldest girl, a fine sensible child of 
about thirteen, was sitting with two brothers on the 
floor, in a corner of the room, motionless, their 
faces grave and still as death, but tearless. Three 
young- children, of an age too tender to know grief, 
were acting unmeaning gambols near the door. 

" ! pray beware, your honour," earnestly whis- 
pered the poor dame, as she entered the cottage 
with the visiter. 

Vivian walked up with a silent step to the end 
of the room, where John Conyers was sitting. He 
remembered this litle room, when he thought it the 
very model of the abode of an English husbandman. 
The neat row of plates, and the well-scoured uten- 
sils, and the fine old Dutch clock, and the ancient 
and amusing ballad, purchased at some neighbour- 
ing fair, or of some itinerant bibliopole, and pinned 
against the wall — all, all were gone ! 

"John Conyers !" exclaimed Vivian. 

There was no answer, nor did the miserable man 
appear in the slightest degree to be sensible of Vi- 
vian's presence. 

" My good John Conyers !" 

The man raised his head from his restingplace, 
and turned to the spot whence the voice proceeded. 
There was such an unnatural fire in his eyes, that 
Vivian's spirit almost quailed. Any one but Vi- 
vian Grey would have fled the house. His alarm 
was not decreased when he perceived that the mas- 
ter of the cottage did not recognise him. The fear- 
ful stare was, however, short, and again the suffer- 
er's face was hid. 

The wife was advancing, but Vivian waved his 
hand to her to withdraw, and she accordingly fell 
into the background, but her fixed eye did not leave 
her husband for a second. 

"John Conyers, it is your friend, Mr, Vivian 
Gre)', who is here," said Vivian. 

" Grey !" moaned the husbandman, " Grey, who 
IS he!" 

" Your friend, John Conyers. Do you quite 
forget me?" said Vivian, advancing, and with a 
<one which Vivian Grey could alone assume. 

" I think I have seen you, and you were kind," 
and the face was again hid. 

" And always will be kind, John Conyers. I 
iiave come to comfort you. I thought that a 
friend's voice would do you good in this hour of 
your affliction. Come, come, my good Conyers, 
cheer up, my man !" and Vivian dared to touch 
him. His hand was not repulsed. "Do you re- 
member what good service you did me when I rode 
white-footed Moll ] O ! John Conyers, when the 
mare was plunging on the hill-top, I was much 
worse off than you are now ; and yet, you see, a 
friend came and saved me. You must not give 
way so, my good fellow. After all, a little man- 
agement will set every thing right," and he took 



the husbandman's sturdy hand. John Conyers 
looked wildly round, but the unnatural fire that had 
glistened in his eyes was extinguished. 

"I do remember you," he faintly cried; "I do 
remember you. You were #vvays very kind." 

" And always will be, I repeat, John Conyers ; 
at least to friends like you. Come, come, there's a 
man, cheer up and look about you, and let the sun- 
beams enter your cottag;p !" and Vivian beckoned 
to the wife to open the closed shutter. 

Conyers stared around him, but his eye rested 
only on bare walls, and the big tear coursed down 
his hardy cheek. 

" Nay, never mind, man !" said Vivian, " we'll 
soon have chairs and tables again. And as for the 
rent, think no more about that at present." 

The husbandman looked up to heaven, and then 
burst into the most violent hysterics. Vivian 
could scarcely hold down the powerful and con- 
vulsed frame of Conyers on his rugged seat ; but 
the wife advanced from the back of the room, and 
her husband's head rested against her bosom. Vi- 
vian held his honest hand, and the eldest girl rose 
unbidden from her silent sorrow, and clung to her 
father's knee. 

" The fit is over," whispered his wife. 

" There, there, there's a man, all is now well ;" 
and Vivian left him resting on his wife's bosom. 

" Plere, you curly-headed rascal, scamper down 
to the village immediately, and bring up a basket 
of something to cat ; and tell Morgan Price that 
Mr. Grey says he's to send up a couple of beds, 
and some chairs here immediately, and some plates 
and dishes, and every thing else, and don't forget a 
bottle of wine !*' so saying, Vivian flung the urchin 
a sovereign. 

" And now, dame Conyers, for heaven's sake ! 
light the fire. As for the rent, John Conyers, do 
not waste this trifle on that," whispered Vivian, 
slipping his purse into his hand, " for I'll see Sta- 
pylton Toad, and get time. Why, woman, you'll 
never strike a light if your tears drop so fast into 
the tinder-box. Here give it me. You're not fit 
for work to-day. And how's the trout in Ravely 
Mead, John, this hot weather ? You know you 
never kept your promise with me. 0, you're a sad 
fellow ! There, there's a spark. ! I wonder why 
old Toad didn't take the tinder-box. It's a very 
valuable piece of property, at least, to us. Run and 
get me some wood, that's a good boy. And so 
white-footed Moll's past all recovery 1 Well, she 
was a pretty creature ! There, that will do famous- 
ly," said Vivian, fanning the flames with his hat. 
" See, it mounts well ! And now, God bless you 
all ! for I'm an hour too late, and must scamper 
for my very life." 



CHAPTER Xlir, 



THE ARBIYAL. 



Mns. MrtLTON arrived and kept her promise; 
only three carriages and four ! Out of the first 
descended the mighty lady herself, with some noble 
friends, who formed the most distinguished part of 
her suite : out of the second came her physician, Dr. 
Sly ; her toad-eater. Miss Gusset ; her secretary, 
and her page. The third carriage bore her groom 
of the chambers, and three female attendantij 



28 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



There were only two men servants to each equi- 
page; nothing could be more moderate, or, as Miss 
Gusset said, " in better taste." 

Mrs. Million, after having granted the marquess 
a private interview m her private apartments, sig- 
nified her imperial intention of dining in public, 
v\'hich, as she had arrived late, she trusted she 
might do in her travelling dress. The marquess 
koiooed like a first-rate mandarin, and vowed " that 
her v/ill was his conduct." 

The whole suite of apartments was thrown open, 
and was crowded with guests. Mrs. Million enter- 
ed ; she was leaning on the marquess's arm, and in 
a travelling dress, namely, a crimson silk pelisse, 
hat and feathers, with diamond earrings, and a rope 
of gold around lier neck. A train of about twelve 
persons, consisting of her noble fellow-travellers, 
toad-eaters, physicians, secretaries, &cc.. &c. &c., 
followed. 'I'he entree of his majesty could not 
have created a greater sensation, than did that of 
Mrs. Million. All fell back. Gartered peers, and 
starred ambassadors, and baronets with titles older 
than the creation, and squires, to the antiquity of 
whose blood chaos was a novelty ; all retreated, with 
eyes that scarcely dared to leave the ground — even 
Sir Plantagenet Pure, whose family had refused a 
])eerage regularly every century, now, for the first 
time in his life, seemed cowed, and in an awkward 
retreat to make way for the approaching presence, 
got entangled with the Mameluke boots of my Lord 
Alhambra. 

At last a sofa was gained, and the great lady 
was seated ; and the sensation having somewhat 
subsided, conversation was resumed ; and the 
mighty Mrs. Million was not slightly abused, par- 
ticularly by those who had bowed lowest at her 
entree ; and now the ]\larquess of Carabas, as was 
wittingly observed by Mr. Septimus Sessions, a 
pert young barristef, " went the circuit," that is to 
say, made the grand tour of the suite of apartments, 
making remarks to every one of his guests, and 
keeping up his influence in the country. 

" Ah, my Lord Alhambra ! this is too kind : and 
how is your excellent lather, and my good friend ! 
Sir Plantagenet, yours most sincerely ; we shall 
have no difficulty about that right of common. — 
Mr. Leverton, I hope you find the new plough 
work well — your son, sir, will do the county 
honour. — Sir Godfrey, I saw Barton upon that 
point, as I promised. — Lady Julia, I'm rejoiced to 
see you at Chateau Desir, more blooming than 
ever ! — Good Mr. Stapylton Toad, so that little 
change was effected ! — My Lord Devildrain, this 
is a pleasure indeed .'" 

" Why, Ernest Clay," said Mr. Bnckhurst Stan- 
hope, " 1 thought Alhambra wore a turban — I'm 
quite disappointed." 

" Not in the country. Stanhope ; here he only 
sits cross-legged on an attomun, and carves his 
venison with an ataghan." 

" VVell, I'm glad he doesn't wear a turban— 
(hat would be bud /ff,^/c, I think," said fool Stan- 
liope. " Have you read his poem ]" 

'' A little. He sent me a copj', and as I'm in 
(he habit of lighting my cigar or so occasionally 
witli a leaf, why I can't help occasionally seeing a 
line — it seems quite first-rate." 

" Indeed !" said fool Stanhope, " I must get it." 

"My dear Pull"! I'm quite glad to find you 
liere," said Mr. Cayenne, a celebrated reviewer, to 
Mr. Parlhenopux Pull^ a small literateur and 



smaller wit. " Have you seen Middle Ages 
lately '!" 

" i\ot very lately," drawled Mr. Parthenopex. 
"I breakfasted with him before I left town, and 
met a professor Bopp there, a very interesting man, 
and p,-incipal of the celebrated university of Heli- 
goland, the model of the London." 

" Ah I indeed ! talking of the London, is Foam- 
ing Fudge to come in for Westmoreland 1" 

" Doubtless ! O ! he's a prodigious fellow ! 
What do you think Booby saysl he says that 
Foaming Fudge can do more than any man in 
Great Britain : that he had one day to j)lead in the 
king's bench, spout at a tavern, speak in the house, 
and fight a duel — and that he found time for every 
thing but the /«*/." 

" Excellent," laughed Mr. Cayenne. 

Mr. Parthenopex Pull' was reputed in a certain 
set, a sayer of good things, but he was a modest 
wit, and generally fathered his ban muls on his 
valet Booby, his monkey, or his parrot. 

" I saw you in the last number," said Cayenne. 
"From the quotations from your own works, I 
imagine the review of your own book was by 
yourself?" 

" What do you think Booby said '" 

" Mr. PulT, allow me to introduce you to Lord 
Alhambra," said Ernest Clay, by which means 
Mr. PuiF's servant's last good thing was lost. 

" Mr. Clay, are you an archer 1" asked Cynthia 
Courtown. 

" No, fair Dian, but I can act Endymion." 

" I don't know what you mean — go away." 

" Aubery Yere, welcome to shire. Have 

you seen Prima Donna !" 

" No, is he here ] How did you like his la&t 
song in the Agel" 

" his last song ! Pooh I he only supplies tho 
scandal." 

"Groves," said Sir Hanway Etherington, " have 
you sec.n the newspaper this morning ] Baron 
Crupper has tried fifteen men for horsestealing at 
York, and acquitted every one." 

" Well then, Sir llanway, I think his lordship's 
remarkably wrong : for when a man gets a horse 
to suit him, if he loses it, 'tisn't so easy to suit 
himself again. Thai's the ground I .stand upon." 

" Well, there's a good deal in what you say, 
Groves. By-the-by, have you let that nice house 
which your father used to live in V 

" No, Sir Hanway, no ! I keep it in case any 
thing should happen to Tom, for he's getting a 
very likely young man, and he'll be filtish to marry 
soon. That's the ground I stand upon." 

All this lime the Marquess of Carabas had 
wanted A'^ivian Grey twenty times, but that gen- 
tleman had not a])peared. The important moment 
arrived, and his lord-hip olTered his arm to Mrs. 
Million, who, as the Gotha Almanack says, "takes 
pi-ecedence of all archduchesses, grandduchesses, 
duchcs.ses, ])rincesscs, iandgra\ines, maigravinca, 
palsgravines, &c. &c. &c. 



CHAPTEPv XIV. 

THE HALL 

Ix their passage to the hall, the marquesB ano 
Mrs. Million met Yivian Grev, hooted and spurred 
and covered with mud. 



VIVIAN GREY. 



29 



" ! — Mrs. Million — Mr. Vivian Grey. How's 
this, my clear fellow 1 you'll be too late." 

" Immense honour !" said Vivian, bowing to the 
ground to the lady. " O ! my lord, I was late, 
and made a short cut over Fernley Bog. It has 
proved a very Moscow expedition. However, I'm 
keeping you. I shall be in time for the guava and 
liqueurs, and you know that's the only refreshment 
I ever take." 

" Who is that, marquess 1" asked Mr.s. Million. 

" That is Mr. Vivian Grey, the most monstrous 
clever young man, and nicest fellow I know." 

" He does indeed seem a very nice young man," 
said Mrs. Million ; for she rather admired Vivian's 
precocious taste for liqueurs. 

I wish some steam process could be invented 
for arranging guests when they are above five 
hundred. In the present instance all went wrong 
when they entered the hall ; but, at last, the ar- 
rangements, which, by-the-by, were of the simplest 
nature, were comprehended, and the guests were 
seated. There were three tables, each stretching 
down the hall ; the dais was occupied by a mili- 
tary band. The number of guests, the contrast 
between the antique chamber and the modern, 
costumes, the music, the various liveried menials, 
all combined to produce a tuui ensemble, which at 
the same time was very striking, and " in remark- 
able good taste." 

In process of time Mr. Vivian Grey made his 
entree. There were a few vacant seats at the 
bottom of the table, " luckily for him," as kindly 
remarked Mr. Grumbleton. To the astonishment 
«nd indignation, however, of this worthy squire, 
the late comer passed by the unoccupied position, 
and proceeded onward with the most undaunted 
coolness, until he came to about the middle of the 
middle table, and which was nearly the best situa- 
tion in the hall. 

" Beautiful Cynthia," said Vivian Grey, softly 
and sweetly, whispering in Miss Courtown's ear, 
" I'm sure you will give up your place to me ; you 
have nerve enough, you know, for any thing, and 
would no more care for standing out, than I for 
sitting in." 

There's nothing like giving a romp credit for a 
little boldness. To keep up her character she 
will outherod Herod. 

" O ! Grey, is it you ? certainly, yon shall have 
my place immediately — but I'm not sure that we 
cannot make room for you. Dormer Stanhope, 
room must be made for Grey, or I shall leave the 
table immediately ; — you men !" said the hoyden, 
turning round to a set of surrounding servants, 
" push this form down, and put a chair between." 
The men obeyed. All who sat lower in the table 
on Miss Cynthia Courtown's side, than that lady, 
were suddenly propelled downwards about the 
distance of two feet. Dr. Sly, who was flourish- 
ing an immense carving-knife and fork prepa- 
ratory to dissecting a very gorgeous haunch, had 
fliese fearful instruments suddenly precipitated into 
« trifle, from whose sugared trellise-work, he found 
great difficulty in extricating them ; while Miss 
Gusset, who was on the point of cooling herself 
with some exquisite iced jelly, found her frigid 
portion as suddenly transformed into a plate of 
peculiarly ardent curry, the property, but a moment 
before, of old Colonel Rangoon. Every thing, 
however, receives a civil reception from a toad- 
eater, so Miss Gusset burnt herself to death by 



devouring a composition which would have re- 
duced any one to ashes who had not fought against 
Bandoolah. 

" Now, that's what I call a very sensible arrange- 
ment ; — what could go off better ?" said Vivian. 

" You may think so, sir," said Mr. Boreall, a 
sharp-nosed and conceited-looking man, who, hav- 
ing got among a set whom he didn't the least 
understand, was determined to take up Dr. Sly's 
quarrel, merely for the sake of conversation. 
" You, I say, sir, may think it so, but I rather 
imagine that the ladies and gentlemen lower down, 
can hardly think it a very sensible arrangement ,•" 
and here Boreall looked as if he had done his 
duty, in giving a young man a proper reproof. 

Vivian glanced a look, which would have been 
annihilation to any one not a freeholder of five 
hundred acres. " I had reckoned upon two deaths, 
sir, when I entered the hall, and finding, as I do, 
that the whole business has apparently gone ofl" 
without any fatal accident, why I think the cir- 
cumstances bear me out in my expression." 

Mr. Boreall was one of those unfortunate men 
who always take things an, pied de le/tre : he 
consequently looked amazed, and exclaiined, "Two 
deaths, sir V 

" Yes, sir, two deaths ; I reckoned, of course, 
on some corpulent parent being crushed to death 
in the scufile, and then I should have had to shoot 
his son through the head for his filial satisfaction. 
Dormer Stanhope, I never thanked you for exert- 
ing yourself; send me that fricandeau you have 
just helped yourself to." 

Dormer, who was, as A''ivian well knew, some- 
thing of an epicure, looked rather annoyed, but by 
this time he was accustomed to Vivian Grey, and 
sent him the portion he had intended for himself — 
could epicure do more ? 

" Who are we among, bright Cynthia'?" asked 
Vivian. 

" ! an odd set," said the lady, jooking digni- 
fied ; " but you know wo can be exclusive." 

" Exclusive ! pooh I trash — talk to everybody ; 
it looks as if you were going to stand for the 
county. Have we any- of the Millionaires near 
us 1" 

" The doctor and Toadey are lower down." 

" Where's Mrs. Felix Lorraine !" 

" At the opposite table, with Ernest Clay." 

" ! there's Alhambra next to Dormer Stan- 
hope. Lord Alhambra, I'm quite rejoiced to see 
you." 

" Ah ! Mr. Grey — I'm quite rejoiced to see 
you. How's your father V 

" Extremely well — he's at Paris — I heard from 
him yesterday. Do you ever see the Weimar 
Literary Gazette, my lord ]" 

" No ; — why !" 

" There's a most admirable review of your poem 
in the last number I've received." 

The young nobleman looked agitated. " I 
think, by the style," continued Vivian, " that it's 
by Goethe. It is really quite delightful to see the 
oldest poet in Europe dilating on the brilliancy of 
a new star in the poetical horizon." 

This was uttered with a perfectly g^ave voice, 
and now the young nobleman blushed. " Who 
is Gewter ?" asked Mr. Boreall, who possessed 
such a thirst for knowledge, that he never allowed 
an opportunity to escape him of displaying .'lis 
ignorance. 



oO 



i) ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" A celebrated German writer," lisped the mo- 
dest Miss Macdonald, who was, of course, begin- 
ning Gernum. 

" I never heard his name," persevered the inde- 
fatigable Boreall ; — " how do you spell it ?" 

" GOETHE," relispcd modesty. 

" ! Goty .'" exclaimed the querist — " I know 
him well : he wrote the Sorrows of Werter." 

" Did he indeed, sir ?" asked Vivian, with the 
most innocent and inquiring face. 

"01 don't you know thatl" said Boreall; — 
" and poor stuff it is !" and here the worthy and 
■vulgar landholder laughed loud and long. 

" Lord Aihanibra ! I'll take a glass of Johan- 
nisberg with you, if the marquess's wines are in 
the state they should be — 

I ' The Crescent warriors sipp'd their sherbet spiced, 
For Christian men the various wines were iced.' 

I always think that those are the two most admir- 
able lines in your lordship's poem." 

His lordship did not exactly remember them : 
it would have been a wonder if he had : — but he 
thought Vivian Grey the most delightful fellow 
he ever met, and determined to ask him to Helicon 
Castle, for the Christmas holidays. 

" Flat ! fiat !" said Vivian, as he dwelt upon 
the flavour of the Rhine's glory. " Not exactly 
from the favourite binn of Prince Metternich, I 
think. By-the-by, Dormer Stanhope, you've a 
taste that way ; I'll tell you two secrets, which 
never forget : decant your Johannisberg, and ice 
your Maraschino. Ay, don't stare, my dear gas- 
tronome, but do it." 

" O, Vivian Grey, you little love ! why didn't 
you come and speak to me 1" exclaimed a lady 
who was sitting at the side opposite Vivian, but 
much higher in the table. 

" Ah ! adorable Lady Julia ! and so you were 
done on the gray filly." 

"Dune /" said the sporting beauty with pouting 
lips ; — " but it's a long story, and I'll tell it you 
another time." 

" Ah ! do. How's Sir Peter 1" 

" ! he's had a fit or two since you saw him 
last." 

" Poor old gentleman I let's drink his health ;" 
and the baronet's recovery was quaffed by the lady 
and Vivian with a very piquant expression of 
countenance. 

" Do you know Lady Julia Knighton ?" asked 
Vivian of his neighbour. Before he could receive 
an answer, he w as again rattling on : — " This hall 
is bearable to dine in ; but I once breakfasted here, 
and I never shall forget the ludicrous effect pro- 
duced by the sun through the oriel window. Such 
complexions ! Every one looked like a prize- 
fighter ten days after a battle. After all, painted 
glass is a bore. I wish the marquess Would have 
it knocked out, and have plated." 

" Knock out the painted glass !" said Mr. 
Boreall ; " well, I must confess / cannot agree with 
you." 

" I should have been extremely surprised if you 
could. If you don't insult that man. Miss Cour- 
town, in ten minutes I shall be no more ; I've 
already a nervous fever." 

" May I have the honour of taking a gla-ss of 
champagne with you, Mr. Grey?" said Boreall. 

"Mr. Grey, indeed!" muttered Vivian: "sir, 
I never ilrink any thing but brandy." 



" Allow me to give you some champa '.'isR," 
resumed Boreall, as he attacked the ni / Ai Miss 
Maodonald ; " champagne, you know," continued 
he, with a smile of agonizing courtesy, " is quite 
the ladies' wine." 

" Cynthia Courtown," whispered Vivian with a 
sepulchral voice, '• 'tis all over with me — I've been 
thinking what could come next. This is loo 
much — I'm already dead — have Boreall arrested ; 
the chain of circumstantial evidence is very strong." 

" Baker !" said Vivian, turning to a servant, 
" Go, and inquire if Mr. Stapylton Toad dines at 
the castle to-day." 

A flourish of trumpets announced the rise of the 
Marchioness of Carabas, and in a few minutes 
the most ornamental portion of the guests had disap- 
peared. The gentlemen made a general " move 
up," and Vivian found himself opposite his friend, 
Mr. Hargrave. 

" Ah ! Mr. Hargrave, how d'ye do ? What do 
you think of the secretary's state paper 1" 

" A magnificent composition, and quite unan- 
swerable. I was just speaking of it to my friend 
here, Mr. Metternich Scribe. Allow me to intro- 
duce you to — Mr. Metternich Scribe." 

" Mr. Metternich Scribe — Mr. Vivian Grey !" 
and here Mr. Hargrave introduced Vivian to an 
efleminate-looking, perfumed young man, with a 
handsome, unmeaning face, and very white hands*. 
In .short, as dapper a little diplomatist as ever tat- 
tled about the Congress of Verona, smirked at lady 
Almack's supper after the opera, or vowed " thU 
Richmond Terrace was a most convenient situation 
for official men." 

" We have had it with us many weeks, before 
the public received it," said the future under-secro- 
tary, with a look at once condescending and con- 
ceited. 

" Have you V said Vivian : " well, it does your 
office credit. It's a singular thing, that Canning 
and Croker are the only official men who caji 
write grammar." 

The dismayed young gentleman of the Foreign 
Office was about to mince a repartee, when Vivian 
left his seat, for he had a great deal of business to 
transact. " Mr. Leverton," said ke, accosting a 
flourishing grazier, " I have received a letter from 
my friend, M, de Noe. He is desirous of pur- 
chasing some Leicestershires for his estate in Bur- 
gundy. Pray, may I take the liberty of introducing 
his agent to you !" 

Mr. Leverton was delighted. 

" I also want to see j'ou about some other little 
busines.-:. Let me see, what was it ? Never mind, 
I'll take my wine here, if you can make room for 
me ; I shall remember it, I dare say, soon. ! 
by-the-by — ah ! that was it. Stapylton Toad — 
Mr. Stapylton Toad ; I want to know all about Mr. 
Stapylton Toad — I dare say you can tell me. A 
friend of mine intends to consult him on a little 
parliamentary business, and he wishes to know 
something about him before he calls." 

As I am a great lover of conciseness, I shall 
resumer,* for the benefit of the reader, the infor- 
mation of Mr. Leverton. 

* I have ventured on using this word, in spite of the 
plaintive rrmonslrancea contained in a pretty lillle article 
in tho last luiniber of the Quarterly Review. I deprecate 
equally with the reviewer, " the /ior/^eporf^e of languages," 
now so much in vogue; and although I am not quite pre- 
pared to say thai I consider this practice " as nauseous 
as wearing perfumes," I must exceedingly regreu that such 



VIVIAN GREY. 



31 



Stapylton Toarl had not the honour of being 
nr-quainted witli his father's name, but as the son 
founil himself, at an early age, apprenticed to a 
solicitor of eminence, he was of opinion that his 
parent must have been respectable. Respectable .' 
mysterious word ! Stapylton was a very diligent 
and faithful clerk, but was not as fortunate in his 
apprenticeship as the celebrated Whittington, for 
his master had no daughter and many sons ; in 
consequence of which Stapylton, not being able to 
become his master's partner, became his master's 
rival. 

On the door of one of the shabbiest houses in 
Jermyn-street, the name of Mr. Stapylton Toad for 
a long time figured, magnificently engraved on a 
broad brass plate. There was nothing however, 
otherwise, in the appearance of the establishment, 
which indicated that Mr. Toad's progress was very 
rapid, or his professional career extraordinarily 
prosperous. In an outward office one solitary 
clerk was seen, oftener stirring his office fire than 
wasting his master's ink ; and Mr. Toad was 
known by his brother attorneys, as a gentleman 
who was not recorded in the courts as ever having 
conducted a single cause. In a few years, how- 
ever, a story was added to the Jermyn-street abode, 
which, new pointed, and new painted, began to 
assume a most mansion-like appearance. The 
house-door was also thrown open, for the solitary 
clerk no longer found time to answer the often 
agitated bell ; and the eyes of the entering client 
were now saluted by a gorgeous green baize office 
door ; the imposing appearance of which was only 
equalled by Mr. Toad's new private portal, splendid 
with a brass knocker and patent varnish. And 
now his brother attorneys began to wonder, " How 
Toad got on ! and who Toad's clients were I" 

A few more years rolled over, and Mr. Toad 
was seen riding in the park at a most classical 
hour, attended by a groom in a most classical 
livery. And now " the profession" wondered still 
more, and significant looks were interchanged by 
" the respectable houses ;" and flourishing practi- 
tioners in the city shrugged up their shoulders, and 
talked mysteriously of " money business," and 
" some odd work in annuities." In spite, however, 
of the charitable surmises of his brother lawyers, it 
must be confessed that nothing of even an equi- 
vocal nature ever transpired against the character 
of the flourishing Mr. Toad, who, to complete the 
mortification of his less successful rivals, married, 
and at the same time moved from Jermyn-street to 
Cavendish-square. The new residence of Mr. 
Toad had previously been the mansion of a noble 
client, and one whom, as the world said, Mr. Toad 
" had got out of difliculties." This significant 
phrase will probably throw some light upon the 
nature of the mysterious business of our prosperous 
practitioner. Noble lords who have been in diffi- 
culties, will not much wonder at the prosperity of 
those who get them out. 

About this time Mr. Toad became acquainted 
with Lord Mounteney, a nobleman in great dis- 
tress, with fifty thousand per annum. His lord- 
ship " really did not know how he got involved ; 
he never gamed, he was not married, and his con- 

an authority as the Quarterly Review, and so strenuous an 
advocate fur " lieepineour pure well of English undefiled," 
as this Quarterly Reviewer, should interlard his sentences 
with llie tritest Latin quotations, with a classical enthu- 
siasm worthy of a very young schoolboy, or a very ancient 
•choolmasier. 



sequent expenses had never been unreasonable; he 
was not extraordinarily negligent — quite the reverse, 
was something of a man of business, remembered 
once looking over his accounts ; and yet in spite of 
this regular and correct career, found himself quite 
involved, and must leave England." 

The arrangement of the Mounteney property 
was the coup finale of Mr. Stapylton Toad's pro- 
fessional celebrity. His lordship was not under 
the necessity of quitting England ; and found him- 
self, in the course of five years, in the receipt of a 
clear rental of five-and-twenty thousand per annum. 
His lordship was in raptures ; and Stapylton Toad 
purchased an elegant villa in Surrey, and became 
a member of parliament. Goodburn Park, such 
was the name of Mr. Toad's country residence, in 
spite of its double lodges and patent park paling, 
was not, to Mr. Toad, a very expensive purchase ; 
for he " took it off" the hands" of a distressed client, 
who wanted an immediate supply, " merely to con- 
venience him," and, consequently, became the pur- 
chaser at about half its real value. " Attorneys," 
as Bustle the auctioneer says, " have such oppor- 
tunities !" 

Mr. Toad's career in the House was as correct 
as his conduct out of it. After ten years' regular 
attendance, the boldest conjecturer would not have 
dared to define his political principles. It was a 
rule with Stapylton Toad, never to commit him- 
self. Once, indeed, he wrote an able pamphlet on 
the Corn Laws, which excited the dire indignation 
of that egregious body, the Political Economy 
Club. But Stapylton cared little for their subtle 
confutations, and their loudly expressed contempt. 
He had obivged the country gentlemen of England, 
and ensured the return, at the next election, of 
Lord Mounteney's brother for the county. At 
this general election, also, Stapylton Toad's pur- 
pose in entering the House became rather more 
manifest ; for it was found, to the surprise of the 
whole country, that there was scarcely a place in 
England — county, city, town or borough — in which 
Mr. Stapylton Toad did not possess some influence. 
In short, it was discovered that Mr. Toad had " a 
first-rate parliamentary business;" that nothing 
could be done without his co-operation, and every 
thing with it. In spite of his prosperity, Stapylton 
had the good sense never to retire from business, 
and even to refuse a baronetcy, on condition, how- 
ever, that it should be offered to his son. 

Stapylton, like the rest of mankind, had his 
weak points. The late Marquess of Almacks was 
wont to manage him veiy happily, and Toad was 
always introducing that minister's opinion of his 
importance. " My time is quite at your service, 
general, although the poor dear marquess used to 
say, ' Mr. Stapylton "Toad, yonr time is mine ' 
He knew the business I had to get through !" Thc- 
family portraits, also, in most ostentatious frames, 
now adorned the dining-room of his London man- 
sion ; and it was amusing to hear the worthy M. 
P. dilate upon his likeness to his respected father. 

" You see, my lord," Stapylton would say. 
pointing to a dark, dingy picture of a gentleman 
in a court dress, " you see, my lord, it is not a very 
good light, and it certainly is a very dark picture 
— by Hudson; all Hudson's pictures were dark. 
But if I were six inches taller, and could hold the 
light just there, I think your lordship would be as- 
tonished at the resemblance ; but it's a dark picture, 
certainly it's dark — all Hudson's pictures were " 



32 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



CHAPTER XV. 



THE DHAWING-ROOOT. 



The cavaliers have left the ancient hall, and the 
old pictures frown only upon empty tables. The 
marquess immediately gained a seat by Mrs. Mil- 
lion, and was soon engrossed in deep converse 
with that illustrious lady. In one room, the most 
eminent and exclusive, headed by Mrs. Felix Lor- 
raine, were now winding through the soothing 
mazes of a slow waltz, and now whirling, with all 
the rapidity of eastern dervishes, to true double 
Wien time. In another saloon, the tedious tactics 
of quadrilles commanded the exertions of less 
cirilized beings ; here Liberal Snake, the celebrated 
political economist, was lecturing to a knot of ter- 
rified country gentlemen, and there a celebrated 
Italian improvisatore poured forth to an ignorant 
and admiring audience, all the dulness of his in- 
spiration. Vivian Grey was holding an earnest 
conversation in one of the recesses with Mr. Sta- 
pylton Toad. He had already charmed that worthy, 
by the deep interest which he took in every fhing 
relating to elections and the House of Commons, 
and now they were hard to work on the corn laws. 
Althoi;gh they agreed upon the main points, and 
Vivian's ideas upon this important subject had, of 
course, been adopted after studying with intcnse- 
ness Mr. Toad's " most luminous and convincing 
pamphlet," still there were a few minor points, on 
which Vivian " was obliged to confess," that he 
did not exactly see his way. Mr. Toad was as- 
tonished, but argumentative, and of course, in due 
time, had made a convert of his companion ; " a 
young man," as he afterwards remarked to Lord 
Mounteney, " in whom he knew not which most to 
adnnre, the soundness of his own views, or the 
candour with which he treated those of others." 
If you wish to win a man's heart, allow him to 
confute you. 

" I think, Mr. Grey, you must admit, that that 
definition of labour is the correct one !" said Mr. 
Toad, looking earnestly in Vivian's face, his finger 
just presuming to feel a button. 

" That exertion of mind or body, which is not 
the involuntary efl'ect of the influence of natural 
sensations," slowly repeated Vivian, as if his 
whole soul was concentrated in each monosyllable 
— " Y-e-s, Mr. Toad, I do admit it." 

" Then, my dear sir, the rest follows of course," 
triumphantly exclaimed the member. " Don't 
j'ou see it 1" 

" Although I admit the correctness of your de- 
finition, Mr. Toad, I am not free to confess, that I 
am ex-act-ly convinced of the soundness of your 
conclusion," said Vivian, in a very musing mood. 

" But, my dear sir, I am surprised that you don't 
see, that — " 

" Stop, Mr. Toad," eagerly exclaimed Vivian, 
" I see my error. I misconceived your meaning : 
you are right, sir, your definition is correct." 

" I was confident that I should convince you, 
Mr. Grey." 

" This conversation, I assure you, Mr. Toad, 
has been to me a peculiarly satisfactory one. In- 
deed, sir, I have long wished to have the honour 
of making your acquaintance. When but a boy, 
I remember at my father's table, the late Marquess 
of Almacks — " 

" Yes, Mr. Grey." 



" One of the ablest men, Mr. Toad, after all, 
that this country ever produced." 

" O, poor, dear man !" 

" I remember him observing to a friend of mine, 
who was at that time desirous of getting into the 
House, — ' Hargrave,' said his lordship, ' if you 
want any information upon points of practical 
polities' — that was his phrase ; you remember, 
Mr. Toad, that his lordship was peculiar in hij 
phrases 1" 

" O ! yes, poor dear man ; but you were observ 
ing, Mr. Grey — " 

" Ay, ay ! 'If you want any information,' said 
his lordship, ' on such points, there is 07ily one 
man in the kingdom whom you should consult, 
and he's one of the soundest heads I know, and 
that's Stapylton Toad, the member for Mounte- 
ney ;' you know you were in for Mounteney then, 
Mr. Toad." 

" I was, I was, and accepted the Chilterns tft 
make room for Augustus Clay, Ernest Clay'? 
brother ; who was so involved, that the only way 
to keep him out of the house of correction, was 
to get him into the House of Commons. But the 
marquess said so, eh !" 

" Ay, and much more, which I scarcely can 
remember ;" and then followed a long dissertation 
on the character of the noble statesman, and his 
views as to the agricultural interest ; and the im- 
portance of the agricultural interest; and then a 
delicate hint was thrown out, as to " how delight- 
ful it would be to write a phamphlet together," on 
this mighty agricultural interest, and then came an 
cluge on the character of country gentlemen, and 
English yeomen, and the importance of keeping 
up the old English spirit in the peasantry, &c., &c. ; 
and then, when Vivian had lead Mr. Toad to do- 
liver a most splendid and patriotic oration on this 
point, he "just remembered, (quite apropos to 
the sentiments which Mr. Toad had just delivered, 
and which he did not hesitate to say, 'did equal 
honour to his head and heart,') that there was a little 
point which, if it was not trespassing too much on 
Mr. Toad's attention, he would just submit to 
him;" and then he mentioned poor John Conyer's 
case, although "he felt convinced from Mr. Toad's 
well known benevolent character, that it was quite 
unnecessary for him to do so, as he felt assured 
that it would be remedied immediately if it fell 
under his cognizance, but then Mr. Toad had 
really so much business to transact, that perhaps 
these light matters might occasionally not be sub- 
mitted to him," &c., &c. 

What could Stapylton Toad do but, after a little 
amiable grumbling about " bad system and bad 
precedent," promise every thing that Vivian Grey 
required. 

" Mr. Vivian Grey," said Mrs. Felix Lorraine, 
" I cannot understand why you've been talking to 
Mr. Toad so long; will you waltz]" 

Before Vivian could answer, a tittering, so au- 
dible that, considering the rank of the parties, it 
might almost be termed a loud shout, burst forth 
from the whole room. Cynthia Courtown had 
stolen behind Lord Alhambra, as he was sitting 
on an ottoman ft la Turque, and had folded a 
cachcmere shawl round his head with a most 
oriental tie. His lordship, who, notwithstanding 
his eccentricities, was really a most amiable man, 
bore his blushing honours with a gracious dignity, 
worthy of a descendant of the Abencerragcs. The 



VIVIAN GREY, 



33 



sensation which this incident occasioned, favoured j the most leafy bowers of New College Gardens, the 
Vivian's escape from Mrs. Felix, for he had not j old gentleman looks up to heaven, as if determined 
left Mr. Stapylton Toad with any intention of | act to be taken in, and leaning back in his chair, 
waltzing. i sends forth a sceptical and smiling " No ! no ' no ! 

But he had hardly escaped from the waltzers, j that won't do." 
ere he found himself in danger of being involved i Vivian extricated himself with as much grace as 
in a much more laborious duty: for now he | possible from the toils of the economist, and indeed, 
stumbled on the political economist, and he was , like a skilful general, turned this Ihtle rencontre to 
' " ' ' '"' ■' ■ ' ■ account, in accomplishing the very end, for the 

attainment of which he had declined waltzing with 

Mrs. Felix Lorraine. 



earnestly requested by the contending theorists, to 
assume the office of moderator. Emboldened by 
his success, Liberal Snake had had the hardihood 
to attack a personage of wliose character he was 
not utterly ignorant, but on whom he was ex- 
tremely desirous of '■ making an impression." This 
important person was Sir Christopher Mowbray, 
who, upon the lecturer presuming to inform him 
" what rent was," damned himself if he didn't 
know what rent was a damned deal better than 
any damnationed French smuggler. I dan't wish 
to be coarse, but Sir Christopher is a gre;it man, 
and the sayings of great men, particularly when 
they are representative of the sentiment of a spe- 
cies, should not pass unrecorded. 

Sir Christopher Mowbray is member for the 

county of shire ; and member for the county 

he intends to be next election, although he is 'in 
his seventy-ninth year, for he can still follow a fox, 
with as pluck a heart, and with as stout a voice as 
any squire in Christendom. Sir Christopher, it 
must be confessed, is rather peculiar in his ideas. 
His grandson. Peregrine Mowbray, who is as pert 
a genius as the applause of a common-room ever 
yet spoiled, and as sublime an orator as the cheer- 
»ngs of the union even yet inspired, says, " the 
Daronet is not up to the nineteenth century ;" and 
perhaps this very significant phrase will give the 
reader a more significant idea of Sir Christopher 
Mowbray, than a character as long and as laboured 
as the most perfect of my Iiord Clarendon's. The 
truth is, the good baronet had no idea of " liberal 
principles," or any thing else of that school. His 
most peculiar characteristic, is a singular habit 
which he has got of styling political economists, 
French Smugglers. Nobody has ever yet suc- 
ceeded in extiacting a reason from him for this 
singular appellation, and even if you angle with 
the most exquisite skill for the desired definition, 
Sir Christopher immediately salutes you with a 
volley of oaths, and damns French wines, Bible 
«ocieties, and Mr. Huskisaon. Sir Christopher for 
half a century has supported in the senate, with 
equal sedulgusness and silence, the constitution 
and the corn laws ; he is perfectly aware of the 
" present perilous state of the country," and 
watches with great interest all " the plans and 
plots" of this enlightened age. The only thing 
which he does not exactly comprehend, is the 
London university. This affair really puzzles the 
worthy gentleman, who could as easily fancy a 
county member not beiiij a freeholder, as a univer- 
sity not being at Oxford or Cambridge. Indeed, 
to this hour the old gentleman believes that the 
whole business is " a damnationed hoax ;" and if 
you tell him, that, far from the plan partaking of 
the visionary nature he conceives, there are actu- 
ally four acres of verj- valuable land purchased near 
White Conduit House for the erection ; and that 
there is little apprehension, that in the course of a 
rentury, the wooden poles which are now stuck 
a'i.H)ut the ground, will be fair and flourishing, as 



" M)' lord," said Vivian, addressing the mar- 
quess, who was still by the side of Mrs. Million, 
" I am going to commit a most ungaliant act ; but 
you great men must pay a tax for your dignity. I 
am going to disturb you. You are wanted by half 
the county ! What could possibly induce you 
ever to allow a political economist to enter Chateau 
Desirl There are, at least, three baronets and 
four squires in despair, writhing under the tortures 
of Liberal Snake. They have deputed me to re- 
quest your assistance, to save them from being 
defeated in the presence of half their tenantry ; and 
I think, my lord," said Vivian, with a very serioua 
voice, " if you could possibly contrive to interfere, 
it would be desirable. That lecturing knave never 
knows when to stop, and he's actually insulting 
men before whom, after all, he ought not dare to 
open his lips. I see that your lordship is naturally 
not very much inclined to quit your present occupa- 
tion, in order to act moderator to a set of political 
brawlers ; but come, you shall not be quite sacri 
ficed to the county — I will give up the waltz in 
which I was engaged, and keep your seat until 
your return." 

The marquess, who was always "keeping up 
county influence," was ^-ery much shocked at the 
obstreperous conduct of Liberal Snake. Indeed he 
had viewed the arrival of this worthy with no smil- 
ing countenance, but what could he say, as he came 
in the suite of Lord Pert, who was writing, with 
the lecturer's assistance, a pretty little pamphlet on 
the currency ; apologizing to Mrs. Million, and pro- 
mising to return as soon as possible, and lead her 
to the music room, the marquess retired with the 
determination of annihilating one of the stoutest 
members of the Political Economy Club. 

Vivian began by apologizing to Mrs. Million for 
disturbing her progress to the hall, by his sudden 
arrival before dinner; and then for a quarter of 
an hour was poured forth the usual quantity of 
piquant ai;^jcdotes, and insidious compliniento. 
Mrs. Million found Vivian's conversation no dis- 
agreeable relief to the pompous prosiness of the late 
attache, and, although no brilliant star dangled at 
his breast, she could not refrain from feeling ex- 
tremely pleased. 

And now, having succeeded in commanding Mrs. 
Million's attention by that general art of pleasing, 
which was for all the world, and which was, of 
course, formed upon his general experience of hu- 
man nature, — Vivian began to make his advances 
to Mrs. Million's feelings, by a particular art of 
pleasing ; that is, an art which was for the particular 
person alone whom he was at any time addressmg, 
and which was founded on his particular know- 
ledge of that person's character. 

" How beautiful the old hall looked to-day '. It 
is a scene which can only be mcl with in ancient 
families," 



34 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Ah ! there is nothiitg Hke old families !" re- 
marked Mrs. Million, with all the awkward feelings 
of a iiouveau riche. ' 

"Do yon think sol" said Vivian, "I once 
hoiight so myself, but I confess that my opinion 
iS greatly changed. — After all, what is noble blood 1 
My eye is now resting on a crowd of honourables, 
nnd yet being among them, do we treat them in a 
manner differing in any way from that which we 
should employ to any individuals of a lower caste, 
who vv'erc equally uninteresting?" 

" Certainly not," said Mrs. Million. 

" The height of the ambition of the less exalted 
ranks is to be noble, because they conceive to be 
noble implies to bo superior ; associating in their 
minds, as they always do, a pre-eminence over 
their equals. But, to be noble, among nobles, 
where is the pre-eminence V 

" Where, indeed V said Mrs, Million ; and she 
thought of herself, sifting the most considerable 
)if!rsonage in this grand castle, and j'ct with suffi- 
ciently base blood flowing in her veins. 

" And thus, in the highest circles," continued 
Vivian, " a man is of course not valued because he 
is a marquess, or a duke, but because he is a groat 
warrior, or a great statesman, or very fashionable, 
or very witty. In all classes but the highest, a 
peer, however unbefriended by nature or by for- 
tune, becomes a man of a certain rate of conse- 
quence, but to be a person of consequence in the 
highest class, requires something else except high 
blood." 

" I quite agree with you in your sentiments, Mr, 
rJrey, Now what character, or what situation in 
life, would you choose, if you had the power of 
making your choice 1" 

"That is really a most ftietaphysical question. 
As is the custom of all young men, I have some- 
times, in my reveries, imagined what I conceived 
10 be a lot of pure happiness ; — and yet Mrs. Million 
will perhaps be astonished that I was— neither to 
be nobly born, nor to acquire nobility, that I was 
not to be a literary man, nor a warrior, nor indeed 
any profession, nor a merchant, nor even a pro- 
Icssional dandy." 

" ! love in a cottage, I suppose," interrupted 
Mrs. Million. 

"Neither love in a cottage, nor science in a 
cell." 

" O ! pray tell me what it is," 

" What it is 1 O ! Lord Mayor of London, I 
suppose ; that is the only situation whith answers 
to my oracular description." 

" O ! then you've been joking all this time," 

" O ! no ; not at all. Come, then, let us imagine 
this perfect lot. In the first place, I would be born 
its. the middling classes of society, or even lower, 
because I would wish my character to be impartially 
developed. I would be born to no hereditary pre- 
judices, nor hereditary passions. My course in life 
hould not be carved out by the example of a grand- 
ather, nor my ideas modelled, to a preconceived 
r-ystem of family perfection. Do you like my first 
|»rinciples, Mrs. Million '!" 

" I must hear every thing before I give an opi- 
nion." 

"When, therefore, my mind was formed, I would 
wish tc become tlie proprietor of a princely for- 
Uiiic." 

" Yes !" eagerly exclaimed Mra. Million. 

*' And now would come the moral singularity of 



my fate. If I had gained this fortune by commerce, 
or in any other similar mode, my disposition, before 
the creation of this fortune, would naturally be 
formed, and be permanently developed ; and my 
mind would he similarly affected, had I succeeded 
to some ducal father ; for I should then, in all pro- 
bability, have inherited some family line of conduct 
both moral and political ; but under the circum- 
stances I have imagined the result would lie for 
different. I should then be in the singular situation 
of possessing, at the same time, unbounded wealth 
and the whole powers and natural feelings of mj 
mind unoppressed and unshackled. ! liow 
splendid would be my career ! I would not allow 
the change in my condition to exercise any infla 
cnce on my natural disposition. I would expe- 
rience the same passions, and be subject to the same 
feelings, only they should be exercised, and influ- 
ential in 8 wider sphere. Then would be seen the 
influence of great wealth, directed by a disposition 
similar to that of the generality of men, inasmuch 
as it had been formed like that of the generality of 
men ; and, consequently, one much better acquaint- 
ed with their feelings, their habits, and their wishes. 
Such a lot would indeed be princely ! Such a lot 
woOld infallibly insure the affection and respect of 
the great majority of mankind ; and, supported by 
them, what should I care if I were misunderstood 
by a few fools, and abused by a few knaves '?" 

Here came the marquess to lead the lady to the 
concert. As she quitted her seat, a smile, beaming 
with graciousness, rewarded her j^outhful compa- 
nion. " Ah !" thought Mrs, Million ; " I go to tho 
concert, but leave sweeter music than can possibly 
meet me there. What is the magic of these words ? 
It is not flattery: such is not the language of Miss 
Gusset! It is not a rcfacimenlo of compliments : 
such is not the style with which I am saluted by 
the Duke of Doze and the Earl of Leatherdale ! 
Apparently I have heard a young philosopher de- 
livering his sentiments upon an abstract point in 
human life ; and yet have I not listened to the 
most biiliiant apology for my own character, and 
the most triumphant defence of my own conduct. 
Of course it was unintentional, and yet how agree- 
able to the unintentionally defended !" So mused 
Mrs, Millioti, and she made a thousand vows, net 
to let a day pa.ss over without obtaining a pledge 
from Vivian Grey to visit her on their return to 
the metropolis, 

Vivian remained in his seat for some time after 
the departure of his companion, " On my honour, 
I have half a mind to desert my embryo faction, 
and number myself in her gorgeous retinue. Let 
me see — what part should I acti her secretary, or 
her toadeater — or her physician, or her cook 1 or 
shall I be her page 1 Mcthinks I should make a 
pretty page, and hand a chased goblet as gracefully 
as any monkey that ever ttent his knee in a lady's 
chamber. Well ! at any rSie, there is this chance 
to be kept back, as the gambler does his last trump, 
or the cunning fencer his last ruse." 

He rose to offer his arm to some stray fair one ; 
for crowds were now hurrying to pineapple and 
lobster salads : that is to say, supper was ready in 

the hO-ffn OALLEHY. 

In a moment Vivian's arm was locked in tliat of 
Mrs, Felix Lorraine, 

" O ! Mr. Grey, I have got a much better ghost 
story than even that of the Leydcn professor, for 
you ; but I'm so wearied with waltzing, that 1 



VIVIAN GREY. 



35 



must tel! it you to-niorrow. How came you to be 
s/i late tliis morning? Have you been paying 
many calls to-day 1 I quite missed you at dinner. 
Uo you tliink Ernest Clay handsome? I daren't 
repeat what Lady Scrope said of you ! You are an 
admirer of Lady Julia Knighton, I believe 1 — I 
don't much like this plan of supping in the long 
gallery — it's a favourite locale of mine, and I have 
no idea of my private promenade being invaded 
with the uninteresting presence of trifles and Ita- 
lian creams. Have you been telling Mrs. Million 
that she was very witty 1" asked Vivian's compa- 
nion, with a very significant look. 



CHAPTER XVL 

TOADETS. 

Sweet reader ! you know what a toadcy is ? 
That agreeable animal which you meet every day 
in civilized society. But perhaps you have not 
.speculated very curiously upon this interesting race. 
Tant pis .' for you cannot live many lustres with- 
out finding it of some service to be a little acquaint- 
ed with their habits. 

The world in general is under a mistake as to 
the nature of these vermin. They are by no means 
characterized by that similarity of disposition for 
which your common observer gives them credit. 
There are toadeys of all possible natures. 

There is your commonplace toadcy, who mere- 
ly echoes its feeder's commonplace oliscrvations. 
'J'here is your playing-up toadey, who, unconscious 
to its feeder, is always playing up to its feeder's weak- 
ness — and, as the taste of that feeder varies, accord- 
ingly provides its cates and confitures. A little bit of 
scandal for a dashing widow, or a pious little hymn 
lor a sainted one ; the secret history of a newly dis- 
covered gas for a May Fair feeder, and an interest- 
ing anqfdote about a Newgate bobcap or a peni- 
tentiary apron for a charitable one. Then there is 
your drawing-out toadey, who omits no opportunity 
of giving you a chance of being victorious in an 
argument where there is no contest, and a dispute 
wliere there is no diiTerence ; and then there is 
; but I detest essay writing, so I intro- 
duce you at once to a party of these vermin. If 
you wish to enjoy a curious sight, you must watcli 
Uie toadeys wi;en they are unembarrassed by the 
almost perpetual presence of their feeders — when 
(licy are animated by " the spirit of freedom;" wlien, 
like Curran's negro, the chain bursts by the im- 
j)ulse of their swelling veins. The great sing\darity 
js the struggle between their natural and their ac- 
(;uired feelings ; the eager opportunity which they 
seize of revenging their voluntar}- bondage, by tlieir 
Kccret taunts ou their adopted taskmasters; and 
Che servility which they habitually mix up, even 
with their scandal. Like veritable grimalkins, 
they fa\' n upon their victims previous to the fes- 
tival — compliment them upon the length of tlieir 
whiskers, and the delicacy of thfeir liiubs, prior to 
excoriating them, and dwelling on the flavour of 
their craslied bones. O ! 'tis a beautiful Bcene, 
and ten thousand times more piquant than the 
humours of a servants' hall, or the most grotesque 
and glorious moments of high life below stairs. 

" Dear Miss Graves," said Miss Gusset, " you 
csiii't imagine how terrified I was at that horrible 



green parrot flying upon my head ! I declare it 
pulled out three locks of hair." 

" Horrible green parrot, my ddar madam ! why 
it was sent to my lady by Prince Xtmnprqtosklw, 
and never shall I forget tlie agitation we were in 
about that parrot. I thought it would never have 
got to the chateau, for the prince couM only send 
his carriage with it as far as Toadcaster : luckdy 
my lady's youngest brother, who was staying a 
Desir, happened to get drowned at the time — and 
so Davenport, very clever of him ! sent her on in 
my Lord Dormers hearse." 

" In the hoarse ! Good heavens, Miss Graves ! 
How could you think of green parrots at such an 
awful moment ! I should have been in fits for 
three days. Eh! Dr. Sly 1" 

" Certainly you would, madam — your nerves are 
very delicate." 

" Well ! I, for my part, could never see much 
use ill giving up to one's feelings. It's all very 
well for commoners," rather rudely exclaimed the 
marchioness toadey — " but we did not choose to 
expose ourselves to the servants. When the old 
general died this year, every thing went on as 
usual. Her ladyship attended .\lmack's ; my lord 
took his seat in the house ; arid I looked in at Lady 
Doubtful's ; where we don't visit, but where the 
marchioness wishes tc»'bo civil." 

" O ! we don't visit Lady Doubtful either," re- 
plied Miss Gusset : " she hadn't a card for our 
file chantpclre. ! I was so sorry you were not 
in town. It was so delightful I" 

" ! do tell me who was there. I quite long to 
know all about it. I saw an account of it in the 
papers. Every thing seemed to go off so vvril. 
Do tell me who was there 1" 

" ! there was plenty of royalty at the head of 
the list. Really I can't go into particulars, but 
everybody v.as there — who is anybody — eh ! Dr. 
Sly!" 

" Certainly, madam. The pines were most ad- 
mirable ; there are few people for whom I entcrtaia 
a higher esteem than Mr. Gunter." 

" The marchioness seems veiy fond of her dog 
and parrot, Miss Graves — but she's a sweet 
woman !" 

" O, a dear, amiable creature ! but I can't tliink 
how she can bear the eternal screaming of that 
noisy bird." 

" Nor I, indeed. Well, thank goodness, Mrs. 
Million has no pets — eh ! Dr. Sly !" 

'■ Certainly — I'm clearly of opinion that it can't 
be wholesome to have so many animals about a 
house. Besides which, I have noticed that the 
marchioness always selects the nicest morsels for 
that little poodle ; and I'm also clearly of opinion. 
Miss Graves, that the fit it had the other day arose 
from repletion." 

" O ! I've no doUbt of it in the world. She con- 
sumes three pounds of arrow-root Vveekly. and two 
pounds of the finest loaf sugar, which I have the 
trouble of grating every Monday morning. Mr^^. 
Million appears to be a most amiable woman, Miss 
Gusset r' 

" ! quite perfection — so charitable, so intel- 
lectual, such a soul ! it's a pity though her manmr 
is so abrupt, she really docs not appear to advan- 
tage sometimes — eh ! Dr. Sly ?" 

The toadey's toadey bowed a-ssent as usya!. 

" WcU," rejoined Miss Graves, " that's rather a 



36 



D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



fault of the dear mai-cliioness-*-a little want of con- 
sideration for another's feelings, but she means 
nothing." 

" 0, no ! nor Mrs. Million, dear creature, she 
means nothing; though, I dare say, not knowing 
her so well as we do — eh ! Dr. Sly ? you were a 
little surprised at the way in which she spoke to 
mc at dinner." 

"All people have their oddities, Miss Gusset. 
IVa sure the marchioness is not aware how she 
tries my patience about the little wretch Julie ; — I 
had to rub her with warm flannels for an hour and 
a half, before the fire this morning; — that's that 
Vivian Grey's doing." 

" Who is this Mr. Gre}^ Miss Graves 1" 

" Who, indeed ! — Some young man the mar- 
quess has picked up, and who comes lecturing 
here about poodles, and parrots, and thinking him- 
self quite lord paramount, I assure you ; I'm sur- 
prised that the marchioness, who is a most sensible 
woman, can patronize such conduct a moment ; but 
whenever she begins to see through him, the young 
gentleman has always got a story about a bracelet, 
or a bandeau, and quite turns her head." 

" Very disagreeable, I'm sure — eh ! Dr. Sly ?" 

" Some people are very easily managed. By- 
the-by. Miss Gusset, who could have advised Mrs. 
Million to wear crimson 1 _ So large as she is, it 
does not at all suit her : I Suppose it's a favourite 
colour." 

" Dear Miss Graves, you're always so insinua- 
ting. What can Miss Graves mean — eh ! Dr. 
Sly V 

A Lord Burleigh shake of the head. 

" Cynthia Courtown seems as lively as ever," 
6aid Miss Gusset. 

" Yes, lively enough, but I wish her manner was 
less brusque." 

" Brusque, indeed ! you may well say so ; she 
nearly pushed me down in the hall; and when I 
looked as if I thought she might have given me a 
little more room, she tossed her head and said, 
' Beg pardon, never saw you.' " 

*• I wonder what Lord Alhambra sees in that 
girl." 

" ! those forward misses always take the men 
_— eh! Dr. Sly 1" 

" Well," said Miss Graves, " I've no notion that 
it will come to any thing. — I am sure, I, for one, 
hope .not," added she with a toadey's venom. 

"The marquess seems to keep a remarkably 
good table," said the physician. " There was a 
haunch to-day, which I really think was the finest 
hwmch I ever met with ; but that little move at 
dinner — it was, to say the least, verj' ill-timed." 

" Yes, that was Vivian Grey again," said Miss 
Graves, very indignantly. 

" So, you've got the Beaconsfields here, Miss 
Graves : — nice, unaffected, quiet people 1" 

" Yes ! veiy quiet. As you say, Miss Gusset, 
very quiet, but a little heavy." 

" Yes, heavy enough." 

" If you had but seen the quantity of pineapples 
that boy Dormer Stanhope devoured at our fete 
champetre ! — but I've the comfort of knowing that 
they made him very ill — eh ! Dr. Sly V 

" ! he . learnt that from his uncle," said Miss 
Graves — "It's quite disgusting to see how that 
Vivian Grey encourages him." 

" ^Vhat an elegant, accomplished woman Mrs. 



Felix Lorraine seems to be. Miss Graves ! — I sup- 
pose the marchioness is very fond of her?" 

" O, yes — the marchioness is so good-natured, 
that I dare say she thinks very well of Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine. She thinks well of every one — but I be- 
lieve Mrs. Felix is rather a greater favourite with 
the marguese.' 

" O h !" drawled out Miss Gusset with a 

very significant tone, " I suppose she's one of 
your playing-up ladies. I think you told me she 
was only on a visit here." 

" A pretty long visit though for a sister-in-law, 
— if sister-in-law she be. As I was saying to the 
marchioness the other day, when Mrs. Felix offend- 
ed her so violently by trampling on the dear little 
Julie — if it came into a court of justice, I should 
like to see the proof — that's all. At any rate, it's 
pretty evident that Mr. Lorraine has had enough 
of his bargain." 

" Quite evident, I think— eh ! Dr. Sly ? — Those 
German women never make good English wives," 
continued Miss Gusset with all a toadey's pa- 
triotism, 

" Talking of wives, didn't you think Lady 
Julia spoke very strangely of Sir Peter after din- 
ner to-day 1 I hate that Lady Julia, if it's only 
for petting Vivian Grey so. She positively called 
him little love — very flighty, and sickening." 

" Yes, indeed — it is quite enough to make one 
sick— eh ! Dr. Sly ?" 

The doctor shook his head mournfully, remem- 
bering the haunch. 

" They say Ernest Clay's in sad difficulties. 
Miss Gusset." 

" Well, I always expected his dash would end 
in that. Those wild harum-scarum men are mon- 
strous disagreeable — I like a person of some reflec- 
tion—eh ! Dr. Sly V 

Before the doctor could bow his usual assent, 
there entered a pretty little page, very daintily 
attired in a fancy dress of green and silver. Twirl- 
ing his richly-chased dirk with one tiny white 
hand, and at the same time playing with a pet curl 
which was most picturesquely flowing over his 
forehead, he advanced with ambling gait to Miss 
Gusset, and, in a mincing voice, and courtly 
phrase, summoned her to the imperial presence. 

The lady's features immediately assumed the 
expression which befitted the approaching inter- 
view, and in a moment Miss Graves and the phy- 
sician were left alone, 

" Very amiable young woman Miss Gusset ap- 
pears to be, Dr, Sly." 

" O ! the most amiable young lady in the world 
— I owe her the greatest obligations." 

'' So gentle in her manners," 

" O yes, so gentle," 

" So considerate for everybody." 

" O, yes ! so considerate," echoed the Aberdeen 
M, D, 

" I am afraid though she must sometimes meet 
with people who don't exactly understand her cha- 
racter ; such extraordinary consideration for others 
is sometimes liable to misconstruction." 

" Very sensibly remarked, Miss Graves ; I am 
sure Miss Gusset means well ; and that kind of 
thing is all very admirable in its way — but — 
but—" 

" But what. Dr. Sly 1" 

" Why, I was merely going to hazard an observa ■ 



VIVIAN GREY. 



37 



tion, that according to my feelings — that is, to my 
own peculiar view of the case — I "should prefer 
some people thinking more about their own busi- 
ness, and, and — but I mean nothing." 

" O, no, of course not, Dr. Sly ; you know we 
always except our own immediate friends — at least, 
when we can Ije sure they are our friends ; but as 
you were saying, or going to say, those persons 
who are so very anxious about other people's 
affairs, are not always the most agreeable persons 
in the world to live with. It certainly did strike 
me that that interference of Miss Gusset's about 
Julie to-day, was, to say the least, very odd." 

" O, ray dear madam ! when you know her as 
well as I do, you'll see she's always ready to put 
^in a word." 

" Well ! do you know, Dr. Sly, between our- 
selves, that was exactly my impression, and she is 
then very, very — I don't exactly mean to say 
meddling, or inquisitive ; but — but you understand 
me, Dr. Sly ]" 

" Perfectly ; and if I were to speak my mind, 
which I don't hesitate to do in confidence to you, 
Miss Graves, I really should say, that she is the 
most jealous, irritable, malicious, meddling, and at 
the same time, fawning disposition, that I ever 
met with in the whole course of my life — and I 
speak from experience." 

" Well, do you know, Dr. Sly, from all I've 
seen, that was exactly my impression ; therefore I 
have been particularly careful not to commit my- 
self to such a person." 

" Ah ! Miss Graves ! if all ladies were like 
yju !— h !" 

" My dear Dr. Sly !" 



CHAPTER XVII. 



THE CABINET BUfNER. 



ViTiAN had duly acquainted the marquess with 
ihe successful progress of his negotiations with 
ilieir intended partisans, and his lordship himself 
had conversed with them singly on the important 
subject. It was thought proper, however, in this 
stage of the proceedings, that the parties interested 
should rnect together, and so the two lords, and 
Sir BerJmore, and Vivian, were invited to dine 
with the maiquess alone, and in his library. 

There was abundance of dumb-waiters, and 
other inventioiis, by which the ease of the guests 
might be consuhed, without risking even their 
secret looks to the gaze of liveried menials. The 
marquess's gentleman sat in an antechamber, in 
case human aid might be necessary, and every 
thing, as bis lordship averred, was " on the same 
system as the cabinet dinners." 

In the ancient kingdom of England, it hath 
ever been the custom to dine previously to trans- 
acting business. This habit is one of those few 
which are not contingent upon the mutable fancies 
of fashion, and at this day we see cabinet dinners, 
and vestry dinners, alike proving the correctness 
of my assertion. Whether the custom really ex- 
pedites the completion, or the geneidl progress of 
the business which gives rise to it, is a grave ques- 
tion, which I do not feel qualified to decide. Certain 
it is, that very often, after the dinner, an appoint- 
ment is made for the transaction of the business 



on the following morning : at the same tinio it 
must be remembered that had it not beeii lor the 
opportunity which the banquet afforded of deve- 
loping the convivial qualities of the guests, and 
drawing out, by the assistance of generous wine, 
their most kindly sentiments, and most engaging 
feelings, it is very probable that the appointment 
for the transaction of the business would never 
have been made at all. 

There certainly was every appearance that " the 
great business," as tVe marquess styled it, would 
not be very much advanced by the cabinet dinner 
at Chateau Desir. For, in the first place, the table 
was laden " with every delicacy of the season," 
and really, when a man is either going *r talk 
sense, fight a duel, or make his wii., loiuuig should 
be seen at dinner save rump steaks &u^ tb*) iinht- 
est Bourdeaux. And, in the second place, \* must 
be candidly confessed, that when it came to the pi^rit 
of all the parties interested meeting, the marque.ss"s 
courage somewhat misgave him. Not that any 
particular reason occurred to him, which would 
have induced him to yield one jot of the theory 
of his sentiments, but the putting them in practice 
rather made him nervous. In short, he was as 
convinced as ever that he was an ill-used man of 
first-rate talent, but then he remembered his agree- 
able sinecure and his dignified office, aiid he might 
not succeed. — " The thought did not please." 

But here they were all assembled; receding was 
impossible ; and so the marquess dashed off a 
tumbler of Burgundy, and felt more courageous. 
His lordship's conduct did not escape the hawk 
eye of one of his guests, and Vivian Grey was 
rather annoyed at seeing the marquess's glass so 
frequently refilled. In fact, the marquess was 
drinking deep, and deep drinking was neither my 
Lord Carabas's weak nor strong point, for he was 
neither habitually a toper, nor oMe who bore wine's 
sweet influence like a docile subject. 

The venison was so prime, that not one word 
relative to the subject of their meeting was broach- 
ed during the whole dinner ; and Lord Beaconsfield, 
more than once, thought to himself, that had ho 
ever been aware that business was so agreeable, he 
too would have been a statesman. But the haunch 
at last vanished, and the speech from tlie throne 
commenced. 

" My lords and gentlemen," began the marquess, 
" although I have myself taRen J." onnortunliy !_- 
communicating to you singly my thoughts u^". -^ 
certain subject, and althougli, if I am rightly in- 
formed, my excellent young friend has communi- 
cated to you more fully upon that subject, yet, my 
lords and gentlemen, I beg to remark that this is 
the first time that we have collectively assembled 
to consult on the possibility of certain views, upon 
the propriety of their nature, and the expediency 
of their adoption." Here the bottle passed, and 
the marquess took a bumper. " My lords and 
gentlemen, when I take into consideration the na- 
ture of the various interests of which the body 
politic of this great empire is regulated ; (Lord 
Courtown, the bottle stops with you,) when I 
observe, I repeat, this, I naturally ask myself what 
right, what claims, what — what — what — I repeat, 
what right these governing interests have to the 
influence which they possess ] (Vivian, my boy, 
you'll find Champagne on the waiter behind you.) 
Yes, gentlemen, it is in this temper, (the cork 
screw's by Sir Bercmore,) it is, I repeat, in tliid 
D 



39 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVLx^SJ. 



♦err.per, and actnated by these views that we meet 
together this (]ny. Gentlemen, to make the matter 
short, it is clear to mc that \(fe have all been under 
a mistake ; that my Lord Courtown, and my Lord 
Beaeonsfield, and Sir Bcrdmore Scrope, and my 
humble self, are not doing our duty to our country, 
in not taking the management of its affairs into 
our own hands ! Mr. Vivian Grey, a gentleman 
with whom you are all acquainted, — Mr. Vivian 
Grey is younger than myself, or you, my Lord 
Courtown, or you, my Lord Beaconsfield, or even 
you, I l>elieve. Sir Berdmore. ■ Mr. Vivian Grey 
has consequently better lungs than any of us, and 
he will, I make no doubt, do what I would, if I 
were o. his age, explain the whole business to us 
all ; and now, my lords and gentlemen, let us have 
a glass of Champagne." 

A great deal of " desultory conversation," as the 
reporters, style it, relative to the great topic of de- 
hate, now occurred ; and as the .subject was some- 
what dry, the Carabas Champagne suffered con- 
siderably. When the brains of the party were 
tolerably elevated, Vivian addressed them. The 
tenor of his oration may be imagined. He deve- 
loped the new political principles, demonstrated the 
mistake \mder the baneful influence of wliich they 
had so long suffered, promised them place, and 
power, and patronage, and personal consideration, 
if they would only act on the principles which he 
recommended in the most flowing language, and 
the most melodious voice, in which the glories of 
ambition were ever yet chaunted. There v\'as a 
buzz of admiration when the flattering music 
erased ; the marquess smiled triumphantly, as if 
to say, " Didn't I tell you he was a monstrous 
clever fellow?" and the whole business seemed 
settled. Lord Courtown gave in a bumper, " Mr. 
II vian Grey, sncceiis to his muiihn speech;" 
and Vivian dashed off a tumbler of Champagne 
to " the New Union,'' and certainly the whole 
party were in extreme good spirits. At last, Sir 
Berdmore, the coolest of them all, raised his voice : 
'■ He quite agreed with Mr. Grey in the principles 
which he had developed ; and, for his own part, he 
was free to confess that he had the most perfect 
confidence in that gentlem^an's very brilliant abili- 
ties, and augured from their exertion the most 
complete and triumphant success. At the same 
time, he felt it his duty to remark to their lord- 
ships, and also to that gentleman, that the House 
of Commons was a new scene to him ; and he 
put it whether thej' were quite convinced that they 
were sufficiently strong as regarded talent in that 
assembly. He could not take it upon himself to 
offer to become the leader of the party. Mr. Grey 
7night be capable of undertaking that charge, but 
still, it must be remembered, that in that assembly 
he was as yet untried. He made no apology to 
Mr. Grey for speaking his mind so freely ; he was 
sure that his motives could not be misinterpreted. 
If their lordships, on the wliole, were of opinion 
that this charge should be intrusted to him, he. Sir 
Berdmore, having the greatest, confidence in Mr. 
Grey's abilities, would certainly support him to the 
utmost." 

"He can do any thing," shouted the marquess ; 
who was now quite tips}^. 

" He's a surprising clever man !" said Lord 
Courtown, 

" He's a surprising clover man !" echoed Lord 
fjcaconsfield. 



"Stop, my lords," burst forth Vivian, "your 
good opinion deserves my gratitude, but these im 
portant matters do indeed require a moment's con- 
sideration. I trust that Sir Bcrdmore Scrope does 
not imagine that I am the vain idiot to be offended 
at his most excellent remarks, even for a moment. 
Are we not met here for the common good — and 
to consult for the success of the common cause ! 
W^hatever my talents are, they are at your service 
— and in your service will I venture any thing ; 
hut, surely, my lords, you will not unnecessarily in- 
trust this great business to a raw hand ! I nee4l 
only aver that I am ready to fi)llow any leader, "Aho 
can play his great part in a becoming manner." 

" Noble !" hallooed the marquess ; who was now 
quite drunk. 

But who was the leader to be 7 Sir Berdmore 
frankly confessed that he had none to propose; and 
the viscount and the baron v^ere quite silent. 

" Gentlemen I" bawled the marquess, and his 
eye danced in his beaming face, "Gentlemen! there 
is a man who could do our bidding." The eyes 
of every guest were fixed on the haranguing hgst 

" Gentlemen, fdl your glasses — I give you our 
leader — Mr. Frederick Cleveland^" 

" Clevtiand !" was the universal shout. A glass 
of claret fell from JjOrd Courtown's hand ; Lord 
Beaconsfield stopped as he was about to fill liis 
glass, and stood gaping at the marquess, with the 
decanter in his hand ; and Sir Berdmore stared on 
the table, as men do when something unexpected 
and astounding has occuired at dinner, which 
seems past all their management. 

" Cleveland !" shouted the guests. 

" I should as soon have expected you to have 
given us Lucifer!" said Lord Courtown. 

" Or the present secretary !" said Lord Beacons- 
field. 

" Or yourself," said Sir Berdmore Scrope. 

" And does any one mean to insinuate that 
Frederick Cleveland is not capable of driving out 
every minister that has ever existed since the days 
of the deluge V demanded the marquess, with a 
fierce air. 

" VV^e do not deny Mr. Cleveland's powers, my 
lord ; we only humbly beg to suggest that it ap- 
pears to us, that, of all the persons in the world, 
the man with whom Mr. Cleveland would be least 
inclined to coalesce, would be the Marquess of 
Caralx^s." ' 

In spite of the Champagne, the marquess looked 
blank. 

" Gentlemen," said Vivian, " do not despair ; it's 
enough for me to know that there is a man who is 
capable of doing our work. Be he animate man, 
or incarnate fiend, provided he can be found within 
this realm, I pledge myself that within ten days 
he is drinking my noble friend's health at this very 
board." 

The marquess hallooed "Bravo!" — the rest 
laughed, and rose in confusion ; Lord Beaconsfield 
tell over a chair, and extricating himself with ad- 
mirable agility, got entangled with a dumb-waiter, 
which came tumbling down with a fearful crash 
of plates, bottles, knives, and decanters. 'J'he 
pledge was, however, accepted, and the marquess 
and Vivian were left alone. The worthy peer, 
though terrifically tipsy, seemed quite overcome by 
Vivian's oiler and engagement. 

" Vivian, my boy, you don't know what you've 
, done — you don't indeed — take care of yourself, 



VIVIAN GREY. 



my boy, — you're going to call on the devil, you are 
indeed — you're goins; to leave your card at the 
devil's. Didn't you hear what Lord Beaconsfjeld, 
a very worthy gentleman, but, between ourselves, a 
damned fool, that's enire nous though, entre nuus 
— I say didn't you hear Lord Beaconsfield, no, was 
it Lord Beaconsfiekn No, no, your memory, 
Vivian, 's very bad ; it was Lord Courtown : didn't 
}ou hear him say that Frederick Cleveland was 
Lucifer. — He is Lucifer;, he is, upon my honour — 
how shocking ! What times we live in ! To 
think of you, Vivian Grey ; you, a respectable 
young man, with a worthy and respectable father; 
to think of you leaving your card at — the devil's ! 
O! shocking! shocking! But never mind, ray 
dear fellow, never mind, don't lose heart — I'll tell 
you'what to do — talk to him, and, by Jove, if he 
doesn't make me an apology, I am not a cabinet 
minister. Good night, my dear fellow ; he's sure 
Id make an apology ; don't be frightened ; remember 
what I say, tulle to him ; — talk — tulkP So saying, 
the worthy marquess reeled and^ retired. 

" What have I done 1" thought Vivian ; ." I'm 
sxirc that Lucifer viay know, for I do not. This 
Cleveland is, I suppose, after all but a man. I saw 
the feeble fools were wavering ; and to save all 
made a leap in the dark. Well ! is my skull 
cracked 1 Nous verrons. How hot either this room 
or my blood is ! Come, for some fresh air ; (he 
opens the library window) how fresh and soft it 
Ls ! Just the night for the balcony. Ha! music! 
I cannot mistake that voice. Singular woman ! 
I'll just walk on, till I'm beneath her window." 

Vivian accordingly proceeded along the balcony, 
which extended down one whole side of the 
chateau. While he was looking at the moon he 
stumbled against some one. It was Colonel Del- 
mington. He apologized to the militaire for tread- 
ing on his toes, and wondered how the devil he 
got there ! 



BOOK THE THIRD. 



CHAPTER L 



A COLLEAGUl 



FnEnERicK Cleveland was educated at Eton 
and at Cambridge ; and after having proved, both 
at the school and the University, that he possessed 
talents of the first order, he had the courage, in 
order to perfect them, to immure himself for three 
years in a German University. It was impossible, 
therefore, for two minds to have been cultivated on 
more contrary systems, than those of Frederick 
Cleveland and Vivian Grey. The systems on 
v/hich they had been educated were not, however, 
more discordant than the respective tempers of the 
pupils. With that cf Vivian Grey the reader is 
now somewhat acquainted. It Jias been shown 
tliat he was one precociously*i6onvinced of the 
necessity of managing mankind by studying their 
tempers and humouring their weaknesses. Cleve- 
land turned from the book of nature with con- 
tempt; and although his was a mind of extraordinary 
acuteness, he was, at three-and-thirty, as ignorant 
of the workings of the human heart, as when, in 
ihe innocence of boyhood, he first reached Eton. 



The inaptitude of his nature to consult the feelings, 
or adopt the sentiments of others, was visible in his 
slightest actions. He was the only man who ever 
passed three years in Germany, and in a German 
University, who had never yielded to the magic in- 
fluence of a Meerschaum ; and the same inflex- 
ibility of character which prevented him from 
smoking in Germany, attracted in Italy the loud 
contempt of those accomplished creatures — the 
Anglo-Italians. The Dutchess of Derwentwater, 
who saluted with equal naivete a cardinal, or a 
captain of banditti, was once almost determined to 
exclude Mr. Cleveland from her conversazione, 
because he looked so much like an Englishman ; 
and at Florence he was still more unpopular ; for 
he abused Velluti, and pasquinaded his patroness. 
Although possessed of no fortune, from the re- 
spectability of his connexions and the reputation 
of his abilities, he entered parliament at an early 
age. His success was eminent. It was at this 
period that he formed a great friendship with the 
present Marquess of Carabas, many years his 
senior, and then under-sccretary of state. His 
exertions for the party to which Mr. Under-Secre- 
tary Lorraine belonged were unremitting ; and it 
was mainly through their influence that a great 
promotion took place in the official appointments 
of the parly. When the hour of reward came, Mr. 
Lorraine and his friends unfortunately forgot their 
youthful champion. He remonstrated, and they 
smiled : he reminded them of private friendship, 
and they answered him with political expediency. 
Mr. Cleveland went down to the House, and at- 
tacked his old comates in a spirit of unexampled 
bitterness. He examined in review the various . 
members of the party that had deserted him. They 
trembled on their seats, while they writhed beneath 
the keenness of his satire : but when the orator 
came to Mr. President Lorraine, he flourished the 
tomahawk on high, like a wild Indian chieftain ; 
and the attack was so awfully severe, so overpow- 
ering, so annihilating, that even this hackneyed and 
hardened official trembled, turned pale, and quitted 
the House. Cleveland's triumph was splendid, 
but it was only for a night. Disgusted with man- 
kind, he scouted the thousand oflers of political 
connexions which crowded upon him ; and having 
succeeded in making an arrangement with his cre- 
ditors, he accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. 

By the interest of his friends, he procured a 
judicial situation of sufficient emolument, but of 
local duty ; and to fulfil this duty he was obliged 
to reside in North Wales. The locality, indeed, 
suited him well, for he was sick of the world at 
nine-and-twenty; and, carrying his beautiful and 
newly-married wife from the world, which without 
him she could not love, Mr. Cleveland enjoyed all 
the luxuries of a cottage ornee in the most roman- 
tic part of the principality. Here were born unto 
him a son and daughter, beautiful children, upon 
whom the father lavished all the allcctiou which 
nature had intended for the world. 

Four years had Cleveland now passed in his soli- 
tude, — it must not be concealed, an unhappy man. 
A thousand times, during the first year of his retire- 
ment, he cursed the moment of excitation which had 
banished him from the world ; for he found himself 
without resources, and restless as a curbed courser. 
Like many men who are bound to be orators — like 
Curran, and like Fox, — Cleveland was not blessed 
or cursed, with the faculty of composition ; and 



40 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



indeed, had his pen been that of a ready writer, 
pique would have prevented him from delighting 
or instructing a world, whose nature he endeavour- 
ed to persuade himself was base, and whose ap- 
plause ought consequently to be valueless. In the 
second year he endeavoured to while away his time 
liy interesting himself in those pursuits which Na- 
ture has kindly provided for country gentlemen. 
Farming kept him alive six months ; but, at length, 
his was the prize ox ; and, having gained a cup, 
he got wearied of kine too prime for eating ; wheat 
too fine for the composition of the stalfof life ; and 
ploughs so ingeniously contrived, that the very in- 
genuity prevented them from being useful. Cleve- 
land was now seen wandering over the moors and 
jnountains, with a gun over his shoulder, and a 
couple of pointers at his heels ; but ennui returned 
in spite of hi^ patent percussion ; and so, at length, 
tired of being a sportsman, he almost became, what 
he had fancied himself in an hour of passion, — a 
misanthrope. 

With the aid of soda-water and Mr. Sadler, Vi- 
vian had succeeded, the morning after the cabinet- 
dinner, in getting the marquess up at a tolerably 
early hour ; and, after having been closeted with 
iiis lordship for a considerable time, he left Chateau 
Desir. 

Vivian travelled night and day, until he stopped 
at Kenuich Lodge — such was the correct style 
of Mr. Cleveland's abode. What was he to do 
now 1 After some deliberation, he despatched a 
note to Mr. Cleveland, informing him, " that he 
(Mr. Grey) was the bearer, from England, to Mr. 
Cleveland, of a ' communication of importance.' 
Under the circumstances of the case, he observed 
that he had declined bringing any letters of intro- 
duction. He was quite aware, therefore, that he 
should have no right to complain if he had to 
travel back three hundred miles without having the 
honour of an interview ; but he trusted that this 
necessary breach of etiquette would be overlooked." 

The note produced the desired cflect ; and an 
appointment was made for Mr. Grey to call at Ken- 
rich Lodge on the following morning. 

Vivian, as he entered the room, took a rapid 
glance at the master of Kenrich Lodge. Mr. Cleve- 
land was a tall and elegantly formed man, with a 
face which might have been a model for manly 
beauty. He came forward to receive Vivian, with 
a Nevvfou[idI?nd dog on one si''", and a large black 
greyhound on the otner; and the two animals, after 
having elaborately examined the stranger, divided 
between them the luxuries of the rug. 'J'he recep- 
tion which Mr. Cleveland gave our hero was cold 
and constrained in the extreme, but it did not ap- 
pear to be purposely uncivil ; and Vivian flattered 
himself that his manner was not unusually stifl'. 

" I don't know whether I have the honour of 

addressing the son of the author of 1" said 

Mr. Cleveland with a frowning countenance, which 
was intended to be courteous. 
' "I have the honour of being the son of Mr. 
Grey." 

" Your fother, sir, is a most amiable, and able 
man. I had the pleasure of his acquaintance when 
I was in London many years ago, at a time when 
Mr. Vivian Grey was not intrusted, I rather ima- 
gine, with missions ' of imporiancc.^ " — Although 
Mr. Cleveland smile'd when he said this, his smile 
was any thing but a gracious one. The subdued 
uatire of his keen eye burst out for an instant, and 



he looked as if he would have said, " Who is thia 
younker who is trespassing upon my retirement V 

Vivian had, unbidden, seated himself by the sid« 
of TvTr. Cleveland's library-table ; and, not knowing 
exactly how to proceed, was employing himself by 
making a calculation whether there were more 
black than white spots on the body of the old New- 
foundland, who was now apparently most happily 
slumbering. 

" Well, sir !" continued the Newfoundland' 
master, " the nature' of your communication ? I 
am fond of coming to the point." 

Now this was precisely the thing which Vivian 
had determined not to do ; and so he diplnmatised, 
in order to gain time. — " In stating, Mr. Cleveland, 
that the communication which I had to make was 
one of impvrtaiice, I beg it to be understood, that 
it was with reference merely to niy opinion of its 
nature that the phrase was used, and not as relative 
to the possible, or, allow me to say, the probable 
opinion of Mr. Cleveland." 

" Well, sir !" s^id that gentleman, with a some- 
what disappointed air. 

" As to the purport or nature of the communica- 
tion, it is," said Vivian, with one of his sweetest 
cadences, and looking up to Mr. Cleveland's face, 
with an eye expressive of all kindness, — "it is of a 
political nature." 

" Well, sir !" again exclaimed Cleveland ; look- 
ing very anxious, and moving restlessly on his 
library chair. 

" When we take into consideration, Mr. Cleve- 
land, the present aspect of the political world ; 
when we call to mind the present situation of the 
two great political parties, you will not be surprised, 
I feel confident, when I mention that certain per- 
sonages have thought that the season was at hand, 
when a move might be made in the political world 
with very considerable efi(?ct — " 

" Mr. Grey, what ami to understand?" inter- 
rupted Mr. Cleveland, who began to suspect that 
the envoy was no greenhorn. 

" I feel confident, Mr. Cleveland, that I am doing 
very imperfect justice to the mission with which I 
am intrusted ; but, sir, you must be aware that the 
delicate nature of such disclosures and " 

" Mr. Grey, I feel confident that you do not 
doubt my honour ; and, as for the rest, the world 
has, I believe, some foolish tales about me ; but, 
believe me, you shall be listened to with patience. 
I am certain that, v\ hatever may be the communi- 
cation, Mr. Vivian Grey is a gentleman who will 
do its merits justice." 

And now Vivian, having succeeded in excitmc 
Cleveland's curiosity, and securing hinjself the ceiv 
tainty of a hearing, and having also made a favoui^ 
able impression, dropped the diplomatist altogether, 
and was explicit enough for a Spartan. 

" Certain noblemen and gentlemen of eminence 
and influence, hitherto considered as props of the 

party, are about to take a novel and decided 

course next session. It is to obtain the aid and 
personal co-operaUon of Mr. Cleveland, that !• am 
now in Wales."^^ 

" Mr. Grey, I have promised to listen to yon 
with patience: — you are too young a man to knov» 
much perhaps of the history of so insignificant a 
personage as myself; otherwise, you would have 
been aware, that there is no subject in the world 
on which I am less inclined to converse than that 
of politics. If I were entitled to take such a liberty. 



VIVIAN GREY. 



41 



I would beseech you to think of them as little as I 
do ; — but enough of this : who is the mover of the 
party 1" 

" My Lord Courtown is a distinguished member 
of it." 

" Courtown — Courtown ; respectable certainly ; 
but surely the good viscount's skull is not exactly 
the head for the chief of a cabal 1" 

" There is my Lord Beaconsfield." 

" Powerful — hut a dolt." 

" Well," thoun;ht Vivian, " it must out at last ,- 
and so to it boldly. And, Mr. Cleveland, there is 
little fear that we may secure the powerful interest 
and tried talents of — the Marquess of Carabas." 

" The Marquess of Carabas !" almost shrieked 
Mr. Cleveland, as he started from his seat and paced 
the room with hurried steps ; and the greyhound 
and the Newfoundland jumped up from their rug, 
shook themselves, growled, and then imitated their 
master in promenading the apartment, but with 
more dignified and stately paces. " The Marquess 
of Carabas ! Nov^% Mr. Grey, speak to me with 
the frankness which one high-bred gentleman should 
use to another. — is the Marquess of Carabas privy 
to this application ?" 

" He himself proposed it." 

" Then, sir, is he baser than even I conceived. 

! Mr. Grey, I am a man spare of my speech to 
those with whom I am ifnacquainted ; and the 
world calls me a soured, malicious man. And yet, 
when I think for a moment, that one so young as 
you are, with such talents, and; as I will believe, 
with so pure a spirit, should be the dupe, or tool, 
or even present friend, of such a creature as this 
perjured peer, I could really play the Vv^oman — and 
weep." 

" Mr. Cleveland," said Vivian — and the drop 
which glistened in his eye responded to the tear 
of passion which slowly quivered down his compa- 
nion's cheek, — " I am grateful for your kindness ; 
and although we shall most probably part, in a few 
hours, never to meet again, I will speak to you 
with the frankness which you have merited, and 
to which I feel you are entitled. I am not, the 
dupe of the Marquess of Carabas ; I am not, I 
trust, the dune, or tool, of any one whatever. Be- 
lieve me, sir, there is that at work in England, 
which, taken at ihe tide, may lead on to fortune. 

1 see this, sir, — I, a young man, uncommitted in 
political principles, unconneclcd in public life, feel- 
ing some confidence, I confess, in my own abilities, 
but desirous of availing myself, at the same time, 
of the powers of others. Thus situated, I find my- 
self working for the same end as my Lord Carabas, 
and twenty other men of similar calibre, mental 
and moral ; and, sir, am I to play the hermit in the 
drama of life, because, perchance, my fellow-actors 
may be sometimes fools, and occasionally knaves 1 
O ! Mr. Cleveland, if the Marquess of Carabas has 
done you the ill service which fame says he has, 
your sweetest revenge will be to m.ake him your 
tool : your most perfect triumph, to rise to power 
by his influence. 

" I confess that I am desirous^ finding in you 
the companion of my career. Your splendid 
talents have long commanded my admiration, and, 
as you have given me credit for something like 
good feeling, I will say that my wish to find in you 
a colleague is greatly increased, when I see that 
those sfilendid talents are even the least estimable 
points in Mr. Cleveland's character. But sir, per- 
6 



haps all this time I am in error, — perhaps Mr. 
Cleveland is, as the world reports him, no lono-ei 
the ambitious being that once commanded the ad 
miration of a listening senate, — perhaps, convinced 
of the vanity of human wishes, Mr. Cleveland 
would rather devote his attention to the furtherance 
of the interests of his immediate circle ; — and, 
having schooled his intellect in the universities of 
two nations, is probably content to pass the hours 
of his life in mediating in the quarrels of a country 
village." 

Vivian ceased. Cleveland heard him, with his 
head- resting on both his arms. He started at the 
last expression, and something like a blush suffused 
his check, but he did not reply. At last he jumped 
up, and rang the bell. " Come, come, Mr. Grey," 
said he, "enough of politics for this morning 
You shall not, at any rate, visit Wales for nothing 
Morris ! send down to the village for all the sacs 
and portmanteaus belonging to this gentleman. 
Even we cottagers have a bed for a friend, Mr. 
Grey ; — come, and I'll introduce you to my wife." 



CHAPTER n. 



A COLLEAGUE. 



A?fD Vivian was now an inmate of Kcnrich 
Lodge. It would have been dilHcult to have con- 
ceived a life of more pure happiness, than that 
which was apparently enjoyed by its gifted master. 
A beautiful wife, and lovely children, and romantic 
situation, and an income sufficient, not only for 
their own, but for the wants of all their necessitotis 
neighbours; — what more could man wish! An- 
swer me, thou inexplicable myriad of sensations, 
which the world calls human nature ! 

Three days passed over in tbe most delightful 
converse. It was so long since Cleveland had seen 
any one fresh from the former scenes of his life, 
that the company of any one would have been de- 
lightful ; T5ut here was a companion, who knew 
every one, every thing, full of wit, and anecdote, 
and literature, and fashion, and then so engaging 
in his manners, and with such a winning voice. 

The heart of Cleveland releated; his stern man- 
ner gave way ; all his former w:u-ia and generous 
feeling gained the ascendant : ti? 'vas in turn, 
amusing, communicative, and engagi>>„ finding 
that he could please another, he began to !;i uleased 
himself. The nature of the business on w!:'ch 
Vivian was his guest, rendered confidence neces- 
sary ; confidence begets kindness. In a kvf days, 
Vivian necessarily became more acquainted with 
Mr. Cleveland's disposition and situation, than if 
they had been acquainted for as many years ; in 
short, 

They talked with open heart ana tongue. 
Affectionate ami true, — 
A pair of friends. 

Vivian, for some time, dwelt upon every thin<' 
but the immediate subject of his mission ; but 
when, after the experience of a few days, their 
hearts were open to each other, and they had mutu- 
ally begun to discover that there was a most as- 
tonishing similiarity in their principles, their tastes, 
their feelings, then the magician poured forth his 
incantation, and raised the once-laid ghost of (Cleve- 
land's ambition. The recluse agreed to talie the 
£ % 



42 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



lead cf the. Carabas party. He was to leave 
V/alcs immediatehr and resign his place ; in return 
fur which, the nephew of I^orcl Courtown was im- 
mediately to ^ive up, in his favour, an ofHce of con- 
siderable emolument, and having thus provided 
some certainty for his family, Frederick Cleveland 
prepared himself to combat for a more important 

ofi'iCC. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE AUniVAL. 

" Is Mr. Cleveland handsome 1" asked Mrs- 
fVlix Lorraine of Vivian, immediately on his re- 
turn, " and what colour arc his eyes ?" 

" Upon my honour I haven't the least recollec- 
tion of ever looking at them ; but I believe he is 
not blind." 

" How foolish yon arc ! now tell me, pray, 
point dt raotjuerie, is he amusing V 

"What docs Mrs. Felix Lorraine mean by 
amusing ?" asked Vivian with an arch smile. 

" ! ycu always tease me with your definitions ; 
SO away — I'll quarrel with you." 

" O ! by-th<?-by, Mrs. Felix Lorraine, how is 
Colonel Delmington !" — 

Vivian redeemed his pledge : Mr. Cle-^'elar.d 
arrived. It was the wish of the marquess, if pos- 
.siblfc, not to meet his old friend till dinn",r-time. 
He thought that, surrounded by his guests, and 
backed by his bottle, certain awkward senatorial 
remniiscenccs might be got over. But, unfortu- 
nately, Mr. Cleveland arrived about an hour before 
dinner, and, as it was a cold autumnal day, most 
of the visiters, who were staying at Chateau Desir, 
vvere assembled in the drawing-room. The mar- 
<jucss sallied forward to receive his guest with a 
most dignified countenance, and a most aristocratic 
htep ; but, before he got halfway, his coronation 
pace degenerated into a strut, and then into a 
shamble, and with an awkward and confused 
countenance, half impudent, and half flinching, 
he held forward his left hand to his newly arrived 
visiter. Mr. Cleveland looked terrifically courteous, 
and amiably arrogant. He greeted the marquess 
with a smile, at once gracious and grim, and 
looked something like Goliath, as you see the Phi- 
listine depicted in some old German painting, 
looking down upon the pigmy fighting men of 
Israel. 

As is generally the custom, when there is a 
gi-eat deal to be arranged, and many points to be 
settled, days flew over, and verv' little of the future 
^<Vstem of the party was matured. Vivian made 
«ne or two ineffectual struggles to bring the mar- 
quess to a business-like habit of mind, but his 
lordship never dared trust himself alone with Cleve- 
land, and indeed almost lost the power of speech 
when in presence of the future leader of his party ; 
so, in the morning, the marquess played off the two 
lords and the baronet against his former friend, 
and then to compensate for not meeting Mr. Cleve- 
land in the morning, he was particularly cour- 
ii'ous to him at dinner-time, and asked him always 
" how he liked his ride V and invariably took wine 
with him. As for the rest of the day, he had 
particularly requested his faithful counsellor, Mrs. 
Felix Lorraine, " for God's sake to take this man 
0.T his shoulders ;"' and so that lady, wiUi her usual 



kindness, and merely to oblige his lordship, was 
good enough to patronise Mr. Cleveland, and on 
the fourth day was taking a moon-lit walk with 
him. 

Mr. Cleveland had now been ten days at Cha- 
teau Desir, and was to take his departme the next 
morning for Wales, in order to arrange every thing 
for his immediate settlement in the metropolis. 
Every point of importance was postponed until 
their meeting in London. Mr. Cleveland only 
agreed to take the lead of the party in the Com- 
mons, and received the personal pledge of Lord 
Courtown as to the promised office. 

It was a September day, and to escape from the 
excessive heat of the sun, and at the same time to 
enjoy the freshness of the air, Vivian was writing 
his letters in the conservatory, which opened into 
one of the drawing-rooms. The numerous party, 
which then honoured the chateau with their pre- 
sence, were out, as he conceived, on a j)ic-nic 
excursion to the Elfin's Well, a beautiful spot 
about ten miles off; and among the adventurers 
were, as he imagined, Mrs. Felix Lorraine, and 
Mr. Cleveland. 

Vivian was rather surprised at hearing voices in 
the adjoining room, and he was still more so, 
when, on looking round, he found that the sounds 
proceeded from the very two individuals whom he 
thought were far away. Some tall American 
plants concealed him from their view, but he 
observed all that passed distinctly, and a singular 
scene it was. Mrs. Felix Lorraine was on her 
knees at the feet of Mr. Cleveland ; her counte- 
nance indicated the most contrary passions, con- 
tending as it were, for mastery — supplication — 
anger, — and, shall I call it ] — love. Her com- 
panion's countenance was hid, but it was evident 
that it was not wreathed with smiles : there were 
a few hurried sentences uttered, and then both 
quitted the room at dilferent doors — the lady in 
despair, — and the gentleman — in disgust. 



CHAPTER IV. 



THK ELFIN S WKLt. 



And now Chateau Desir was almost deserted. 
Mrs. Million continued her progress northward. 
The Courtowns, and the Beaconsfields, and the 
Scropes quitted immediately after Mr. Cleveland . 
and when the families that form the materiel of 
the visiting cuTps retire, the nameless nothings that 
are always lounging about the country mansions 
of the great, such as artists, tourists, literateurs, 
and other live stock, soon disappear. Mr. Vivian 
Grey agreed to stay another fortnight, at the parti- 
cular request of the marquess. 

Very few da3s had passed, ere Vivian was ex- 
ceedingly struck at the decided change which sud- 
denly took place in his lordship's general behaviour 
towards hiin. 

The marqueiB^grew reserved and uncommuni- 
cative, scarcely mentioning " the great business," 
which had previously been the sole object of his 
conversation, but to find fault with some arrange- 
ment, and exhibiting, whenever his name was 
mentioned, a marked acrimony against Mr. Cleve- 
land. 'I'his rapid change alarmed, as much as if 
astonished Vivian, and he mentioned his feelings 



VIVIAN GREY. 



43 



snd observations to Mrs. Felix Lorraine. That 
lady agreed with him that something certainly was 
wrong, but could not, unfortunately, aflbrd him 
any clue to the mystery. She expressed the live- 
liest solicitude that any misunderstanding should 
he put an end to, and ofi'ered her ser\ices for that 
purpose. 

In spite, however, of her well-expressed anxiety, 
Vivia>i had his own ideas on the subject; and, 
determined to unravel the affair, he had recourse to 
a person, with whom he seldom enterchanged a 
sentence — the marchioness. 

" I hope your ladyship is well to-day. I had a 
letter from Count Caumont this morning. lie 
tells me that he has got the prettiest poodle from 
Paris that you can possibly conceive ! waltzes like 
an angel, and act-s proverbs on its hind feet." 

Her ladyship's eyes glistened wilh admiration. 

" I've told Caumont to send it me dovi'n imme- 
diately, and I shall then have the pleasure of pre- 
senting it to your ladyship." 
; Her ladyship's eyes sparkled with delight. 

" I think," continued Vivian, " I shall take a 
ride to-day. By-the-by, how's the marquess 1 he 
seems in low spirits lately." 

" ! Mr. Grey, I don't know v/hat you've done 
to him," said her ladyship, settling at least a dozen 
bracelets ; " but — but — " > 

" But ivhat my lady?" 

" He thinks — he thinks — " 

"Thinks what, my lady ?" 

" That you've entered into a conspiracy, Mr. 
Grey." 

'• Entered into a conspiracy !" 

" Yes, Mr. Grey, a conspiracy — a conspiracy 
against the Marquess of Carabas, with Mr, Cleve- 
land. He thinks that you have made him serve 
your purpose, and that now you're going to get rid 
of him." 

" Well, that's excellent, and what else does he 
think ]" 

" He thirdis you talk too loud," said the mar- 
chioness, still working at her bracelets. 

" Well, that's shockingly vulgar ! Allow me 
to recommend your ladyship to alter the order of 
those bracelets, and place the blue and silver 
against the maroon. You may depend upon it, 
that's the true Vienna order — and what else does 
the marquess say 1" 

" He thinks you are generally too authoritative. 
Not that I think 90, Mr. Grey ; I'm sure your con- 
duct to me has been more courteous — the blue and 
silver next to the maroon, did you say ? Yes — 
certainly it does look better. I've no doubt the 
marquess is quite wrong; and I dare say j'ou'il 
set things right immediately. You'll remember 
the pretty poodle, Mr. Grey, and you'll not tell the 
marquess I mentioned any thing." 

" O ! certainly not. I'll give orders for them to 
book an inside place for the poodle, and send him 
down by the coach immediately. I must be oil" 
now. Remember, the blue and silver next the 
maroon. Good morning to your ladyship." 

" Mrs. Felix Lorraine, I am your most obedient 
slave," said Vivian Grey, as he met that lady on 
the landing-place ; — " I can see no reason why I 
should not drive you this bright day to the Ellin's 
Well ; we have long had an engagement together." 
» The lady smiled a gracious assent ; the pony 
phaeton was immediately ordered. 

" How pleasant Lady Gourtown and I used to 



discourse about martingales ! I think I invented 
one, didn't I ? Pray, Mrs. Felix Lorraine, can 
you tell me what a martingale is 1 for upon my 
honour I've forgotten or never knew." 

" If you found a martingale for the mother, 
Vivian, it had been well if you bad found a curb 
for the daughter. Poor Cynthia ! I had intended 
once to advise the marchi6ness to interfere, but 
one forgets these things." 

" One does. — O ! Mrs. Felix," exclaimed Vi- 
vian, " I told your admirable story of the Leydeu 
professor to Mrs. Cleveland. It's universally agreed 
to be the best ghost story extant. I think you 
said you knew the professor 1" 

" O, well ! I have seen him often, and heard 
the stoi-y from his own lips. And as I mentioned 
before, far from being superstitious, he was an 
esprit fort. — Do you know, Mr. Grey, I have such 
an interesting packet from Germany to-day ; from 
my cousin, Baron Rodenstein ; but I must keep 
all the stories for the evening : come to my bou- 
doir, and I will read them to you — there is one 
tale which I am sure will make a convert even of 
you. It happened to Rodenstein himself, and 
within these three months," added the lady, in a 
serious tone. — " The Rodensteins are a singular 
family. My mother was a Rodenstein. — Do you 
think this beautiful !" said Mrs. Felix, showing 
Vivian a very small miniature which was attached 
to a chain round her neck. It was the portrait of 
a youth, habited in the costume of a German stu- 
dent. His rich brown hair was flowing over his 
shoulders, and his dark blue eyes beamed witli 
such a look of mysterious inspiration, that they 
might have befited a young prophet. 

" Very, very beautiful !" 

" 'Tis Max — Max Rodenstein," said the Iad\% 
with a faltering voice. " He was killed at Leipsic, 
at the head of a band of his friends and fellow- 
students. O ! Mr. Grey, this is a fair work of art. 
but if you had but seen the prototype, you would 
have gazed on this as on a dim and washed out 
drawing. There was one portrait, indeed, which 
did him more justice — but then, that portrait was 
not the production of mortal pencil." 

Vivian looked at his companion with a some- 
what astonished air, but Mrs. Felix Lorraine's 
countenance was as little indicative of jesting, as 
that of the young student whose miniature rested 
on her bosom. 

" Did you say not the production of a mortal 
hand. Mrs. Felix Lorraine 1" 

" I'm afraid I shall wear}' you with -my storios, 
but the one I am about to tell is so well evidenced, 
that I think even Mr. Vivian Grey will hear it 
vi'ithout a sneer." 

" A sneer ! O ! lady love, do I ever sneer 1" 

" Max Rodenstein was the glory of his house. 
A being so beautiful in body, and in soul, you can- 
not imagine, and I will not attempt to describe. 
This miniature has given you some faint idea of 
his image, and yet this is only the copy of a copy. 
The only wish of the Baroness Rodenstein, which 
never could be accomplished, was the possession 
of a portrait of her youngest son — for no considera- 
tion could induce Max to allow his likeness to be 
taken. His old nurse had always told him, that 
the moment that his portrait was taken, he would 
die. The condition upon which such a beautiful 
being was allowed to remain in the world, was, as 
she always said, that his beauty should not be iiui- 



44 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



tated. About three months before the battle of 
Leipsic, when Max was absent at the university, 
which was nearly four hundred miles from Roden- 
stein castle, there arrived one morning a large case 
directed to the baroness. On opening it, it was 
found to contain a picture — the portrait of her son. 
The colouring was so, vivid, the general execution 
so miraculous, that for some moments they forgot 
to wonder at the incident in their admiration of 
the work of art. In one corner of the picture, in 
small characters, yet fresh, was an inscription, 
which on examining they found consisted of these 
words,- ' Pain fed last night. Now, lady, thou 
hast thy witih,' My aunt sunk into the baron's 
arms. 

" In silence and in trembling the 'wonderful por- 
trait was suspended over the fire-place of my aunt's 
most favourite apartment. The next day, they re- 
ceived letters from Max. He was quile well, but 
mentioned nothing of the mysterious painting. 

" Three months afterwards, as a lady was sitting 
alone in the baroness's room, and gazing on the 
portrait of him she loved right dearly, she suddenly 
started from her seat, and would have shrieked, had 
not an indefinable sensation prevented her. The 
eyes of the portrait moved. The lady stood lean- 
ing on a chair, pale, and trembling like an aspen, 
but gazing steadfastly on the animated portrait. It 
was no illusion of a heated fancy ; again the eyelids 
trembled, there was a melancholy smile, and then 
they closed. The clock of Rodenstein castle struck 
three. Between astonishment and fear, the lady 
was tearless. Three days afterwards came the 
news of the battle of Leipsic, and at the very mo- 
ment that the eyes of the portrait closed. Max 
Rodenstein had been pierced by a Polish lancer." 

" And who was this wonderful lady, the witness 
of this wonderful incident]" asked Vivian. 

" That lady was myself." 

There was something so singular in the tone of 
Mrs. Felix Lorraine's voice, and so peculiar in the 
expression of her countenance, as she uttered these 
words, that the. jest died on Vivian's tongue ; and 
for want of something better to do, he lashed the 
little ponies, who were already scampering at their 
full speed. 

The road to the Elfin's Well ran through the 
wildest parts of the park ; and after an hour and a 
half's drive, they reached the fairy spot. It was a 
beautiful and pellucid spring, that bubbled up in 
a small wild dell, which, nurtured by the flowing 
stream, was singularly fresh and green. Above the 
spring, the taste of the marquess, or the marquess's 
steward, had erected a Gothic arch of gray stone, 
round which grew a few fine birch trees. In short, 
nature had intended the spot for /7(c-/n'cs. There 
was fine water, and an interesting tradition ; and 
as the parties always bring, or always should bring, 
a trained punster, champagne, and cold pasties, 
what more ought nature to have provided 1 

" Come, Mrs. Lorraine, I will tie Gijjsy to this 
ash, and then you and I will rest ourselves beneath 
Uiese birch trees, just where the fairies dance." 

" O, delightful !" 

"Now, truly, we should have some book of 
beautiful poetry to while away an hour. You will 
blame me fir not bringing one. Do not. I would 
sooner listen to your voice ; and, indeed, there is 
a subject on which I wish to ask your particular 
advice." 

"h there:" 



" I have been tninking that this is a somewhat 
rash step of the marquess — this throwing himself 
into the arras of his former bitterest enemy, Cleve- 
land." 

" You really think so 1" 

" Why, Mrs. Lorraine, does it appear to you to 
be the most prudent course of action which could 
have been conceived T" 

" Certainly not." 

" You agree with me, then, that there is, if not 
cause for regret at this engagement, at least for 
reflection on its probable consequences." 

" I quite agree with you." 

" I know vou do. I have had some conversation 
with the marquess upon this subject, this very 
morning." 

" Have you 1" eagerly exclaimed the lady, and 
she looked pale and breathed short. 

"Ay, and he tells me you have made some 
very sensible observations on the subject. 'Tis a 
pity they were not made before Mr. Cleveland left, 
the mischief might then have been prevented." 

" I certainly have made some observations." 

" And very kind of you ; what a blessing foi 
the marquess to have such a friend." 

" I spoke to him," said Mrs. Felix, with a more 
assured tone, " in much the same spirit as you 
have been addressing me. It docs, indeed, seem 
a most imprudent act, and I thought it my duty to 
tell him so." 

" Ay, no doubt ; but how came you, lady fair, 
to imagine that / was also a person to be dreaded 
by his lordship — /, Vivian Grey 1" 

" Did I say yuu ?" asked the lady, pale aa 
death — 

" Did you not, Mrs. Felix Lorraine 1 Have 
you not, regardless to my interests, in the most 
unwarrantable and unjustifiable manner — have you 
not, to gratify some private pique which you enter- 
tain against, Mr. Cleveland, have you not, \ ask 
you, poisoned the marquess's mind against one 
who never did aught to you, but what was kind 
and hunourabic .?" 

" I have been imprudent — I confess it — I have 
spoken somewhat locisely." 

" Now, madam, listen to me once more," and 
Vivian grasped her hand — '• What has ^.issed be- 
tween you a'id Mr. Cleveland, it is r.ot for me to 
inquire — I g'vc you mv won' ^i' honour, that he 
never even mentioned your name to me. I can 
scarcely ui"Jer>t.and how any man could have 
incurred the deadly hatred which you appear to 
entertain f >r him. I repeat, I can contemplate no 
situation m which you could be placed together, 
which V ould justify such behaviour. It could not 
be jufiified, even if he had sptn-ncd you while 
'rnceling at his fret ." 



Mrs. Felix Lorraine shrieked and fainted. A 
spriidding from the fairy stream soon recovered 
her. " t^[)are me ! spare me !" she faintly cried : 
"do not expose me" 

" Mrs. Ijorraine, I have no wish. I have spoken 
thus explicitly, that we may not again misunder- 
stand each other — I have spoken thus explicitly, I 
say, that I may not be under the necessity of speak- 
ing again, for if I speak again, it must not be to 
Mrs. Felix Lorraine — there is my hand, and now 
let the Elfin's Well be blotted out of our memo- . 
ries." 

Vivian drove rapidly home and endeavoured to 
talk in liis usual tone, and with his usual spirit ; 



VIVIAN GREY. 



45 



but liis companion could not be excited. Once, 
ay, twice, she pressed his hand, and as he assisted 
her from the phaeton, she murmured something 
like a — blessing. She ran up stairs immediately. 
Vivian had to give some directions about the 
poneys ; Gypsy was ill, or Fanny had a cold, or 
something of the kind, and so he was detained for 
about a quarter of an hour before the house, 
speaking most learnedly to grooms, and consulting 
on cases with a skilled gravity worthy of professor 
Coleman. 

When he entered the parlour he found the 
luncheon prepared, and Mrs. Felix pressed him 
very earnestly to take some refreshment. He was 
indeed wearied, and agreed to take a glass of hock 
and seltzer. 

'' Let me mix it for you," said Mrs. Felix ; " do 
you like sugar 1" 

Tired with his drive, Vivian Grey was leaning 
on the mantle-piece, with his eyes vacantly gazing 
on the looking-glass which rested on the marble 
slab. It was by pure accident that, reflected in the 
mirror, he distinctly beheld Mrs. Felix Lorraine 
open a small silver box, and throw some powder 
into the tumbler which she was preparing for him. 
She was leaning down, with her back almost 
turned to the glass, but still Vivian saw it — dls- 
iinctly. A sickness came over him, and ere he 
could recover himself, his Hebe tapped him on the 
shoulder — 

" Here drink, drink while it is effervescent." 

" I cannot drink," said Vivian, " I am not 
thirsty — I am too hot — I am any thing " 

" How foolish you are ! it will be quite spoiled." 

" No, no. the dog shall have it. Here Fidele, 
you look thirsty enough — come here — " 

" Mr. Grey, I do not mix tumblers for dogs," 
said the lady, rather agitated : '• if you will not 
take it," and she held it once more before him, 
" here it goes forever." So saying she emptied 
the tumbler into a large globe of glass, in which 
some gold and silver fishes were swimming their 
endless rounds. 



CHAPTER V, 



THE COITVERSATIOK. 



This last specimen of Mrs. Felix Lorraine was 
somewhat too much, even for the steeled nerves 
of Vivian Grey, and he sought his chamber for 
relief. 

" Is it possible ? Can I believe my senses ? Or 
has some demon, as we read of it in old tales, 
mocked me in a magic mirror ? I can believe in 
any thing. — O ! my heart is very sick ! I once 
imagined that I was using this woman for my 
purpose. Is it possible that aught of good can 
come to one who is forced to make use of such 
evil instruments as these ? A horrible thought 
sometimes comes over my spirit. I fancy, that in 
this mysterious foreigner, that in this woman, I 
have met a kind of double of myself. The same 
wonderful knowledge of the human mind, the 
same sweetness of voice, the same miraculous 
management which has brought us both under the 
same roof: yet do I find her the most abandoned 
of all beings ; a creature guilty of that, which, 
even in this guilty age, I thought was obsolete. 
An J is it possible that I am like her 1 that I can 



resemble her 1 that even the indcfmite shadow of 
my most unhallowed thought can, for a moment, 
be as vile as her righteousness ? O, God ! the 
system of my existence seems to stop ; I cannot 
breathe." He flung himself upon his bed, and 
felt for a moment as if he had quaffed the poison- 
ing draught so lately offered. 

" It is not so — it cannot be so — it shall not be sol 
In seeking the marquess, I was unquestionably 
impelled by a mere feeling of self-interest ; but I 
have advised him to no course of action, in which 
his welfare is not equally consulted with my own. 
Indeed, if not principle, interest would make me 
act faithfully towards him, for my fortunes are 
bound up in his. But am I entitled — I, who can 
lose nothing — am I entitled to play with other 
men's fortunes ? Am I, all this time, deceiving 
myself with some wretched sophisti-y ? Am I then 
an intellectual Don Juan, reckless of human minds 
as he was of human bodies — a spiritual libertine 1 
But why this wild declamation 1 Whatever I have 
done, it is too late to recede; even at this very moment 
delay is destruction, for now it is not a question 
as to the ultimate prosperity of our worldly pros- 
pects, but the immediate safety of our very bodies. 
Poison ! 0, God ! O, God I Away with all fear — 
all repentance — all thought of past — all reckoning 
of future. If I am the Juan that I fancied myself, 
then. Heaven be praised ! I have a confidant in all 
my trouble, the most faithful of counsellors ; the 
craftiest of valets ; a Leporello often tried, and never 
found wanting — my own good mind. And now, 
thou female liend ! the battle is to the strongest ; 
and I see right well, that the struggle between two 
such spirits will be a long and fearful one. Wo, 
I say, to the vanquished ! You must be crealt with 
by arts which even yourself cannot conceive. Your 
boasted knowledge of human nature shall not again 
stand you in stead ; for, mark me from hencefor- 
ward, Vivian Grey's conduct towards you shall 
have no precedent in human nature." 

As Vivian re-entered the drawing-room, he met 
a servant carrying in the globe of gold and silver 
fishes. 

" What, still in your pelisse, Mrs. Lorraine V 
said Vivian. " Nay, I hardly wonder at it, for sure- 
ly a prettier pelisse never yet fitted prettier form. 
You have certainly a most admirable taste in dress ; 
and this the more surprises me, for it is generally 
your plain personage that is the most recherche in 
frills, and fans, and flounces." 

The lady smiled. 

" ! by-the-by," continued her companion, 
"I've a letter from Cleveland this morning. I 
wonder how any misunderstanding could possibly 
have existed between you, for he speaks of you in 
such terms." 

" What does he say ?" was the quick question. 

"0, what does he say?" drawled out Vivian; 
and he yawned and was most provokingly uncom 
municative. 

" Come, come, Mr. Grey, do tell me." 

" O ! tell you — certainly. Come, let us walk 
together in the conservatory ;" so saying, he took 
the lady by the hand and they left the room. 

" And now for the letter, Mr. Grey !" 

"Ay, now for the letter!" and Vivian slowly 
drew an epistle from his pocket, and therefrom 
read some exceedingly sweet passages, which mado 
Mrs. Felix Lorraine's very heart's blood tingle 
Considering that Vivian Grey had never in his life 



4C 



D 'I S R A E L r S NOVELS. 



received a single letter from Mr. Cleveland, this' 
was tolerably well : but he was always au admira- 
ble improvisatore ! 

" I am sure that when Cleveland comes to town 
every thing will be explained ; I am sure, at least, 
that it will not be my fault if you are not the best 
friends. I am heroic in saying all tViis, Mrs. Lor- 
raine ; there was a time when — (and here Vivian 
seemed so agitated that he could scarcely proceed) 
— there was a time when I could have called that 
man — liar .' who would have prophesied that Vi- 
\'ian Grey could have assisted another in riveting 
the affections of Mrs. Felix Lorraine ; — but enough 
of this. I am a weak, inexperienced boy, and mis- 
interpret, perhaps, that which is merely a compas- 
sionate kindness natural to all women, into a feeling 
of a higher nature. But, I must learn to contain 
myself; I really do feel quite ashamed of my be- 
haviour about the tumbler to-day : to act with such 
unwarrantable unkindness, merely because I had 
remembered that you once performed the same kind 
office for Colonel Delmington, was indeed too 
bad !" 

" Colonel Delmington is a vain, empty-headed 
fool. Do not thiidc of him, my dear Mr. Grey," 
said Mrs. Felix, with a countenance beaming with 
sniiles. 

" Well, I will not ; and I'll try to behave like a 
man ; like a man of the world, I should say : but 
indeed you must excuse the warm feelings of a 
youth : and truly, when I call to mind the first 
days of our acquaintance, and then remember that 
our moonlit walks are gone forever — and that 
our — " 

" Nay, do not believe so, my dear Vivian ; be- 
lieve me, as I ever shall be your friend, your — " 

" I will, I will, my dear, ray own Amelia !" 



CHAPTER VL 



THE X.O'Sa GALLERY. 



It was an autumnal night — the wind was capri- 
cious and changeable as a pretty beauty, or an Ita- 
lian greyhound, or a shot silk. Now the breeze 
Mew so fresh, that the white clouds dashed along 
the sky, as if they bore a band of witches too Jate 
for their Sabbath meeting — or some other mischief: 
and now, lulled and soft as the breath of a slumber- 
ing infant, you might almost have fancied it miil- 
summcr's eve; and the bright moon, with her 
starry court, reigned undisturbed in the light blue 
sky. Vivian Grey was leaning against an old 
i3eech tree in the most secluded part of the park 
and was gazing on the moon. 

" ! thou bright moon ! thou object of my first 
love ! thou shalt not escape an invocation, although, 
jjerchance at this very moment, some varlet son- 
neteer is jirating of ' thy boy Endymion,' and ' thy 
silver bow.' Here to thee, qixeen of the night I in 
whatever name thou most delightest ! or Bendis, 
as they hailed you in rugged Thrace ; or Bubastis, 
as they howled to you in mysterious Egypt; or 
Dian, as they sacrificed to you in gorgeous Rome ; 
or Artemis, as they sighed to you on the bright 
plains of ever glorious Greece ! Why is it. that 
stl! men gaze on thee 1 Why is it, that all men 
!ove thee ] Why is it, that all men worship thee ? 



" Shine on, shine on, sultana of the soul ! tlie 
passions are thy eunuch slaves ; Ambition gazes on 
thee, and his burning brow is cooled, and his fitful 
pulse is calm. Grief wanders in her moonlit walk, 
and sheds no tear ; and when your crescent smiles, 
the lustre of Joy's revelling eye is dusked. Quick 
Anger, in your hght, forgets revenge : nnd even 
dove-eyed Hope feeds on no future joys, when 
gazing on the miracle of thy beauty. 

" Shine on, shine on ! although a pure virgin, 
thou art the mighty mother of all abstraction ! The 
eye of the weary peasant, returning from his daily 
toil, and the rapt gaze of the inspired poet, are alike 
fixed on thee ; thou stillest the roar of marching 
armies ; and who can doubt thy influence o'er the 
waves, who has witnessed the wide Atlantic sleeji- 
ing under thy silver beams 1 

'• Shine on, shine on ! they say thou art earth's 
satellite ! yet when I do gaze on thee, my thoughts 
are not of thy Suzerain. The}' teach us that thy 
power is a fable, and that thy divinity is a dream. 
0, thou bright queen ! I will be no traitor to thy 
sweet authority ; and, verily, I will not believe that 
thy influence o'er our hearts, is, at this moment, 
less potent, than when we worshipped in thy glit- 
tering fane of Ephesus, or trembled at the dark 
horrors of thine Arician rite?. Then, hail to thee, 
queen of night ! Hail to thee, Diana, Triformis, 
Cynthia, Orthia, Taurica. ever mighty, ever lovely, 
ever holy I hail ! hail ! hail !" 
• If I were a metaphysician, I would tell you why 
Vivian Grey had been gazing two hours on the 
moon, for I could then present you with a most 
logical programme of the march of his ideas, since 
he whispered liis last honeyed speech in the ear 
of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, at dinner time, until this 
very moment, when he did not even remember 
that such 9 being as Mrs. Felix Lorraine breathed. 
Glory to the metaphysician's all perfect theory ! 
When they can tell me why, at a bright banquet, 
the thought of death has flashed across my mind, 
who fear not death ; when they can tell me why, 
at' the burial of my beloved friend, when my very 
heart-strings seemed bursting, my sorrow has been 
mocked by the involuntary remembrance of ludi- 
crous adventures and grotesque tales ; when they 
can tell me why, in a dark mountain pass, I have 
thought of an absent woman's eyes ; or why, when 
in the very act of squeezing the th rd lime into a 
beaker of Burgundy cup, my memory hath been 
of lean apothecaries and their vile drugs ? — why, 
then, I say again, glory to the metaphysician's ail 
[lerfect theory ! and fare-you-well, sweet world, 
and you, my merry masters, whom, perhaps, I ha.ve 
studied somewhat too cunningly : nufce leipsum 
shall be my mo!to. I'll dofi' my travelling cap, 
and on with the monk's cowl. 

There are , mysterious moments in some men's 
lives, when the taccs of human beings are very 
agony to them, and when the sound of the human 
voice is jarring as discordant music. 'J'hcse fits 
are not the consequence of violent or contending 
passions ; they grow not out of sorrow, nor joy 
nor hope, nor fear, nor hatred, nor despair. Foi 
in the hour of affliction, the tones of our fi'llow- 
creatures are ravishing as the most delicate lute ; 
and in the flush moment of joy, where is the smilcr 
who loves not a witness to his revelry, or a listener 
to his good fortune ] Fear makes us feel our hu- 
manity, and then we fly to men, and hope is the 
parent of kindness. The misanthrope aiid tbu 



VIVIAN GREY. 



47 



reckles.^ arc neither agitated nor agonized. It is 
in these moments that men find in nature that 
congcniahty of spirit which they seek for in vain 
in their ovv n sy)ecies. It is in these moments that 
we sit hy the side of a waterfall, and listen to its 
musii: the livelong day. It is in these moments 
that we gaze upon the moon. It is in these mo- 
ments that nature becomes our Egcria; and re- 
freshed and renovated by this beautiful communion, 
we return to the world, better enabled to fight our 
parts in the hot war of passions, to perform the 
great duties for which man appears to have been 
created, — to love, to hate, to slander, and to sla3^ 

It was past midnight, and Vivian was at a con- 
adcrable distance from the chateau. He proposed 
entering hy a side-door, which led into the billiard- 
room, and from thence crossing the long gallery, 
he could easily reach his apartments without dis- 
turbing any of the household. His way led through 
the little gate at which he had parted with Mrs. 
Felix Lorraine on the first day of their meeting. 

As he softly opened the door which led into the 
long gallery, he found he was not alone ; leaning 
against one of the casements was a female. Her 
profile was to Vivian as he entered, and the moon, 
which shone bright through the window, lit up a 
countenance which he might be excused for not 
immediately recognising as that of Mrs. Felix Lor- 
raine. She was gazing steadfastly, but her eye did 
not seem fixed upon any particular object. Her 
features appeared convulsed, but their contortions 
were not momentary, and, pale as death, a hideous 
grin seemed chiselled on her idiot countenance. 

Vivian scarcely knew whether to stay or to retire. 
Desirous not to disturb her, he determined not even 
tc breathe ; and, as is generally the case, his very 
exertions to be silent made him nervous ; and to 
save himself from being stifled, he coughed. 

Mrs. Lorraine immediately started, and stared 
wildlj' around her ; and when her eye caught Vi- 
vian's, there was a sound in her throat something 
like the death-rattle. 

*' Who are you ]" she eagerly asked. 

" A friend, and Vivian Grey." 

" Grey ! how came you here 1" and she rushed 
forward and wildly seized his hand — and then she 
muttered to herself, " 'tis flesh — 'tis flesh." 

" I have been playing, I fear, the mooncalf to- 
night ; and find that, though I am a late watcher, 
I am not a solitary one." 

Mrs. Lorraine stared earnestly at him, and then 
she endeavoured to assume her usual expression 
of countenance : but the effort was too much for 
her. She dropped Vivian's arm, and buried her 
face in her own hands. Vivian "was retiring, when 
she again looked up. " W^herc arc you going 1" 
slie asked, with a quick voice. 

"To sleep — as I would advise all: 'tis much 
past midnight." 

"Thou sayest not the truth. The brightness 
of your eye belies the sentence of your tongue. 
You are nut for sleep." 

" Pardnn me, my dear Mrs. Lorraine, I really 
have been gaping for the last hour," said Vivian, 
and he moved on. 

" Mr. Grey I you are speaking to one w!io takes 
her answer from the eye, which does not deceive, 
and from the speaking lineaments of the face, 
which are truth's witnesses. Keep your voice for 
those who can credit man's words. You luill go, 
11/311, What ! are you afraid of a woman, because 



' Hh past midnight^ and you're in an old gal- 
lery?" 

" Fear, Mrs. Lorraine, is not a word in my vo- 
cabulary." 

" The words in thy vocabulary are few, boy ! 
as are the years of thine age. He who sent you 
here this night sent you here not to slumber. Cotrie 
hither !" and she led Vivian to the window : " wha 
see you ?" 

" I see nature at rest, Mrs. Lorraine ; and 1 
would fain follow the example of beasts, birds, and 
fishes." 

" Vet gaze upon this scene one second. See 
the distant hills, how beautifully thrir rich covering 
is tinted with the moonbeam ! These nearer fir 
trees — how radiantly their black skeleton forms are 
tipped with silver ! and the old and thickly foliaged 
oaks bathed in light ! and the purpled lake reflect- 
ing in its lustrous bosom another heaven ! Is it 
not a fair scene 1" 

" Beautiful ! O, most beautiful !" 

"Yet Vivian, where is the being for whom all 
this beauty existeth ] Where is yonr mighty crea- 
ture — man ? The peasant on his rough coucii 
enjoys perchance slavery's only scrvice-money- 
svveet sleep ; or, waking in the night, curses at the 
same time his lot and his lord. And that lord is 
restless on some downy couch ; his night thoughts, 
not of this sheeny lake and this bright moon, but 
of some miserable creation of man's artifice, some 
mighty nothing which nature knows not of, soma 
ofl'spring of her bastard child — society. Wbjr 
then is nature loveliest when man looks not on 
her ? For whom, then, Vivian Grey, is this scens 
so fair 1" 

" For poet^s, lady ; for philosophers ; for all thow 
superior spirits who require some relaxation froi» 
the world's toils ; spirits who only commingle witk 
humanity on the condition that they may some 
times commune with nature." 

" Superior spirits ! say you 1" and here they 
paced the gallery. " When Valerian, first Lord 
Carabas, raised this fair castle — when, profuse for 
his posterity, all the genius of Italian art and Italian 
artists was lavished on this English palace; when 
the stuffs, and statues, the marbles, and the mirrors, 
the tapestry, and the carvings, and the paintings c< 
Genoa, and Florence, and Venice, and Padua, and 
Vicenza, were obtained by him at miracidous cost, 
and with still more miraculous toil ; what thiidi yoa 
would have been his sensations, if, while his sod 
was revelling in the futurity of his descendants 
keeping their state in this splendid pile, so.me 
wizard had foretold to him, that ere three centuric« 
could elapse, the fortunes of his mighty family 
would be the sport of two individuals; one of them 
a foreigner, unconnectctl in blood, or connected 
only in hatred; and the other a young adventurer, 
alike unconnected with his race, in blood, or i.i 
love ! a being ruling all things by the power of 
his own genius, and reckless of all consequences, 
save his own prosperity. If the future had been 
revealed to my great ancestor, the Lord Valerraiv, 
think you, Vivian Grey, that wo should have bee« 
walking in this long gallery 1" 

" Really, Mrs. Lorraine, I have been so interest' 
ed in discovering what people think in the nintr- 
teenth century, that I have but little time to 
speculate on the jiossible opinions of an old gentle- 
man who flourished in the sixteenth." 

*' You may sneer, sir ; but I ask you, if there ar« 



48 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



epirits so superior to that of the slumbering lord of 
this castle, as. those of Vivian Grey and Amelia 
Lorraine ; why may there not be spirits proportion- 
ately superior to our own 1" 

" If you are keeping me from my bed, Mrs. Ijor- 

raine, merely to lecture my conceit by proving that 

tliere are in this world wiser heads than that of 

Vivian Grey, on my honour, madam, you are 

iving yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble." 

" You will misunderstand me, then, thou wilful 
boy !" 

" Nay, lady, I will not affect to misunderstand 
your meaning ; but I recognise, you know full well, 
no intermediate essence between my own good 
soul, and that ineffable and omnipotent Spirit, in 
whose existence philosophers and priests alike 
agree." 

" Omnipotent and ineffable essence ! ! leave 
such words to scholars, and to schoolboys ! And 
fhink you, that such indefinite nothings, such un- 
meaning abstractions, can influence beings whose 
veins are full of blood, bubbling like thisl" And 
here she grasped Vivian with a feverish hand — 
" Omnipotent and ineffable essence ! Oil have 
lived in a land, where every mountain, and every 
stream, and every ruin, has its legend, and its pecu- 
liar spirit; a land, in whose dark forests, the mid- 
night hunter, with his spirit-shout, scares the 
slumbers of the trembling serf; a land from whose 
winding rivers, the fair-haired undine welcomes the 
belated traveller to her fond and fatal embrace ; and 
you talk to me of omnipotent and ineffable essences ! 
O ! miserable mocker ! It is not true, Vivian Grey ; 
you are but echoing the world's deceit, and even 
at this hour of the night, thou darest not speak as 
thou dost think. Thou worshippest no omnipotent 
and ineffable essence ; thou believest in no omni- 
potent and ineffable essence ; shrined in the secret 
chamber of your soul, there is an image, before 
which you bow down in adoration, and that image 
is — YOURSELF. And truly when I do gaze upon 
thy radiant eyes," and here the lady's tone became 
more terrestrial, — " and truly when I do look upon 
thy luxuriant curls," and here the lady's small 
white hand, played like lightning through Vivian's 
dark hair, — '• and truly when I do remember the 
beauty of thy all-perfect form, I cannot deem thy 
self-worship — a false idolatry ;" and here the lady's 
arms were locked round Vivian's neck, and her 
head rested on his bosom. 

'* ! Amelia ! it would be far better for you to 
rest here, than to think of that of wluch the know- 
hedge is vanity." 

" Vaiiity !" shrieked Mrs. Lorraine, and she vio- 
lently loosed her embrace, and extricated herself 
froiB the arm, which, rather in courtesy than in 
kindness, had been wound round her delicate waist ; 
" vanity ! O ! if you knew but what I know — O ! 
if you had but seen what I have seen" — and here 
Iier voice failed her, and she stood motionless in 
the moonshine, with averted head and outstretched 
arms. 

" Amelia ! this is very madness ; for Heaven's 
sake calm yourself!" 

"Calm myself! ! it is madness; very, very 
madness ! 'tis the madness of the fascinated bird ; 
'tis the madness of the murderer who is voluntarily 
broken on the wheel ; 'tis the madness of the fawn, 
that gazes with admiration on the lurid glare of the 
anaconda's eye ; 'tis the madness of a woman who 
flies to the arms of her — Faie ," and here she 



sprang like a tigress round Vivian's neck, her long 
light hair bursting from its bands, and clustering 
down her shoulders. 

And here was Vivian Grc}', at past midnight, 
in this old gallery, with this wild woman clinging 
round his neck. The figures in the ancient tapes- 
try looked living in the moon, and immediately 
opposite him was one compartment of some ola 
mythological tale, in which were represented, grin- 
ning, in grim majesty, — The Fates. 

The wind now rose again, and the clouds which 
had vanished began to reassemble in the heavens. 
As the blue sky was gradually being covered, the 
gigantic figures of Clofho, Lachesis, and Atropos 
became as gradually dimmer and dimmer, and the 
grasp of Vivian's fearful burden looser and looser. 
At last the moon was entirely hid, the figures of 
the Fates vanished, and Mrs. Felix Lorraine sank 
hfeiess into his arms. 

Vivian groped his way with difficulty to the 
nearest window, the very one at which she was 
leaning when he first entered the gallery. He 
played with her wild curls ; he whispered to her 
in a voice sweeter than the sweetest serenade ; but 
she only raised her eyes from his breast, and stared 
wildly at him, and then clung round his neck 
with, if possible, a tighter grasp. 

For nearly half an hour did Vivian stand leaning 
against the window, with his mystic and motionless 
companion. At length the wind again fell ; there 
was a break in the sky, and a single star appeared 
in the midst of the clouds, surrounded with a little 
heaven of azure. 

" See there, see there !" the lady cried, and then 
she unlocked her arms. " What would you give, 
Vivian Grey, to read that star ?" 

" Am I more interested in that star, Amelia, 
than in any other of the bright hostl" asked Vi- 
vian, with a serious tone, for he thought it neces- 
sary to humour his companion. 

" Are you not ? is it not the star of thy des- 
tiny ?" 

" And are you learned in all the learning of the 
Chaldeans, too, lady ]" 

" O, no, no, no !" slowly murmured MrS. Lor- 
raine, and then she started ; but Vivian seized her 
arms, and prevented her from again clasping his 
neck. 

" I must keep these pretty hands close prisoners," 
he said, smiling, " unless you promise to behave 
with more moderation. Come, my Amelia ! you 
shall be my instructress ! Why am I so interested 
in this brilliant star?" and holding her hands in 
one of his, he wound his arm round her waist, and 
whispered her such words as he thought might 
calm her troubled spirit. The wildness of her eyes 
gradually gave way ; at length, she raised them to 
Vivian, with a look of meek tenderness, and her 
head sunk upon his breast. 

" It shines, it shines, it shines, Vivian ! glory to 
thee, and wo to me ! Nay, you need not hold 
my hands, I will not harm you. I cannot — 'tis no 
use. O, Vivian ! when we first met, how little did 
I know to whom I pledged myself!" 

" Amelia, forget these wild fancies, estrange 
yourself from the murky mysticism which has 
exercised so baneful an influence, not only over 
your mind, but over the very soul of the land from 
which you come. Recognise in me only your 
friend, and leave the other world to those who 
value it more, or more deserve it. Does not this 



VIVIAN GREY. 



49 



fair earth contain sufficient of interest and en- 
joyment 1" 

" O, Vivian ! you speak with a sweet voice, 
but with a sceptic's spirit. Thou knowest not 
what I know." 

"Tell me then, my Amelia; let me share 
your secrets, provided thej^ be your sorrows !" 

"O, Vivian! almost within this hour, and in 
this park, there has happened that — which — " 
and here her voice died, and she looked fear- 
fully round her. 

"Nay, fear not, fear not; no one can harm 
you here, and no one shall harm you. Rest, 
rest upon me, and tell me all thy grief." 

" I dare not — I cannot tell you." 

" Nay, my own love, thou shall." 

"I cannot speak, your eye scares me. Are 
you mocking me 7 I cannot speak if you look 
so at me." 

" I will not look on you ; I will play with 
your long hair, and gaze on yonder star. Now, 
speak on, my own love." 

" O, Vivian ! there is a custom in my native 
land — the world calls it an unhallowed one ; 
you, in your proud spirit, will call it a vain one. 
But you would not deem it vain, if you were the 
woman now resting on your bosom. At certain 
hours of particular nights, and with peculiar ce- 
remonies, which I need not here mention — we 
do believe, that in a lake or other standing water, 
fate reveals itself to the solitary votary. 0, Vi- 
vian ! I have been too long a searcher after this 
fearful science ; and this very night, agitated in 
spirit, I sought yon water. The wind was in the 
right direction, and every thing concurred in 
favouring a most propitious divination. I knelt 
down to gaze on the lake. I had always been 
accustomed to view my own figure performing 
some future action, or engaged in some future 
scene of my life. I gazed, but I saw nothing but 
a brilliant star. I looked up into the heavens, but 
the star was not there, and the clouds were driv- 
ing quick across the sky. More than usually 
agitated by this smgular occurrence, I gazed 
once more; and just at the moment when, with 
breathless and fearful expectation, I waited the 
revelation of my immediate destiny, there flitted 
a figure across the water. It was there only for 
the breathing of a second, and as it passed it 
mocked me.'' Here Mrs. Lorraine writhed in 
Vivian's arms ; her features were moulded in 
the same unnatural expression as when he first 
entered the gallery, and the hideous grin was 
again sculptured on her countenance. Her 
whole frame was in such a state of agitation, 
that she rose up and down in Vivian's arms : 
and it was only with the exertion of his whole 
strength that he could retain her. 

" Why, Amelia — this — this was nothing — 
your own figure." 

" No, not my own — it was yours /" 

Uttering a loud and piercing shriek, which 
echoed through the winding gallery, she fainted. 

Vivian gazed on her in a state of momentary 
stupefaction, for the extraordinary scene had be- 
gun to influence his own nerves. And now he 
heard the tread of distant feet, and a light shone 
through the key-hole of the nearest door. The 
fearful shriek had alarmed some of the house- 
hold. What was to be done! In desperation, Vi- 
vian caught the lady up in his arms, and dasliing 
out of an opposite door, bore her to her chamber. 
7 



CHAPTER VII. 

SOUTIC AMEIUCAN OIINITHOLOGT. 

What is this chapter to be about! Come, 1 m 
inclined to be courteous ! You shall choose the. 
subject of it. What shall it be — sentiment or 
scandal ? a love scene, or a lay-sermon — or a 
lecture on omelettes soufflees] I am sick of the 
world! Don't be frightened, sweet reader! and, 
Pearson, bring me a bottle of soda-water! I am 
sick of the world, and actually am now hesi- 
tating whether I shall turn misanthrope, or go 
to the ancient music. Not that you are to 
imagine that I am a dissatisfied, disappointed, 
moody monster, who lectures the stars, and 
fancies himself Rousseau secundus — not in the 
least. lam naturally a very amiable individual; 
but the truth is, I have been suffering the last 
three weeks under a tremendous attack of bile, 
and if I chance to touch a quill in this miser- 
able state, why, unfortunately, I have the habit 
of discharging a little of that ever-to-be-abhor- 
red juice. This, therefore, must be my excuse 
for occasionally appearing to be a little peevish. 
Far from disliking the world, I am always ready 
to do its merits the most poetical justice. ! 
thou beautiful world ! thou art a very pleasant 
thing — to those who know thee not. Pah ! I can't 
get on : and now, on looking in the glass again, 
I do find myself a leetle yellow under the eyes 
still, a twitch in the left temple, tongue like 
snow in a fog, a violent nausea, pulse at one 
hundred and ten, yet with an appetite of a Bo- 
nassus. Another fit of the bile, by all that's 
sacred — O ! thou vile world ! now for a libel ! 

When Vivian awoke in the morning, he 
found a note upon his pillow. 

" Did you hear the horrid shriek last night 7 
It must have disturbed every one. I think it 
must have been one of the South American 
birds, which Captain Tropic gave the marchio- 
ness. Do not they sometimes favour the world 
with these nocturnal shriekingsl Isn't there a 
passage in Spix apropos to this 1 . A ." 

"Did you hear the shriek last night, Mr. 
Grey?" asked the marchioness, as Vivian en- 
tered the br^kfast-room. 

" yes ! Mr. Grey, did you hear the shriek 1'* 
asked Miss Graves. 

"Who didn't f 

" O ! what could it be V said the marchioness. 

" O ! what could it be ]" said Miss Graves. 

" ! what could it be — a cat in the gutter, or 
a sick cow, or a toad dying to be devoured, 
Miss Graves." 

Always snub toadeys and fed captains. 'Tis 
only your greenhorns who endeavour to make 
their way by fawning and cringing to every 
member of the establishment. It is a miserable 
mistake. No one likes his dependants to be 
treated with respect, for such treatment af- 
tbrds an unpleasant contrast to his own con- 
duct. Besides, it makes the toadey's blood 
unruly. There are three persons, mind you, to 
be attended to: — my lord, or my lady, as thii 
case may be, (usually the latter,) the pet daugh- 
ter, and the pet dog. I throw out these hints 
en passant, for my principal objects in writing 
this work are to amuse myself, and to instruct 
society. In some future book, probably the 
twentieth or twenty-fifth, when the plot begins 
to wear threadbare, and we can afford a digres- 
sion, I may give a chapter on domestic tactics. 
E 



50 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" My dear marchioness," continued Vivian, " see 
there I've kept my promise — there's your bracelet. 
How's Julie to-day 1" 

" 0, Julie ! poor dear, I hope she's better." 

" O, yes, poor Julie ! I think she's better." 

" I don't know that, Miss Graves," said her 
ladyship somewhat tartly, not at all approving of a 
toadey thinking. " I'm afraid that scream last 
night must have disturbed her, O, dear Mr. Grey, 
I'm afraid she'll be ill again." 

Miss Graves looked mournful, and lifted up her 
eyes and hands to Heaven, but did not dare to 
speak this time. 

" I thought she looked a little heavy about the 
eyes this morning," said the marchioness, appa- 
rently very agitated ; " and I've heard from Egla- 
mour this post; he's not well too — I think every- 
body's ill now — he's caught a fever going to see 
the ruins of Ptestum : I wonder why people go to 
see ruins !" 

" I wonder indeed," said Miss Graves ; " I 
never could see anything in a ruin." 

" O, dear Grey !" continued the marchioness, 
" I really am afraid Julie's going to be very ill." 

" O ! let Miss Graves pull her tail and give her 
a little mustard seed ; she'll be better to-morrow." 

" Well, Graves, mind you do what Mr. Grey 
tells you." 

" O ! y-e-s, my lady !" 

" Mrs. Felix Lorraine," said the marchioness, as 
that lady entered the room, " you are late to-day ; 
I always reckon upon you as a supporter of an 
early breakfast at Desir." 

" O ! I've been half round the park." 

" Did you hear the scream, Mrs. Felix 1" 

" Do you know what it was, marchioness?" 

" No — do youl" 

" Ay ! ay ! see the reward of early rising, and 
a walk before breakfast. It was one of your new 
American birds, and it has half torn down our 
aviary." 

" One of the new Americans I 0, the naughty 
thing! and it has broke the new fancy wire 
work ?" 

Here a little odd-looking, snuffy old man, with a 
brown scratch wig, who had been ■^^ busily em- 
ployed the whole breakfast-time with a cold game 
pie, the bones of which Vivian observed him most 
scientifically pick and polish, laid down his knife 
and fork, and addressed the marchioness with an 
air of great interest. 

" Pray will your ladyship have the goodness to 
inform me what bird this is 1" 

'I'he marchioness looked astonished at any one 
presuming to ask her a question ; and then she 
drawled, " Vivian, you know everything — tell this 
gentleman what a bird is." 

Now this gentleman was Mr. Mackaw, the most 
celebrated ornithologist extant, and who had writ- 
ten a treatise on Brazilian parroquets, in three 
volumes folio. He had arrived late at the chateau 
the preceding night, and, although he had the ho- 
nour of presenting his letter of introduction to the 
marquess, this morning was the first time he had 
been seen by any of the party present, who were 
of course profoundly ignorant of his character. 

" O ! we were talking of some South American 
bird given to the marchioness by the famous Cap- 
tain Tropic ; you know him, perhaps, Bolivar's 
brother-in-law, or aid-de-camp, or something of 
that kind : — and which screams so dreadfully at 



night, that the whole family is disturbed. The 
Chowchowtow, it's called — isn't it, Mrs. Lor- 
raine V 

" The Chowchowtow !" said Mr. Mackaw " I 
don't know it by that name." 

" O ! don't you 1 I dare say we shall find an 
account of it in Spix, however," said Vivian j 
rising, and taking a volume from the book-case a 
" ay ! here it is — I'll read it to you." I 

" The Chowchowtow is about five feet seven 
inches in length, from the point of the bill to the 
extremity of the claws. Its plumage is of a dingy, 
yellowish white : its form is elegant, and in its 
movements, and action, a certain pleasing and 
graceful dignity is observable ; but its head is by 
no means worthy of the rest of its frame, and the 
expression of its eye is indicative of the cunning 
and treachery of its character. The habits of this 
bird are peculiar : occasionally most easily domes- 
ticated, it is apparently sensible of the slightest 
kindness ; but its regard cannot be depended upon, 
and for the slightest inducement, or with the least 
irritation, it will fly at its feeder. At other times, 
it seeks the most perfect solitude, and can only be 
captured with the greatest skill and perseverance. 
It generally feeds three times a-day, but its appe- 
tite is not rapacious ; it sleeps little ; is usually on 
the wing at sunrise, and proves that it slumbers 
but little in the night by its nocturnal and thrilhng 
shrieks." 

" What an extraordinary bird ! Is that the 
bird you meant, Mrs. Felix Lorraine 1" 

Mr. Mackaw was extremely restless the whole 
time that Vivian was reading this interesting ex- 
tract. At last he burst forth with an immense 
deal of science, and a great want of construction — 
a want, which scientific men often experience, al- 
ways excepting those mealy-mouthed professeurs 
who lecture " at the Royal," and get patronised by 
the blues — the Lavoisiers of May fair ! 

"Chowchowtow, my lady I — five feet seven 
inches high ! Brazilian bird ! When I just re- 
mind your ladyship that the height of the tallest 
bird to be found in Brazil, — and in mentioning 
this fact, I mention nothing hypothetical, — the tall- 
est bird does not stand higher than four feet nine. 
Chowchowtow ! Dr. Spix is a name — accurate 
traveller — don't remember the passage — most sin- 
gular bird ! Chowchowtow ! don't know it b}' that 
name. Perhaps, your ladyship isn't aware, — I 
think 5'ou called that gentleman Mr. Grey, — per- 
haps, Mr. Grey is not aware, that I am Mr. Maclcaw 
— I arrived here late last night — whose work in 
three volumes folio, on Brazilian Parroquets, al- 
though I had the honour of seeing his lordship, is, 
I trust, a sufRciont evidence that I am not speaking 
at random on this subject ; and consequently from 
the lateness of the hour, could not have the honour 
of being introduced to your ladyship." 

" Mr. Mackaw !" thought Vivian, " the deuse 
you are ! O ! why didn't I say a Columbian cas- 
sowary, or a Peruvian penguin, or a Chilian condor, 
or a Guatemalan goose, or a Mexican mastard — 
any thing but Brazilian] O ! unfortunate Vivian 
Grey." 

The marchioness, who was quite overcome with 
this scientific appeal, raised her large, beautiful, 
sleepy eyes, from a delicious compound cf French 
roll and new milk, which she was working up in a 
Sevre saucer for Julie : and then, as usual, looked 
to Vivian for assistance. 



VIVIAN GREY. 



51 



" Grey, dear ! You know every thing, tell Mr. 
Mackaw about this bird." 

" Is there any point on which you differ from 
Spix in his account of the Chowchowtow, Mr. 
Mackaw ?" 

" My dear sir, I don't follow him at all. Dr. 
Spix is a most excellent man ; a most accurate 
traveller — quite a name — but to be sure, I've only 
read his work in our own tongue, and I fear from 
the passage you have just quoted — five feet seven 
inches high ! in Brazil ! It must be a most im- 
perfect version. I say that four feet nine is the 
greatest height I know. I don't speak without 
some foundation for my statement. The only bird 
I know about that height is the Paraguay casso- 
wary ; which, to be sure, is sometimes found in 
Brazil. But the description of your bird, Mr. 
Grey, does not answer that at all. I ought to know. 
I do not speak at random. The only living speci- 
men of that extraordinary bird, the Paraguay cas- 
sowary, in this country, is in my possession. It 
was sent me by Bonpland ; and was given to him 
by the Dictator of Paraguay himself. I call it, in 
compliment, Doctor Francta. I arrived here so 
late last night — only saw his lordship — or I would 
have had it on the lawn this morning." 

" O ! then, Mr. Mackaw," said Vivian, " that 
was the bird which screamed last night." 

" 0, yes ! 0, yes ! Mr. Mackaw," said Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine. 

" Marchioness ! marchioness !" continued Vi- 
vian, " it's found out. It's Mr. Mackaw's particular 
friend, his family physician, whom he always 
travels with, that awoke us all last night." 

"Is he a foreigner!" asked th% marchioness, 
looking up. 

" My dear Mr. Grey, impossible ! the doctor 
never screams." 

" ! Mr. Mackaw, Mr. Mackaw I" said Vivian. 
" ! Mr. Mackaw, Mr. Mackaw !" said Mrs. 
Felix Lorraine. 

" I tell you he never screams," reiterated the man 
of science, " I tell you he can't scream, he's muz- 
zledr 

" O ! then it must have been the Chowchow- 
tow." 

" Yes, I think it must have been the Chowchow- 
tow." 

" I should very much like to hear Spix's descrip- 
tion again," said Mr. Mackaw, " only I fear it's 
troubling you too much, Mr. Grey." 

" Read it yourself, my dear sir," said Vivian, 
putting the book into his hand, which was the third 
volume of Tremaine. 

Mr. Mackaw looked at the volume, and turned it 
over, and sideways, and upside downwards : the 
brain of a man vv'ho has written three folios on 
pan'oquets is soon puzzled. At first he thought 
the book was a novel ; but then, an essay on pre- 
destination, under the title of Memoirs of a Man 
of Refinement, rather puzzled him ; then he mistook 
it for an Oxford reprint of Pearson on the Creed ; 
and then he stumbled on rather a warm scene in 
an old chateau in the south of France. 

Before Mr. Mackaw could gain the power of 
speech, the door opened, and entered — who 1 Doc- 
tor Francia. 

Mr. Mackaw's travelling companion possessed 
the awkward accomplishment of opening doors, and 
now strutted in, in quest of his beloved master. 



Affection for Mr. Mackaw was not, however, the 
only cause which induced this entree. 

The household of Chateau Desir, unused to 
cassowaries, had neglected to supply Dr. Francia 
with his usual breakfast, which consisted of half a 
dozen pounds of rump steaks, a couple of bars of 
hard iron, some pig lead, and brown stout. The 
consequence was, the dictator was sadly famished. 
All the ladies screamed; and then Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine admired the doctor's violet neck, and the 
marchioness looked with an anxious eye on Julie, 
and Miss Graves, as in duty bound, with an anxious 
eye on the marchioness. 

There stood the doctor, quite still, with his large 
yellow eye fixed on Mr. Mackaw. At length he 
perceived the cold pastry, and his little black wings 
began to flutter on the surface of his immence body. 
" Che, che, che, che !" said the ornithologist, 
who didn't like the symptoms at all : " Che, che, 
che, che, — don't be frightened, ladies I you see he's 
jnuzzled — che, che, che, che, — now, my dear doctor, 
now, now, now, Franky, Franky, Franky, now go 
away, go away, that's a dear doctor — che, che, che, 
che !" 

But the large yellow eye grew more flaming and 
fiery, and the little black wings grew larger and 
larger; and now the left leg was dashed to and fro, 
with a fearful agitation. Mackaw looked agonized. 
Pop ! what a whirr ! Francia is on the table ! 
All shriek, the chairs tumble over the ottomans — 
the Sevre china is in a thousand pieces — the 
muzzle is torn off and thrown at Miss Graves ; 
Mackaw's wig is dashed in the clotted cream, and 
devoured on the spot ; and the contents of the boil- 
ing urn are poured over the beauteous and beloved 
Julie ! 



CHAPTER VIIL 



THE VIVIAX PAPERS, 



Mr. CoLBunx insists that this is the only title 
under which 1 can possibly publish the letters which 

Vivian Grey received on the day of , 

18 — . I love to be particular in dates. 

THE HONOURABLE JIISS CTNTHIA COURTOWN TO 
VIVIAX GREY, ESa. 

Alburies, Oct. 18. 
" Dear Grey, — We have now been at Alburies 
for a fortnight. Nothing can be more delightful. 
Here is everybody in the world that I wish to see, 
except yourself. The Knightons, with as many 
outriders as usual : Lady Julia and myself are great 
allies, I like her amazingly. The Marquess of 
Grandgout arrived here last week, with a most de- 
licious party ; all the men who write John Bull. 
I was rather disappointed at the fir^t sight of Stanis- 
laus Hoax. I bad expected, I don't know why, 
something juvenile, and squibbish — when lo ! I 
was introduced to a corpulent individual, with his 
coat buttoned up to his chin, looking dull, gentle- 
manly, and apoplectic. However, on acquaintance 
he came out quite rich — sings delightful, and im- 
provises like a prophet — ten thousand times more 
entertaining than Pistrucci. We are sworn friends ; 
and I know all the secret history of John Bull. 



53 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



There is not much, to be sute, that you didn't tell 
me yourself; but still there are some things. I 
must not trust them, however, to paper, and there- 
fore pray dash down to Alburies immediately ; I 
shall be most happy to introduce you to Lord Devil- 
drain. There was an interview. What think you 
of that 1 Stanislaus told me all, circumstantially, 
and after dinnei — I don't doubt that it's quite true. 
What would you give for the secret history of the 
' rather yellow, rather yellow,' chanson ? I dare 
not tell it you. It came from a quarter that will 
quite astound you, and in a very elegant, small, 
female hand. You remember Lambton did stir 
very awkwardly in the Lisbon business. Stanis- 
laus wrote all the songs that appeared in the first 
numbers, except that ; but he never wrote a single 
line of prose for the first three months ; it all came 
from Vivida Vis. 

" I like the Marquess of Grandgout so much ! 
I hope he'll be elevated in the peerage : he looks 
as if he wanted it so : poor dear man ! 

" ! do you know I've discovered a liaison be- 
tween Bull and Blackwood 1 I'm to be in the 
next Noctes ; I forget the words of the chorus ex- 
actly, but Courtown is to rhyme wiXhport down, 
or something of that kind, and then they're to dash 
their glasses over their heads, give three cheers, and 
adjourn to whisky-toddy and the Chaldee chamber. 
How delightful ! 

" The Prima Donnas are at Cheltenham, looking 
most respectable. Do you ever see the Age ] It 
is not proper for me to take it in. Pray send me 
down your numbers, and tell me all about it ; that's 
a dear. Is it true that his lordship paragraphizes a 
little 1 

" I have not heard from Ernest Clay, which I 
think very odd. If you write to him, mention this, 
and tell him to send me word how Dormer Stan- 
hope behaves at mess. I understand there has 
been a melee, not much — merely a rouette : do get 
it all out of him. 

" Colonel Delmington is at Cheltenham, with 
the most knowing beard you can possibly conceive ; 
Lady Julia rather patronises him. Lady Doubtful 
has been turned out of the rooms ; fifty challenges 
in consequence, and one duel ; missed fire, of course. 

" I have heard from Alhambra ; he has been 
wandering about in all directions. He has been 
to the Lakes, and is now at Edinburgh. He likes 
Southey. He gave the laureate a quantity of hints 
for his next volume of the Peninsular War, but does 
not speak very warmly of Wordsworth, gentleman- 
ly man, but only reads his own poetry. I made 
him promise to go and see De Quincy ; and, like 
a good boy, he did ; but he says he's a complete 
humbug. What can he mean 1 He stayed some 
days at Sir Walter's and met Tom Moore. Singu- 
lar, that our three great poets should be together 
this summer ! He speaks in raptures of the great 
baronet, and of the beauties of Abbotsford. He met 
Tom Moore again in Edinburgh, and was present 
at the interview between him and Hogg. Lalla 
Rookh did not much like being called ' Tarn Muir,' 
and rather kicked at the shepherd. 

" Edinburgh is more delightful than you can 
possibly conceive. I certainly intend to go next 
summer. Alhambra is very intimate with John 
Wilson, who seems indeed a first-rate fellow, full 
»)t' fun and genius ; and quite as brilliant a hand 
at a comic song, as at a tragic drama. Do you 
know it struck me the other day, that comic song 



and tragedies are 'the lights and shadows' of 
literature. Pretty idea, is it not 1 

" Here has been a cousin of yours about us ; a 
young barrister going the circuit, by name Har- 
grave Grey. The name attracted my notice, and 
due inquiries having been made, and satisfactorily 
answered, I patronised the limb of law. For- 
tunate for him I I got him to all the fancy balls 
and pic-nics that were going on. He was in hea- 
ven for a fortnight, and at length, having over- 
stayed his time, he left us, also leaving his bag and 
only brief behind him. They say he's ruined for 
life. Write soon. 

" Yours, ever, 

" Ctnthia Courtows." 

EMfEST CLAT, ESQ.., TO TIVIAN GHEY, ESQ. 

" October—, 18—. 

" Dear Grey l-^-I am sick of key-bugles and 
country balls ! All the girls in town are in love 
Avith me — or my foraging cap. I am very much 
obliged to you for your letter to Kennet, which 
procured every thing I wanted. The family turned 
out bores, as you had prepared me. I never met 
such a clever family in my life; the father is 
summoning up courage to favour the world with 
a volume of sermons ; both the sons have had son- 
nets refused by the London magazines ; and Isa- 
bella Kennet most satisfactorily proved to me, after 
an argument of two hours, which, for courtesy's 
sake, I fought very manfully, that Sir Walter Scott 
was not the author of Waverley ; and then she 
vowed, as I have heard fifty other young literary 
ladies vow before, that she had ' seen the Antiquary 
in manuscripV' 

" There has been a slight row to diversify the 
monotony of our military life. Young Premium, 
the son of the celebrated loan-monger, has bought 
in ; and Dormer Stanhope, and one or two others 
equally fresh, immediately anticipated another Bat- 
tier business ; but with the greatest desire to make 
a fool of myself, I have a natural repugnance to 
mimicking the foolery of others; so with some 
little exertion, and very fortunately for young 
Premium, I got the tenth voted vulgar, on the 
score of curiosity, and we were civil to the man. 
As it turned out, it was all very well, for Premium 
is a quiet gentlemanly fellow enough, and exceed- 
ingly useful. He'll keep extra grooms for the 
whole mess, if they want it. He's very grateful 
to me for what does not deserve any gratitude, 
and for what gave me no trouble ; for I did not 
defend him from any feeling of kindness. And 
both the Mounteneys, and young Stapylton Toad, 
and Augustus, being in the regiment, why, I've 
very little trouble in commanding a majority, if it 
come to a division. 

" I dined the other day at old Premium's, who 
lives near this town in a magnificent old hall, ., 
which, however, is not near splendid enough for a i 
man who is the creditor of every nation from Cali- 
fornia to China ; and, consequently, the great Mr. 
Stucco is building a plaster castle for him in an- 
other part of the park. Glad am I enough, that I ! 
was prevailed upon to patronise the Premium; for- 
I think I never witnessed a more singular scenes 
than I did the day I dined there. 

" I was ushered through an actual street of ««r- 
vitors, whose liveries were really cloth of gold, , 
and whose elaborately powdered heads would noli 
have disgraced tlie most ancient mansion in »t.- 



VIVIAN GREY. 



James's Square, into a large and very crowded sa- 
loon. I was, of course, received with the most 
miraculous consideration ; and the car of Mrs. 
Premium seemed to dwell upon the jingling of my 
spurs, (for I am adjutant,) as upon the most ex- 
quisite music. It was b<ma fide evidence of ' the 
officers heing there.' She'll now be visited by 
the whole country. 

" Premium is a short, but by no means vulgar- 
looking man, about fifty, with a liigh forehead 
covered with wrinkles, and with eyes deeply sunk 
in his head. I never met a man of apparently 
less bustle, and of a cooler temperament. He was 
an object of observation from his very unobtru- 
siveness. There were, I immediately perceived, a 
great number of foreigners in the room. They 
looked much too knowing for Arguelies and Co., 
and I soon found that they were members of the 
difl'erent embassies, or missions of the various gov- 
ernments, to vi'hose infant existence Premium is 
foster-father. There were two very striking figures 
in oriental costume, who were shown to me as the 
Greek deputies — not that you are to imagine that 
they always appear in this picturesque dress. It 
was only as a particular favour, and to please Miss 
Premium, — there, Grey, my boy ! there's a quarry ! 
— that the illustrious envoys appeared habited, this 
cay, in their national costume. 

" I Grey, you would have enjoyed the scene. 
In one part of the room was a naval oflicer, just hot 
from the mines of Mexico, and lecturing eloquently 
on the passing of the Cordillera. In another, was 
a man of science, dilating on the miraculous pow- 
ers of a newly-discovered amalgamation process, 
to a knot of merchants, who, with bent brows and 
eager eyes, were already forming a company for 
its adoption. Here floated the latest anecdote of 
Bolivar ; and there a murmur of some new move- 
ment of Cochrane's. And then the perpetual bab- 
ble about ' rising states,' and ' new loans,' and ' en- 
lightened views,' and 'junctures of the two oceans,' 
and ' liberal principles,' and ' steamboats to Mexico,' 
and the earnest look which every one had in the 
room. ! how different to the vacant gaze that 
we have been accustomed to ! I was really par- 
ticularly struck by this circumstance. Every one 
at Premium's looked full of some great plan ; as 
if the fate of empires was on his very breath. I 
hardly knew whether they were most like conspi- 
rators, or gamblers, or the lions of a public dinner, 
conscious of an universal gaze, and consequently 
looking proportionately interesting. One circum- 
stance particularly struck me : as I was watching 
the acute countenance of an individual, who young 
Premium informed me was the Chilian minister, 
and who was listening with great attention to a 
dissertation from Captain Tropic, the celebrated 
traveller, on the feasibility of a railroad over the 
Andes — I observed a very great sensation among 
all those around me ; every one shifting, and shuf- 
fling, and staring, and assisting in that curious and 
confusing ceremony, called maJdng way. Even 
Premium appeared a little excited, when he came 
forward with a smile on his face, to receive an in- 
dividual, apparently a foreigner, and who stepped 
on with great, though gracious dignity. Being 
very curious to know who this great man was, I 
found that this was an ambassador — the represen- 
tative of a recognised state. 

" 'Pon my honour, when I saw all this, I could 
not refrain from moralizing on the magic of 



wealth, and when I just remember the embryo plot 
of some young huzzar officers to cut the son of 
the magician, I rather smiled ; but while I, with 
even greater reverence than all others, was making 
way for his excellency, I observed Mrs. Premium 
looking at my spurs — ' Farewell, Philosophy !' 
thought I, ' puppyism for ever !' 

" Dinner was at last announced, and the nice 
etiquette which was observed between recognised 
states and non-recognised states, was really exces- 
sively amusing : not only the ambassador would 
take precedence of the mere political agent, but 
his excellency's private secretary was equally te- 
nacious as to the agent's private secretary. At 
length we were all seated : — the spacious dining- 
room was hung round with portraits of the most 
of the successful revolutionary leaders, and over 
Mr. Premium was suspended a magnificent portrait 
of Bolivar. ! Grey, if you could but have seen 
the plate ! By Jove ! I have eaten off the silver 
of most of the first families in England, yet, never 
in my life, did it enter into my imagination, that 
it was possible for the most ingenious artist that 
ever existed, to repeat a crest half so often in a 
table spoon, as in that of Premium. The crest is 
a bubble, and really the effect produced by it is 
most ludicrous. 

" [ was very much struck at table, by the ap- 
pearance of an individual who came in very late, 
but who was evidently, by his bearing, no insigni- 
ficant personage. He was a tall man, with a long 
hooked nose, and high cheek bones, and with an 
eye — (were you ever at the Old Bailey 1 there you 
may see its fellow ;) — his complexion looked as if 
it had been accustomed to the breezes of many 
climes; and -his hair, which had once been red, 
was now silvered, or rather iron-grayed, not by 
age. Yet there were in his whole bearing, in his 
slightest actions, even in the easy, desperate air 
with which he took a glass of wine, an indefinable 
— something (you know what I mean) which at- 
tracted your unremitting attention to him. I was 
not wrong in my suspicions of his celebrity ; for, 
as Miss Premium, whom I sat next to, (eh ! Grey, 
my boy, how are you T ' 'tis a very fine thing for a 
father-in-law,' &c*, &c.,) whispered, ' he was quite 
a lion.' It was Lord Oceanville. What he is 
after, no one knows. Some say he is going to 
Greece, others whisper an invasion of Paraguay, 
and others of course say other things, perhaps 
equally correct. I think he's for Greece. I know 
he's tire most extraordinary man I ever met with. 
I'm getting prosy. Good b'ye ! Write soon. 
Any fun going on ] How is Cynthia 1 I ought 
to "have written. How's Mrs. Felix Lorraine] 
she's a d — d odd woman ! 

" Yours, faithfully, 

" JErxest Clat." 

JfR. DAXIEL GROVES TO TITIAN GRET, ESa. 

« Sir, — I have just seen Sir Hanway, who gave 
me a letter from you, requesting me to furnish you 
with my ideas on the state of the agricultural in- 
terest ; and to think of John Conyers for the farm 
of Maresfield, now vacant. 

'•With respect to the former, 1 can't help think- 
ing ministers remarkable wrong on the point of the 
game laws particularly, to say nothing of the duty 
on felled timber, malt, and brown mustard. 'Tayn't 
the greatness of the duty that makes the increase 
of the revenue. That's my maxim. 
s2 



54 



D'lSKAELl'S NOVELS. 



"As to Maresfield, I certainly had an eye to it 

for my second son, William, as my mistress says, 
he's now getting fittish to look out for himself in 
the world — and then there's my nephew at Edge- 
combe, the son of my sister Mary, who manied 
one of the Wrights at Upton, and I always pro- 
mised old Mr. Wright to see Tom well done by. 
That's the ground I stand upon. But, certainly, 
to oblige your honour, I can't say but what I'll 
think of it. 

" Sir Hanway says, Conyers told him that 
Whitefooted Moll died on Wednesday, She was, 
as your honour always said, a pretty creature. 
I'alking of this, puts me in mind, that if your 
honour comes in for Mounteney, which they're 
talking of in these parts, I hope you'll say some- 
thing about the tax on cart-horses. This is the 
ground I stand upon — if a gentleman keeps a horse 
for pleasure, it's only right government should 
have the benefit: but when it's to promote the 
agricultural interest, my maxim is, it's remarkable 
wrong to tax 'em all promiscuous. 

" As for Conyers, I can't help thinking his cot- 
tage might be removed : it stands in the midst of 
one of the finest pieces of cornland in this countiy ; 
and I said so the other day to Mr. Stapylton Toad, 
but he's not a man as'll take advice. That Marcs- 
field farm is a nice bit for game, as I believe your 
honour well knows. I took out Snowball and 
IVegro the other morning, with young Fletcher of 
Upton — he's the third cousin of old Mrs. Wright's 
sister-in-law's niece — we coursed three hares, and 
killed one just opposite Gunter's on the hill, who's 
a bit of a relation again on my wife's side ; so I just 
looked in and took a crust of bread and cheese, for 
civility costs nothing — that's my maxim. 

" The new beer bill is felt a grievance — John 
Sandys says as my men won't be satisfied with 
less than ten strike to the hogshead; this is re- 
markable wrong. So you may make your mind 
easy about John Conyers : I've been talking to my 
in'lstress, and the upshot of it is, that I'll take my 
old horse and ride over to Stapylton Toad and 
settle with him about the removal ; and if I can 
give you any more information on this point, or 
any thing else relating to our part of the world, or 
the com-laws in general, I shall be very happy to 
remain 

" Your honour's obedient servant, 

" DANr>;L GiiovKS, 

" P. S. The half pipe of port wine I told you 
of is come in, and I think it promises to be as good 
sterling stuff as ever you need wish to taste — some 
hodij in it — none of your French vinegary slip-slop. 
Depend on't, port's the wine for Englishmen — 
there's some stamina in it: that's the ground I 
stand upon." 

harghave cnET, esq.., to vivian- gret, Esa- 
''October — , 17 — . 
"Dp.aii Vivian, — You ought not to expect a 
otter fi-om me. I cannot conceive why you do not 
occasionally answer your correspondents' letters, 
if correspondents they may be called. It is really 
a most unreasonable habit of your:? ; any one but 
myself would quarrel with you. 

" A letter from Baker met me at this place, and 
I find that the whole of that most disagreeable and 
annoying business is arranged. From the prompti- 
tude, skill, and energy, which are apparent in the 
whole afi'air, I suspect I have to thank the very 



gentleman, whom I was just going to quarrel with 
You're a good fellow, Vivian, after all. For want 
of a brief, I sit dow-n to give you a sketch of my 
adventures on this my first circuit. 

" This circuit is a cold and mercantile adventure, 
and I'm disappointed in it. JXot fo either, for I 
looked for but little to enjoy. Take one day of n^y 
life as a specimen ; the rest are mostly alike. The 
sheriff's trumpets are playing, — one, some tune 
of which I know nothing, and the other no tune 
at all. I'm obliged to turn out at eight. It is the 
first day of the assize, so there is some chance of a 
brief, being a new place, I push my way into 
court through files of attorneys, as civil to the 
rogues as possible, assuring them there is plenty 
of room, though I am at the very moment gasping 
for breath, wedged in a lane of well lined waistcoats. 
I get into court, take my place in the quietest cor- 
ner, and there I sit, and pass other men's fees and 
briefs hke a twopenny postman only witliout pay. 
Well ! 'tis six o'clock — dinner time — at the bottom 
of the table — carve for all — speak to none — nobody 
speaks to me — must vi'ait till la.-t to sum up, and 
pay the bill. Reach home quite devoured by 
spleen, after having heard eveiy one abused, who 
happened to be absent. 

" You wished me many briefs, but only one of 
your wishes have come to pass, and that at this 
place ; but I flatter myself I got up the law of the 
case in a most masterly style ; and I am sure you 
will allow me to be capable of so doing, when I 
relate the particulars : — 

" Indictment states, that prisoner, on, &c., at, 
&c., from out of a certain larder, etole a pork pie. 

"2d count — a meat pie. 

" 3d count — a pie in general. 

" The great question was, whether the ofifence 
was complete or not, the felon not having carried 
it out of the larder, but only conveyed it into his 
own pocket : — that is, all he could not eat. 

" Plea : — he was hungiy. 

"Per Bolter Baron. — 'He must not satisfy his 
appetite at another person's expense, so let him be 
whipped, and discharged ; and let the treasurer of 
the county pay the expenses of this prosecution.' 
W^hich were accordingly allowed, to the amount 
of something under fifty pounds. 

" Don't turn up the whites of your eyes, Vivian ; 
and, in the fulness of your indignation, threaten us 
with all the horrors of parliamentary interference. 
The fact is, on this circuit, to judge of the number 
of ofl'ences tried, such a theft is as enormous as a 
burglary, with one or two throats cut, in London , 
for pork pies are the staple of the county : and they 
export them by canal to all parts of the world 
whereto the canals run, which the natives imagine 
to be to parts beyond seas at least. 

" I travelled to this pl'ace with Manners, whom 
I believe you know, and amused myself by getting 
from him an account of my fellows, anticipating, 
at the same time, what in fact happened : — to wit, 
that I should afterwards get his character from 
them. It is strange how freely they deal with 
each other — that is, the person spoken of being 
away. I would not have had you see cur Stan- 
hope for half a hundred pounds: your jealousy 
would have been so excited. To say the truth, 
we are a little rough ; — our mane wants pulling, 
and our hoofs trimming, but we jog along without 
pcrformmg either operation : and, by dint of rattling 
the whip against the s|jlash-board, using all ow/>! 



VIVIAN GREY. 



55 



persuasion of hand and voice, and jerking the bit 

in his mouth, we do contrive to get into the circuit- 
town, usually just about the time that the sheriff 

and his posse comitatus are starting to meet my 

lord the king's justice : — and that is the worst of it; 

for their horses are prancing and pawing coursers 

just out of the stable, — sleek skins and smart 

drivers. We begin to be knocked up just then, 

and our appearance is the least briUiant of any 

part of the day. Here I had to pass through a host 

of these powdered, scented fops; and the multitude 

who had assembled to gaze on the nobler exhibi- 
tion rather scoffed at our humble vehicle. As 

Manners had just then been set down to find the 

inn and lodging, I could not jump out and leave 

our equipage to its fate, so I settled my cravat, and 

seemed not to mind it — only I did. 

'■ Manners has just come in, and insists upon 

my going to the theatre with him. I shall keep 

this back another post, to tell you whether I re- 
ceive another letter from Baker, at d! 

"No letter from Baker, but I find it so dull 

sitting in court with nothing to do, that I shall 

trouble you with a few more lines from myself. 

The performance last night was rather amusing: 

Eoraeo and Juliet turned into a melo-drame, to suit 

the taste of the vicinity. The nasal tones of Juliet's 
voice in the love-scenes, must have been peculiarly 
moving to any Romeo, but to that for whom they 
were intended, they seemed so much in earnest, 
that he must have been quite enraptured. There 
were no half meetings. Juliet entered fully into 
the feeling of the poet ; and hung about his neck, 
and kissed his lips — all like life, to the great edifi- 
cation of the audience assembled ; which, as it was 
assize week, was a very brilliant one. In such a 
company, there nmst necessarily be economy used 
in the actors and actresses. Thus, as Mercutio is 
killed off in the first act, he afterwards performs 
the Friar, and the Friar himself figures as the 
chief dancer in the masquerade : but I was most 
charmed at discovering Juliet's nasal tones in her 
own dirge — a wonderful idea, never before intro- 
duced on any stage. I was led to make this dis- 
covery, not merely by the fact of her voice being 
undisguised, but from an unfortunate accident 
which occun'ed at the funeral. As the deceased 
heroine was a chief mourner, her beloved corpse 
had to be performed by a bundle of rags, or some- 
thing of the kind, laid upon a sort of school form, 
and earned by herself and five other ladies in 
white : — so, as the music was rather quick, and the 
mourners had to perform pus de zephyr all round 
the stage, and Juliet did not keep very good time, 
while the virgins on one side were standing on 
their left legs towards the audience, as nearly in a 
horizontal posture as possible, the daughter of 
Capulet, and her battalion, began performing on 
the wrong leg, and in the consequent scuffle the 
bier overturned ! The accident, however, was 
speedily rectified, and the procession moved on to 
the music of two fiddles and one bell. Juliet's 
tomb was a snug little parlour with blue panels, 
and Romeo drank gin instead of poison, which 
Shakspeare must have surely intended, or else it 
was quite out of nature to make Juliet exclaim. 
What, churl ! not left one drop !' 
" But I must leave off this nonsense, and attend 
to his lordship's charge, which is now about to 
commence. I have not been able to get you a 
single good murder, although I have kept a sharp | When it was all over, his lordship once more fixed 



look out as you desired me ; but there's a chanca 

of a first-rate one at n. 

" I am quite delighted with Mr, Justice St. Prose. 
He is at this moment in a most entertaining pas- 
sion, preparatory to a ' conscientious' summing up ; 
and in order that his ideas may not be disturbed, 
he has very liberally ordered the door-keeper to 
have the door oiled immediately, at his own ex- 
pense. Now for my lord the king's justice. 
" ' Gentlemen of the jury ! 

" ' The noise is insufferable — the heat is intole- 
rable — the door-keepers let the people keep shuf- 
fling in — the ducks in the comer are going quack, 
quack, quack — here's a little girl being tried for her 
life, and the judge can't hear a word that's said. 
Bring me my black cap, and I'll condemn her to 
death instantly.' 

" ' You can't, my lord,' shrieks the infant sin- 
ner ; ' it's only for petty larceny I' 

" This is agreeable, is it not ? but let us see 
what the next trial will produce : — this was an ac- 
tion of tresfiass, for breaking off the pump handle, 
knocking down the back-kitchen door, spitting on 
the parlour carpet, and tumbling the maid's head 
about. 

" ' Plea. — That the defendants, eight in number, 
entered in aid of the constable, under warrant of a 
magistrate, to search for stolen goods. 

"John Staff, examined by Mr. Shuffleton. 
" ' Well, Mr. Constable, what have you to say 
about this affair 1' 

" ' Why, sir, I charged them men to assist me in 
the king's name.' 

" ' What, eight of you 1 why, there was only an 
old woman, and a boy, and the servant girl in the 
house. You must have been terribly frightened at 
them, ehl' 

" ' Can't say for that, sir, only they was needful.' 
" ' Why, what could you want so many for V 
" ' Why, you see, sir, I couldn't read the war- 
rant myself, so I charged Abraham Lockit to read 
it for me ; and when he came, he said as it was 
Squire Jobson's writing, and so he could not, and 
then I had occasion to charge Simon Lockit, and 
he read it.' 

" ' Well, that's only two : what were the rest for?' 
" ' Why, yom- honour, they was to keep the wc 
men quiet.' 

" Mr. Justice St. Prose. — ' Take care what you're 
about, witness. I consider it my duty to advise 
you not to laugh ; it is, in my opinion, a contempt 
of court, and I therefore desire you to restrain your- 
self.' 

"Mr. Shufflelor). — 'But you haven't told me 
why you wanted these other six men.' 

" ' Why, the women, d'ye see, sir, was so very 
unruly in the kitchen ; and so I charged them to 
keep 'em quiet.' 

" ' Now, sir, what do you call keeping the wo- 
men quiet, pulling the maid's cap off, and — ]' 

" Mr. Justice St. Prose. (To a person oppo- 
site.) — ' You'll excuse me, sir, but I think that 
those two little gentlemen had better leave the 
court till this examination is over.' 

'• His lordship ' thought it his duty' to give a 
similar warning to two very pretty j'oung ladies in 
pink bonnets and green pelisses. They were, how- 
ever, so obstinate as to remain in court, until they 
had heard the whole circumstantial and improper 
evidence, of the destruction of the maid's cap. 



56 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



kiis large ejes on the constable, and thus deUvered 
liimself: — 

" ' Now, Mr. Constable, to remove the sting of 
any remark which may have dropped from me 
during this trial, I will allow that, very probably, 
you had reason to laugh.' — Mr. Constable looked 
quitf: relieved. 

" By way of variety, I will give a specimen of 
his lordship's style of cross-examination. 

" Enter a witness with a flourishing pair of 
whiskers, approximating to a King Charles. 

" Mr. Justice St. Prose. — ' Pray, sir, tvho are 
youl' 

" Whiskered witness. — ' An architect, my lord.' 
" Mr. J. St. Prose. — ' An aixhitect ! sir ; are 
you not in the army V 

« W. W. (Agitated.)—' No, my lord.' 
" Mr. J. St. Prose. — ' Never were V 
" W. W. (Much browbeat.) — ' No, my lord.' 
" Mr. J. St. Prose. — ' Then, sir, what right have 
you to wear those whiskers 1 I consider that you 
can't be a respectable young man, and I sha'n't al- 
low you your expenses.' 

" I have just got an invite from the Kearneys. 
Congratulate me. 

" Dear Vivian, yours, faithfully, 

"Harghave Grey." 

LADT SCnOTE TO VITIAJf GKET, ESa. 

" Ormshy Park, Oct. — , 18 — . 

" Mt DEATi Vivian, — By desire of Sir Berd- 
more, (is not this pretty and proper 1) I have to 
request the fulfilment of a promise, upon the hope 
of which being performed, I have existed through 
this dull month. Pray, my dear Vivian, come 
to us immediately. Ormshy has at present little 
to offer for your entertainment. We have had that 
unendurable bore, Vivacity Dull, with us for a 
whole fortnight. A report of the death of the lord 
chancellor, or a rumour of the production of a new 
tragedy, has carried him up to town ; hut whether 
it be to ask for the seals, or to indite an ingenious 
prologue to a play which will be condemned the 
first night, I cannot inform you. I am quite sure 
he is capable of doing either. However, we shall 
have other deer in a few days. 

" I believe you have never met the Mounteneys 
— no, I'm sure you have not. They have never 
been at Hallesbrooke since you have been at 
Desir. They are coming to us immediately. I 
am sure you will like them very much. Lord 
Mounteney is one of those kind, easy-minded, ac- 
complished men, who, after all, arc nearly the 
pleasantest society one ever meets. Rather wild 
in his youth, but with his estate now unincum- 
bered, and himself perfectly domestic. His lady 
is an unaffected, agreeable woman. But it is Caro- 
line Mounteney whom I wish you particularly to 
meet. She is one of those delicious creatures, who, 
in spite of not being married, are actually con- 
versable. Spirited, without any allectation or 
brusquerie ; beautiful, and knowing enough to be 
quite conscious of it ; and perfectly accomplished, 
and yet never annoying you with tattle about 
Rochsa, and Ronzi de Begnis, and D'Egville. 

" We also expect the Delmonts, the most en- 
durable of the Anglo-Italians that I know. Mrs. 
Delmont is not always dropping her handkerchief 
like Lady Gusto, as if she expected a miserable 
cavalier servente to be constantly upon his knees, 



or giving those odious expressive looks, which quile 
destroy my nerves whenever I am under the same 
roof as that horrible Lady Soprano. There is a 
little too much talk, to be sure, about Roman 
churches, and newly-discovered Mosaics, and Ab- 
bete Mali, but still we cannot expect perfection. 
There are reports going about that Ernest Clay is 
either ruined, going to be married, or about to 
write a novel. 

" Perhaps all are true. Young Premium has 
nearly lost his character, by driving a square-built, 
striped green thing, drawn by one horse. Ernest 
Clay got him through this terrible affair. What 
can he the reasons of the Sieur Ernest's excessive 
amiability 1 

" Both the young Mounteneys are with their 
regiment, but Aubrey Vere is coming to us, and 

I've half a promise from ; but I know you 

never speak to unmarried men, so why do I men- 
tion them 1 Let me, I beseech you, my dear Vivian, 
have a few days of you to myself, before you are 
introduced to Caroline Mounteney. I did Jiot 
think it was possible that I could exist so long 
without seeing you ; but you really must not try 
me too much, or I shall quarrel with you. I have 
received all your letters, which are very, very 
agreeable ; but I think rather imprudent. If you 
don't behave better, I shan't pet you — I shan't in- 
deed ; so do not put off coming a single moment 
Adieu! Henriette Scrope." 

HORACE GREY, ESQ,-, TO VIVIAN GRET, ESa. 

"Paris, Oct. 18—. 

" Mr DEAR ViTiAN, — I have received your Ics-t 
letter, and have read it with mixed feelings of as- 
tonishment and sorrow. 

" You are now, my dear son, a member of what 
is called, k ffrand monde — society formed on anti- 
social principles. Apjiarently, you have possessed 
yourself of the object of your wishes; but the scenes 
you live in are very movable ; the characters you 
associate with are all masked ; and it will always 
be doubtful, whether you can retain that longer, 
which has been obtained by some slippery artifice. 
Vivian, you are a juggler; and the deception of 
your slight-of-hand tricks depend upon instanta- 
neous motions. 

" When the selfish combine with the selfish, 
bethink you how many j)rojects are doomed to 
disappointment ! how many cross interests bafRe 
the parties, at the same time joined together with- 
out ever uniting ! What a mockery is their love ! 
but how deadly are their hatreds ! All this great 
society, with whom so young an adventurer has 
trafficked, abate nothing of their price in the slavery 
of their service, and the sacrifice of violated feel- 
ings. What sleepless nights has it cost you to 
win over the disobliged, to conciliate the discon- 
tented, to cajole the contumacious ! You ma^ 
smile at the hollow flatteries, answering to flatteries 
as hollow, which, like bubbles when they touch, 
dissolve into nothing: but tell me, Vivian, what 
has the sclf-tormenter felt at the laughing treache- 
ries, which force a man down into self-contem[)t 1 

*• Is it not obvious, my dear Vivian, that true 
fame, and true happiness, must rest upon the im- 
perishable social affections 1 I do not mean that 
coterie celebrity, which paltry minds accept as 
fame, but that which exists independent of the 
opinions, or the intrigues of individuals ; nor do 1 



VIVIAN GREY. 



57 



mean that glittering show of perpetual converse 
with the world, which some miserable wanderers 
call happiness ; but that which can only be drawn 
from the sacred and solitary fountain of j'our own 
feelings. 

" Active as you have now become in the great 
scenes of human affairs, I would not have you 
guided by any fanciful theories of morals or of 
human nature. Philosophers have amused them- 
selves by deciding on human actions by systems ; 
but as these systems are of the most opposite na- 
tures, it is evident that each philosopher, in reflect- 
ing his own feelings in the system he has so 
elaborately formed, has only painted his own cha- 
racter. 

" Do not, therefore, conclude with Hobbes and 
Mandcville, that man lives in a state of civil war- 
fare with man ; nor with Shaftesbury, adorn with a 
poetical philosophy our natural feelings. Man is 
neither the vile nor the excellent being which he 
sometimes imagines himself to be. He does not 
so nmch act by system as by sympathy. If this 
creature cannot always feel for others, he is doom- 
ed to feel for himself; and the vicious are, at least, 
blessed with the curse of remorse. 

" You are now inspecting one of the worst por- 
tions of society, in what is called the great world ; 
(St. Giles's is bad, but of another kind ;) and it 
may be useful, on the principle that the actual 
sight of brutal ebriety was supposed to have in- 
spired youth with the virtue of temperance, on the 
same principle that the Platonist, in the study of 
defonnity, conceived the beautiful. Let me warn 
you not to fall into the usual error of youth, in 
fancying that the circle you move in is precisel}' 
the world itself. Do not imagine that there are 
not other beings, whose benevolent principle is 
governed by finer sympathies, by more generous 
passions, and by those nobler emotions which 
really constitute all our public and private virtues. 
I give this hint, lest, in your present society, you 
might suppose these virtues were merely historical. 

*' Once more I must beseech you not to give 
loose to any elation of mind. The machinery by 
which you have attained this unnatural result, 
must be so complicated, that, in the very tenth 
hour, you will find yourself stopped in some part 
where you never counted on an impediment ; and 
the want of a slight screw, or a little oil, will pre- 
vent you from accomplishing your magnificent 
end. 

" We arc, and have been, very dull here. There 
is every probability of Madame de Genlis writing 
more volumes than ever. I called on the old lady, 
and was quite amused with the enthusiasm of her 
imbecility. Chateaubriand is getting what you 
call a bore ,■ and the whole city is mad about a 
new opera by Boieldieu. Your mother sends her 
love, and desires me to say, that the salmi of 
woodcocks, a la Lucul/us, which you write about, 
does not differ from the practice here in vogue ; 
but we have been much pleased with ducks, with 
olive sauce, about which she particularly wishes to 
consult you. How does your cousin Hargrave 
prosper on his circuit 1 The Delmingtons are 
here, which makes it very pleasant for your mo- 
ther, as well as for myself; for it allows me to 
hunt over the old book shops at my leisure. There 
are no new books worth sending you, or they 
would accompany this ; but I would recommend 
you to gel Meyer's new volume from Treuttel and 



Wurtz, and continue to make notes as yoU read it 
Give my compliments to the marquess, and be- 
lieve me 

" Your most affectionate father, 

" HoaACE Grey." 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE DEPAHTUHE, 

It was impossible for any human being to be- 
have with more kindness than the Marquess of 
Carabas did to Vivian Grey, after that young gen- 
tleman's short conversation with Mrs. FeUx Lor- 
raine, in the conservatory. The only feeling 
which seemed to actuate the peer, was an eager 
desire to compensate, by his present conduct, for 
any past misunderstanding, and he loaded his 
young friend with all possible favour. Still Vivian 
was about to quit Chateau Desir, and in spite of 
all that had passed, he was extremely loath to leave 
his noble friend under the guardianship of his fe- 
male one. 

About this time the Duke and Dutchess of Jug- 
gernaut, the very pink of aristocracy, the wealth- 
iest, the proudest, the most ancient, and most 
pompous couple in Christendom, honoured Cha- 
teau Desir with their presence for two days ; only 
two day^, making the marquess's mansion a con- 
venient resting-place in one of their princely 
castles. 

Vivian contrived to gain the heart of her grace, 
by his minute acquaintance with the Juggernaut 
pedigree ; and having taken the opportunity, in 
one of their conversations to describe Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine as the most perfect specimen of divine 
creation with which he was acquainted, at the 
same time the most amusing and the most amiable 
of women, that lady was honoured with an invita- 
tion to accompany her grace to Himalaya Cas- 
tle. As this was the greatest of all possible ho- 
nours, and as Desir was now very dull, Mrs. Felix 
Lorraine accepted the invitation, or ruther obeyed 
the command, for the marquess would not hear of 
a refusal, Vivian having dilated, in the most ener- 
getic terms, on the opening which now presented 
itself of gaining the Juggernaut. The coast being 
thus cleared, Vivian set otf the next day for Sir 
Berdmore Scrope's. 



BOOK THE FOURTH. 

CHAPTER L 

The important time drew nigh. Christmas 
was to be passed by the Carabas family, the Bca- 
consfields, the Scropes, and the Clevelands, at 
Lord Courtown's villa at Richmond : at which 
place, on account of its vicinity to the metropolis, 
the viscount had determined fi) make out the holi- 
days, notwithstanding the Thames entered his 
kitchen windows, and the Donna del Lago was 
acted in the theatre with real water — Cynthia 
Courtown performing Elena, paddling in a punt. 

" Let us order our horses, Cleveland, round to 
the Piccadilly gate, and walk through the guards. 
I must stretch my legs. That bore, Horace But- 
tonhole, captured me in Pall-Mall East, and haa 



58 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



kept me in the same position for upwards of half 
au hour I shall make a note to blackball him at 
the Athenaeum. How's Mrs. Cleveland]" 

"Extremely well. She goes down to Buck- 
hurst Lodge with the marchioness. Isn't that 
liOrd Lowersdale?" 

" His very self. He's going to call on Vivida 
Vis, I've no doubt. Lowersdale is a man of very 
fonsiderable talent — much more than the world 
gives him credit for." 

" And he doubtless finds a very able counsellor 
in Monsieur Ic Secretaire 1" 

" Can you name a better one ?" 
'• You rather patronise Vivida, I think, Grey?" 
" Patronise him ! he's ni}' political pet !" 
" And yet Kcrrison tells me, you reviewed the 
Suffolk papers in the Edinburgh." 

" So I did — what of that ! I defended them in 
Blackwood." 

" This, then, is the usual method of you literary 
gentlemen. Thank God ! I never could write a 
line !" 

" York House rises proudl}' — if York House be 
its name." 

"This confounded Catholic question is likely to 
give us a great deal of trouble. Grey. It's perfect 
madness for us to advocate the cause of the 'six 
millions of hereditary bondsmen ;' and yet, with 
not only the Marchese, but even Courtown and 
Beaconsfield committed, it is, to say the least, a 
very delicate business." 

" Very delicate, certainly ; but there are some 
precedents, I shrewdly suspect, Cleveland, for the 
influence of a party being opposed to measures, 
which the heads of that party had pledged them- 
selves to adopt." 

*' Does old Gifford still live at Pamlico, Grey 1" 
« Still." 

" He's a splendid fellow after all." 
" Certainly, a mind of great powers — but bi- 
goted." 

" ! yes, I know exactly what you're going to 
say. It's the fashion, I'm aware, to abuse the old 
gentleman. He's the Earl of Eldon of literature ; 
— not the less loved because a little vilified. But, 
when I just remember what Gifford has done — 
when I call to mind the perfect and triumphant 
success of every thing he has undertaken — the 
Anti-Jacobin — the Baviad and MaDviad — the 
Quarterly — all palpable hits — on the very jugular 
— upon my honour, I hesitate before I speak of 
William Gifford in any otlier terms, or in any 
other spirit, than those of admiration and of grati- 
tude. 

" And to think, Grey, that the tory athninistra- 
tion, and the tory party of Great Britain, should 
never, by a single act, or in one si.igle instance, 
have indicated that they were in the least aware 
that the exertions of suck a man differed in the 
slightest degree from those of Hunt and Hone ! — 
O ! Grey, of all the delusions which flourish in 
this mad world, the delusion of that man is the 
most tVantic, who voluntarily, and of his own ac- 
cord, supports the interest of a party. I mention 
this to you, because it is the rock on which all 
young politicians strike. Fortunately, you enter 
life under different circumstances from those which 
usually attend most political debutants. You 
have your connexions formed, and your views 
ascertained. But if, by any chance, you find your- 



self independent and unconnected, never, for a 
moment, suppose that you can accomplish your 
objects by coming forward, unsolicited, to fight the 
battle of a party. They will cheer your success- 
ful exertions, and then smile at your youthful 
zeal — or, crossing themselves for the unexpected 
succour, be too cowardly to reward their unex- 
pected champion. No, Grey, make them fear 
you, — and they will kiss your feet. There is no 
act of treachery or meanness of which a political 
party is not capable ; — for in politics there is no 
honour. 

" As to Gifford, I am surprised at their conduct 
towards him, — although I know better than most 
men of what wood a minister is made, and how 
much reliance may be placed upon the gratitude 
of a party ; but Canning — from Canning I cer- 
tainly did expect different conduct." 

" O, Canning ! I love the man : but as you say, 
Cleveland, ministers have short memories, and 
Canning's — that was Antilles that just passed us; 
apropos to whom I quite rejoice that the marquess 
has determined to take such a decided course on 
the West Indian question." 

" 0, yes ! curse your East India sugar." 
" To be sure — slavery and sweetmeats for ever." 
" I was always for the West India interest, from 
a boy, Grey. I had an aunt who was a Creole, 
and who used to stuff me with guava jelly, and 
small, delicate limes, that looked, for all the world, 
like emeralds powdered with diamond dust." 

" Pooh ! my dear Cleveland ; they should not 
have looked like any such thing. What your 
Creole aunt gave you must have been candied. 
The delicate fruit should swim in an ocean of cla- 
rified sugar." 

" I believe you're right. Grey ; I sacrificed truth 
to a trope. Do you like the Barbadoes ginger?" 

" If it is mild, and of a pale golden colour. How 
delicious the Bordeaux flows after it I O ! the 
West India interest for ever !" 

" But aside with joking, Grey, I really think, 
that if any man of average ability dare rise in the 
House, and rescue many of the great questions of 
the day from what Dugald Stewart', or D'Israeli, 
would call the spirit of political religionism, with 
which they are studiously mixed up, he would not 
fail to make a great impression upon the House, 
and a still greater one upon the countiy." 

" I quite agree with you ; and certainly I should 
recommend commencing with the West India 
question. Singular state of affairs ! when even 
Canning can only insinuate his opinion, when the 
very existence of some of our most valuable colo- 
nies is at stake, and when even his insinuations 
are only indulged with an audience, on the condi- 
tion that he favours the House with an introduc- 
tory discourse of twenty minutes on ' the divine 
Author of our faith' — and an eloge of equal length 
on the esprit rlu Christlanisme, in a style wor- 
thy of Chateaubriand." 

" Miserable work, indeed ! I have got a pamph- 
let on the West India question sent me this 
morning. Do you know any raving lawyer, any 
mad master in chancery, or something of the kind, 
who meddles in these affairs?" 

" O ! Stephens I a puddle in a storm ! He's for 
a crusade for the regeneration of the Antilles — tha 
most forcible of fecbles — the most energetic of 
drivellers, — Velluti acting Pietro L'Eremita." 



VIVIAN GREY. 



59^^ 



" Do you know, by any chance, whether 
Southey's Vindiciae is out yet] I wanted to look 
it over during the hoUdays." 

" Not out — though it has been advertised some 
time ; but what do you expect V 

" Nay ! it's an interesting controversy, as con- 
troversies go. Not exactly Milton and Salmasius 
— but fijjr enough." 

"Oil don't know. It has long degenerated 
into a mere personal bickering between the lau- 
reate and Butler. Southey is, of course, revelling 
in the idea of writing an English work with a 
Latin title ; and that, perhaps, is the only circum- 
stance 101 which the controversy is prolonged." 

" But Southey, after all, is a man of splendid 
talents." 

" Doubtless — the most philosophical of bigots, 
and the most poetical of prose writers." 

'* Aprofjos to the Catholic question — there goes 
Colonel Botherem, trying to look like Prince Met- 
temicli ; a decided failure." 

" What can keep him in town 1" 
" Writitig letters, I suppose. Heaven preserve 
me from receiving any of them !" 

" Is it true, then, that his letters are of the aw- 
ful length that is whispered 1" 

" True ! O ! they're sometliing beyond all con- 
ception ! Perfect epistolary boa constrictors. I 
speak with feeling, for I have myself suffered under 
their voluminous windings." 

'• Have you seen his quarto volume — ' The Cure 
for the CathoUc Question 1' " 
" Yes." 

" If you have it, lend it to me. What kind of 
tiling is it 1" 

'■ ! what should it be ! ingenious, and imbe- 
cile. — He advises the Catholics, in the old nursery 
language, to behave like good boys — to open their 
mouths and shut their eyes, and see what God 
will send them." 

" Well, that's the usual advice. Is there nothing 
more characteristic of the writer 1" 

" What think you of a proposition of making 
Jocky of Norfolk patriarch of England, and of an 
ascertained credo for our Catholic fellow-subjects — 
ingenious, isn't it !" 

" Have you seen Puff's new volume of Ariosto V 
" I have. Vv'hat could possibly have induced 
Mr. Parthenopex Puff to have undertaken such a 
duty ! Mr. Puff is a man destitute of poetical 
powers ; possessing no vigour of language, and 
gifted with no happiness of expression. His 
translation is hard, dry, and husky as the outside 
of a cocoa-nut. I am amused to see the excellent 
tact with which the public have determined not to 
read his volumes, in spite of the incessant exer- 
tions of a certain set to insure their popularity ; 
but the time has gone by, when the smug coterie 
could create a reputation." 

'■Do you think the time ever existed Cleveland!" 
" What could have seduced Puff into being so 
ambitious 1 I suppose his admirable knowledge 
of Italian ; as if a man were entitled to strike a 
die ibr the new sovereign, merely because he vv'as 
aware how much alloy might legally debase its 
carats of pure gold." 

'• I never can pardon Puff for that little book on 
cats. The idea was admirable ; but instead of one 
of the most delightful volumes that ever appeared, 
to take up a dull, tame compilation from Bingley's 
Animal Biography !" 



" Yes ! and the impertinence of dedicating such 
a work to the officers of his majesty's household 
troops I Considering the quarter from whence it 
proceeded, I certainly did not expect much, but 
still I thought that there was to be some little esprit. 
The poor guards ! how nervous they must have 
been at the announcement ! What could have 
been the point of that dedication!" 

" I remember a most interminable proser, that 
was blessed with a very sensible-sounding voice 
and who, on the strength of that, and his correct 
and constant emphasis, was considered by the 
world, for a great time, as a sage. At length it 
was discovered that he was quite the reverse. Mr. 
Puff's wit is very like this man's wisdom. You 
take up one of his little books, and you fancy, 
from its title-page, that it's going to be very witty ; 
as you proceed you begin to suspect that the man 
is only a wag, and then, surprised at not ' seeing 
the point,' you have a shrewd suspicion that he is 
a great hand at dry humour. It is not till you 
have closed the volume that you wonder who it is 
that has had the hardihood to intrude such imbe- 
cility upon an indulgent world." 

" Come, come ! Mr. Puff is a worthy gentle- 
man. Let him cease to dusk the radiancy of 
Ariosto's sunny stanzas, and I shall be the first 
man who will do justice to his merits. He cer- 
tainly tattles prettily about tenses, and termina- 
tions, and is not an inelegant grammarian." 

" Anotlier failure among the booksellers to-day !" 
'' Indeed ! literature, I think, is at a low ebb." 
" Certainly. There is nothing like a fall of stocks 
— to aflcct what is the fashion to style the litera- 
ture of the present day — a fungus production, 
which has flourished from the artificial state of ou. 
society — the mere creature of our imaginary 
wealth. Everybody being very rich, has afforded 
to be very literary — books being considered a lux- 
ury almost as elegant and necessary as ottomans, 
bonbons, and pier-glasses. Consols at 100 were 
the origin of all book societies. The stock-brokers' 
ladies took oft' the quarto travels, and the hotpress- 
ed poetry. They were the patronesses of 3'our 
patent ink, and your wire-wove paper. That is 
all passed. Twenty per cent, difference in the 
value of our public securities from this time last 
year — that little incident has done more for the 
restoration of the old English feeling than all the 
exertions of church and state united. O, there is 
nothing like a fall in consols to bring the blood of 
our good people of England into cool order. It's 
your grand state medicine — your veritable doctor 
Sangrado !" 

" A fall in stocks ! and halt ! to ' the spread of 
knowledge !' and ' the progress of liberal princi- 
ples' is like that of a man too late for post-horses. 
A fall in stocks ! and where are your London uni- 
versities and your mechanics' institutes, and your 
new docks 1 Where your philosophy, your phi- 
lanthropy, and your competition 1 National pre- 
judices revive as national prosperity decreases. If 
the consols were at sixty, we should be again bel- 
lowuig, God save the king ! eating roast beef, and 
damning the French." 

" And you imagine literature is equally affected. 
Grey !" 

" {/learly. We were literary, because we were 
rich. Amid the myriad of volume* which issued 
montlily from the press, what one was not written 
for the mere hour 1 It is well, very well to buy 



60 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



mecbar.iral poetry, and historical novels, when our 
/)urses have a plethora ; but now, my dear fellow, 
depend upon it, the game is up. We have no 
scholars now — no literary recluses — no men who 
ever appear to think. ' Scribble, scribble,' as 
the Duke oi' Cumberland said to Gibbon, should 
be the motto of the mighty ' nineteenth cen- 
tury.' " 

" Southey, I think. Grey, is an exception." 

" By no means. Southey is a political writer — 
a writer for a particular purpose. All his works, 
from those in three volumes quarto to those in 
one duodecim.o, are alike political pamphlets. Sha- 
ron Turner, in his solitude, alone seems to have 
his eye upon Prince Posterity ; but, as might be 
expected, the public consequently has not its eye 
upon Sharon Turner. Twenty years hence thoy 
may discover that they had a prophet among 
them, and knew him not." 

" His histoiy is certainly a splendid work, but 
little known. Lingard's, which in ten years' time 
will not be known even by name, sells admirably, 
I believe." 

"I was very much amused, Cleveland, with Al- 
len's review of Lingard. in the Edinburgh. His 
opinion of the ' historian's style' — that it com- 
bined, at the same time the excellencies of Gibbon 
and Hume — was one of the most exquisite speci- 
mens of irony, that, I think, I ever met with : it 
was worthy of former days. I was just going to 
give up the Edinburgh, when I read that sentence, 
and I continued in consequence." 

" We certainly want a master-spirit to' set us 
right, Grey. Scott, our second Shakspeare, we, 
of course, cannot expect to step forward to direct 
the public mind. He is too much engaged in de- 
lighting it. Besides, he is not the man for it. He 
is not a llterateitr. We want Byron." 

" Ah ! there was the man ! And that such a 
man should be lost to us, at the very moment that 
he had begun to discover why it had pleased the 
Omnipotent to have endowed him with such 
powers !" 

" If one thing was more characteristic of Byron's 
mind than another, it was his strong, shrewd, 
common sense — his pure, unalloyed sagacity." 

" You knev>' the glorious being, I think, Cleve- 
land?" 

" Well ; I was slightly acquainted with him, 
when in England ; slightly, however, for I was 
then very young. But many years afterwards 1 
met him in Italy. It was at Pisa, just before he 
left for Genoa. I was then verv much struck at 
the alteration in his appearance." 

" Indeed !" 

" Yes ; his face was ven,' much swollen, and he 
was getting fat. His hair was gray, and his coun- 
tenance had lost that spiritual expression wdiich it 
once so eminently possessed. His teeth were de- 
caying; and he f.aid, that if ever he came to Eng- 
land, it would be to consult Wayte about them. I 
certainly was veiy much struck at his alteration 
for the worse. Besides, he was dressed in the 
most extraordinary manner." 

" Slovenly 1" 

" O ! no, no, no, — in the most dandified stylo 
that you can conceive ; but not that of an English 
dandy, either. He had on a magnificent foreign 
foraging cap, which he wore in the room, but his 
gray curls were quite perceptible ; and a fi'ogged 
Kurtout ; and he had a large gold chain round his 



neck, and pushed it into his waistcoat pocket. I 
imagined, of course, that a glass was attached to it ; 
but I afterwards found that it bore nothing but a 
quantity of trinkets. He had also another gold 
chain tight round his neck, like a collar." 

" Hov7 extraordinary ! and did you converse 
much with him 1" 

" I was not long at Pisa, but we never parted, 
and there was only one subject of conversation — 
England, England, England. I never met a man 
in whom the mahidJe (In. pays was so strong. 
Byron was certainly at this time restless and dis- 
contented. He was tired of his dragoon captains, 
and pensioned poetasters, and he dared not come 
back to England with, what he considered, a tar- 
nished reputation. His only thought was of some 
desperate exertion to clear himself. It was for this 
he went to Greece. When I was v\'ith him, he 
was in correspondence with some friends in Eng- 
land, about the purchase of a large tract of land in 
Colombia. He affected a great admiration cf 
Bolivar." 

" Who, by-the-by, is a great man." 

"Assuredly." 

" Your acquaintance with Byron must have been 
one of the most gratifying incidents of your life, 
Cleveland V 

" Certainly ; I may say with Friar Martin, in 
Goetz of Berlichingen, '"The sight of him touched 
my heart. It is a pleasure to have seen a great 
man.' " 

" Hobhouse was a very faithful friend to him ?" 

" His conduct has been beautiful — and Byron 
had a thorough affection for him, in spite of a few 
squibs, and a few drunken speeches, which damned 
good-natured friends have always been careful to 
repeat." 

" The loss of B3'ron can never be retrieved. He 
xvas indeed a man — a real man ,• and when I say 
this, I award him, in my opinion, the most splen- 
did character which human nature need aspire to. 
At least, I, for my part, have no ambition to be 
considered either a divinity or an angel ; and, tralv, 
when I look round upon the creatures alike effemi- 
nate in mind and liody, of which the world is, in 
general, composed, I fear that even my ambition in 
too exalted. Byron's mind was like his own 
ocean — sublime in its yesty madness — beautiful in 
its glittering summer brightness — mighty in the 
lone magnificence of its waste of waters — gazed 
upon from the magic of its own nature, yet capable 
of representing, but as in a glass darkly, the nature 
of all others. I say, Cleveland, here comes the 
greatest idiot in town ; Craven Bucke. He came 
to me the other dav complaining bitterly of the 
imperfections of Johnson's Dictionary. He had 
looked out Dnncaster St. Leger in it, and couldn't 
find the vs'ord." 

"How d'ye do, Bucke 1 you're just the man I 
wanted to meet. Make a note of it while I re- 
member. There is an edition of Johnson just 
published, in which you'll find every single word 
you want. Now put it down at once. It's pub- 
lished under the title of John Bees' Slang Lexicon. 
Good-bye ! How's your brother ]" 

" Pray, Cleveland, what do you think of Mil- 
man's 'new dramatic )wem,' Anne Boleyn V 

" I think it's the dullest work on the Catholic 
question that has yet appeared." 

" Is it true that Lockhart is going to have t!ie 
Quarterly ?" 



VIVIAN GREY. 



61 



"It was told me as a positive fact to-day. I be- 
lieve it." 

" Murray can't do better. It's absolutely neces- 
sary that he should do something. Lockhart is a 
man of prodigious talents. Do you know him V 

" Not in the least. He certainly is a man of 
great powers, but I tliink rather too hot for the 
Quarterly." 

" ! no, no, no — a little of the Albemarle anti- 
attrition will soon cool the fiery wheels of his 
bounding chariot. Come ! I see our horses." 

" Hyde Park is greatly changed since I was a 
dandy, Vivian. Pray, do the Misses Otranto still 
live in that house 1" 

" Yes — blooming as ever." 

" It's the fashion to abuse Horace Walpole, but 
I really think him one of the most delightful wri- 
ters that ever existed. I wonder who is to be the 
Horace Walpole of the present. Some one per- 
haps we least suspect." 

" Vivida Vis, think you V 

" More than probable. I'll tell you who ought 
to be writing memoirs — Lord Dropmore." 

" Does my Lord Manfred keep his mansion 
there, next to the Misses Otranto 1" 

" I believe so, and lives there." 

" I knew him in Germany — a singular man, and 
not understood. Perhaps he does not understand 
himself." 

" I'll join you in an instant, Cleveland. I just 
want to speak one word to Master Osborne, who I 
see coming down here. Well, Osborne, I must 
come and knock you up one of these mornings. 
I've got a nice little commission for you from Lady 
Julia Knighton, wliich you must pay particular 
attention to." 

" Well, Mr. Grey, how does Lady Julia like the 
bay marel" 

" Very much, indeed ; but she wants to know 
■what you've done about the chestnut." 

" ! put it off, sir, in the prettiest style, on 
young Mr. Feoffment, who has just married and 
taken a house in Gower-street. He wanted a bit 
of blood — hopes he likes it." 

"Hopes he does. Jack. There's a particular 
favour which you can do me, Osbonie, and which 
I'm sure you will. Ernest Clay — you know Ernest 
Clay — a most excellent fellow is Ernest, you know, 
and a great friend of yours, Osborne : — I wish you'd 
just step down to Connaught Place, and look at 
those bays he bought of Harry Mounteney. He's 
in a little trouble, and we must do what we can for 
him — ^you know he's an excellent fellow, and a 
great friend of yours. Thank you, thank you — I 
knew you would. Good morning: — remember 
Lady Julia. So you really fitted young Feoffment 
with the chestnut. Well, that was admirable ! — 
Good morning ; — good morning." 

" I don't know whether you care for these things 
at all, Cleveland, but Premium, a famous million- 
naire, has gone this morning, for I don't know how 
much ! Half the new world will be ruined ; and 
in this old one, a most excellent fellow, my friend 
Ernest Clay. He was engaged to Premium's 
daughter — his dernicre ressource ; and now, of 
course, it's all up with him." 

" I was at college with his brother, Augustus 
Clay. He's a nephew of Lord Mounteney's, is he 
not!" 

" The very same. Poor fellow ! I don't know 
what we must do for him. I think I shall advise 



him to change his name to C]ay-ville ,■ and if the 
world ask him the reason of the euphonious aug- 
mentation, why, he can swear that it was to distur- 
guish himself from his brothers. Too many roues 
for the same name win never do. And now spur? 
to our steeds, for we are going at least three miles 
out of our way, and I must collect my senses, and 
arrange my curls before dinner ; for I have to fiirl 
with, at least, three fair ones." 



CHAPTER IL 

DEVELOPMENT OF THE PLOT. 

These conversations play the very dense with 
one's story. I had intended to have commenced 
this book with something quite terrific — a murder, 
or a marriage : and I find that all my great ideas have 
ended in a lounge. After all, it is, perhaps, the 
most natm'al termination. In life, sm^ely, man is 
not always as monstrously busy as he appears to 
be in novels and romances. We are not always 
in action — not always making speeches, or malting 
money, or making war, or making love. Occa- 
sionally we talk, — about the weather, generally — 
sometimes about ourselves — oftener about our 
friends — as often about our enemies ; at least, those 
who have any ; which, in my opinion, is the vul- 
garest of all possessions ; I have no enemies. Am 
I not an amiable fellow? At this moment, I am 
perfectly happy — am I not a lucky fellow 1 

And what is your situation, Mr. Felicity? you 
will ask. Have you jnst made a brilliant speech 
in the House '! or have you negotiated a great loan 
for a little nation? or have you touched, for the 
first time, some fair one's cheek ? In short, what 
splendid juggle have you been successful in ? Have 
you deluded your own country or another? Have 
you deceived another's heart, or, are you, yourself, 
a dupe? Not at all, my sweet questioner — I am 
strolling on a sunny lawn, and flanking butterflies 
with a tandem whip. 

I have not felt so well for these six months. 
What would I have given to have had my blood 
dancing as it is now, while I was scribbling the 
preceding part of this dear book. But there is no- 
thing like the country ! I think I was saying that 
these lounges in St. James's Park do not always 
very materially advance the progress of our narra- 
tive. Not that I would insinuate that the progress 
of our narrative has flagged at all ; not in the least, 
I am sure we can't be accused of being prosy. 
There has been no Balaam (I do not approve this 
neologism ; but I am too indolent, at present, to 
think of another word) in these books. I have 
withstood every temptation; and now, though I 
scarcely know in what way to make out this vo- 
lume, here I am, without the least intention of finally 
proving that our Vivian Grey is the son of the 
Marquess of Carabas, by a former and secret mar- 
riage — in Italy, of course, — Count Anselmo, Na- 
ples — and an old nurse, &c. &c.; or that Mrs. 
Felix Lorraine is Horace Grey, Esquire, in disguise • 
or of making that much neglected beauty, Julia 
Manvers, an-ive in the last scene with a chariot 
with four horses and patent axle-tree — just in time ! 
Alas ! dear Julia ! we meet again. In the mean 
time the memory of your bright blue eyes shall not 
escape me; and when we do meet, why you shall 
talk more and laugh less. But you were yjuiig 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



when last you listened to my nonsense, one of 
those innocent young ladies, who, on entering a 
drawing-room, take a rapid glance at their curls in 
a pier-glass, and then, flying to the eternal round- 
table, seek refuge in an admiring examination of 
the i)oauties of the Florence Gallery, or the bind- 
ing of Batty 's Views. 

This slight allusion to Julia is a digression. I 
was about to inform you that I have no intention 
of finishing this book by any thing extraordinary. 
The truth is, and this is quite confidential, in- 
vention is not to be " the featu<i:e" of this work. 
What I have seen, I have written about; and 
what I shall sec, I shall, jierhaps, also write about. 
Some day I maj , perchance, write for fame ; at 
present, I write for pleasure. I think, in that case, 
I'll write an epic, but it shall be in prose. The 
reign of poesy is over, at least for half a century ; 
and by that time my bones will be bleached. I 
think I should have made a pretty poet. Indeed, 
it is with great difRcuIty that I prevent my para- 
graphs from hobbling into stanzas. 

Stop! I see the finest Puiiplk Emperor just 
alighting upon that myrtle. Beautiful insect ! 
thy title is too humble for thy bright estate ! for 
what is the pageantry of princes to the splendour 
of thy gorgeous robes 1 I wish I were a purple 
emperor ! I came into the world naked — and you 
in a garment of glory. I dare not subject myself 
to the heat of the sun, for fear of a coup de wkil ,- 
nor to a damp day for fear of the rheumatism ; 
but the free sky is your proper habitation, and air 
your peculiar element. What care you, bright 
one, for Dr. Kitchener, or the Almanach des 
Gourmands ] you, whose food is the dew of 
heaven, and the honeyed juices which you distil 
from every flower 1 Shadowed by a leaf of that 
thick shrub, I could for a moment fancy that your 
colour was sooty black ; and yet now that soft 
wind has blown the leaf aside, my eye is suddenly 
dazzled at the resplendent glow of your vivid pur- 
ple. Now I gase in admiration at the delightful 
and amazing vuiiety of your shifting tints playing 
in the sunbeam ; now, as it is lighting up the 
splendour of your purple mantle, and now lending 
fresh brilliancy to your rings of burnished gold ! 

My brilliant purple emperor ! I must have you 
— I must indeed : — but I wish, if possible, to bring 
you down, rather by the respiration of my flank 
than the impulse of my thong. Smack ! confound 
the easterly wind playing up my nostril. I've 
missed him — and there he flies, mounting higher 
and higher, till at last he fixes on the topmost 
branch of yon lofty acacia. What shall I do ? 
I'm not the least in the humour for writing. 

There is the luncheon-bell ! lAmeheon is a 
meal, if meal it may be called, which I do not 
patronise. 'Tis very well for schoolboys and 
young ladies : acceptable to the first, because they 
are always ready to devour — and to the second, 
because a glass of sherry and a slice of reindeer's 
tongue, and a Httle marmalade, and a little Neuf- 
chatcl, enable them to toss their pretty little heads 
at dinner, and "not touch any thing ;" be propor- 
fionately pitied, and look proportionately interest- 
ing. Luncheon is the modern mystery of the 
Bona Dea. I say nothing, but I once acted Clo- 
dius, in this respect I never wondered afterwards 
at a woman's want of appetite. 

But in the dear delicious country, and in a 
house where no visiter is staying, and where I am 



tempted to commit suicide hourly, I think I must 
take a very thin crust, or one traveller's biscuit, 
and a little hock and seltzer ; although I'm in that 
horrid situation, neither possessing appetite, nor 
wanting refreshments. W'hat shall I do now ? 
Who can v/rite when the sun shines ? It's a 
warm, soft, sunny day, though in March. I'll lie 
down on the lawn and play with my Italian grey 
hound. Don't think me a puppy for having one. 

It was given to me by . That's a sufficient 

excuse, is it not 1 

" Now, Hyacinth, now, my Hyacinth, now, my 
own dog ; try to leap over me ! — frolic away, my 
beautiful one; I love thee, and have not I cause 1 
What confidence have you violated ? What sa 
cred oaths have you outraged 1 Have you proved 
a craven in the hour of trial ? Have I found you 
wanting when I called, or false when I fondled ? 
M'hy do you start so, my pretty dog ? Why are 
your eyes so fixed, your ears so erect 1 Pretty 
creature I does any thing frighten you ? Kiss me 
my own Hyacinth, my dear, dear dog ! O ! you 
little wretch! you've bit my lip. Get out! I'll 
not speak to you for a fortnight." 

I'll get Spencer's Fairy Queen. I'm just in the 
humour for reading it; but still it's a horrid hore 
to get up and go to the library. Come ! a des- 
perate exertion ! On my legs again — there's no- 
thing like energy. Here's the book. O ! how I 
shall revel in his sweet and bitter fancies ! — Con- 
fusion ! I've brought a volume of Tillotson's Ser- 
mons. I hate the fellow ! That's the advantage 
of your country libraries, having all your books 
bound the same. 

Now I don't know what I shall do. I think I'll 
amuse myself by jumping over that ha-ha ; — I'm 
quite confident I can do it — and yet, whenever I'm 
about trying, my heart sadly misgives me. It's a 
complete fallacy ; it's devilish deep though. There 
— that easterly wind has balked me again ; and 
here I am, up to my knees in mud ; and my pretty 
violet-coloured slippers spoiled ! 

First dinner-bell ! A hecatomb to the son of 
Latona, — his rays are getting less powerful, and 
it's getting a little later. Though nobody is stay- 
ing here, I'll go and dress myself in the most ela- 
borate manner ; it will assist in the destruction of 
the time. What a dull dinner ! I have eaten oi' 
every thing — soiipe prinlaniere (twice) — fillets. 
of turbot a, la crenie — fowl a la Mmitmorenci — 
garnished with ragout a V Alkmande — neck of 
veal a hi Si. Meijchuitll — marinade of chickens a la 
St. Florcntin — Muriton of red tongue, with spi- 
nach — six quails — two dishes of kail, with plain 
butter — half a dozen orange jellies, en mom'iques 
— cauliflowers with veloutc sauce, and a petit ga- 
teau a la Mopnoii — a mxifflee with lemon, and a 
dozen Neufchatel cheeses — a bottle of Markebrim- 
nen, a pint of Latour, and a pint of Maraschino. 
Gone through it all ; and yet here I am, breathing 
as freely as a young eagle. O ! for an indigestion, 
if merely for the sake of variety ! Good heavens ! 
I'm afraid I'm getiing healthy ! 

Now for Vivian Grey again ! I don't know 
how it is, but I cannot write to-day ; the room's 
so hot. Open that door — now I shall get better, 
! what a wretched pen ! I can't get out a 
sentence. The room's too cold ; — shut that hor- 
rid door. Write I must, and will, — what's the 
matter ? It's this great bowstring of a cravat. 
Off with it ! who would ever write in a cravat ? 



VIVIAN GREY. 



63 



CHAPTER III. 



BUCKHURST XOOGi:. 



Mn. Cleveland and Mrs. Felix Lorraine again 
n«€t, and the gentleman scarcely appeared to be 
aware that this meeting was not their first. The 
lady sighed, and fainted, and remonstrated : and 
terrific scenes followed each other in frightful suc- 
cession. She reproached Mr. Cleveland with pas- 
sages of letters. He stared, and deigned not to 
reply to an artifice, which he considered equally 
impudent and shallow. Vivian was forced to in- 
terfere ; but as he deprecated all explanation, his 
interference was of little avail ; and, as it was 
ineffectual for one party, and uncalled for by the 
other, it was, of course, not encouraged. At 
length, Mrs. Felix broke through all bounds. Now 
the enraged woman insulted Mrs. Cleveland, and 
now humbled herself before Mrs. Cleveland's hus- 
band. Her insults and her humility were treated 
with equal hauteur ,- and at length the Clevelands 
left Buckhurst Lodge. 

Peculiar as was Mrs. Lorraine's conduct in this 
particular respect, we should, in candour, confess, 
that, at this moment, it was in all others most 
exemplary. Her whole soul seemed concentrated 
in the success of the approaching struggle. No 
office was too mechanical for her attention, or too 
elaborate for her enthusiastic assiduity. Her at- 
tentions were not confined merely to Vivian and 
the marquess, but were lavished with equal gene- 
rosity on their colleagues. She copied letters for 
Sir Berdmore, and composed letters for Lord Court- 
town, and construed letters to Lord Beaconsfield ; 
they, in return, echoed her praises to her delighted 
relative, who was daily congratulated on the pos- 
session of " such a fascinating sister-in-law." 

" Well, Vivian," said Mrs. LoiTaine, to that 
young gentleman, the day previous to his depart- 
ure from Buckhurst Lodge; "you are going to 
leave me behind you." 
« Indeed !" 

" Yes, I hope you will not want me. I am 
very much annoyed at not being able to go to 
town with you, but Lady Courtown is so pressing; 
and I've really promised so often to stay a week 
with her, that I thought it was better to make out 
my promise at once, than in six months hence." 

" Well ! I'm exceedingly sorry, for you are 
really so useful ; and the interest you take in 
every thing so encouraging, that really I very 
much fear that we shall not be able to get on with- 
out you. The important hour draws nigh." 

" I' does, indeed, Vivian — and I assure you that 
there is no person awaiting it with intenser inte- 
rest than myself. I little thought," she added in a 
low, but distinct voice, " I little thought, when I 
first reached England, that I should ever again be 
interested in any thing in this world." Vivian 
was silent — for he had nothing to say. 

" Vivian I" very briskly resumed Mrs. Lorraine, 
" I shall get you to frank all my letters for me. I 
shall never trouWe the marquess again. Do you 
know it strikes me you'll make a very good 
speaker ?" 

" You flatter me exceedingly — suppose you give 
me a few lessons." 

" But you must leave off some of your wicked 
tricks, Vivian! You must not improvise parlia- 
mentary papers." 



" Improvise papers, Mrs. Lorraine ! what cap 
)'ou mean ?" 

" O ! nothing. I never mean any thing." 

"But you must have had some meaning." 

" Some meaning ! 0, yes ! I dare say, I had , 
— I meant — I meant — do you think it will rain to- 
day ]" 

" Every ;.rospect of a hard frost. I never knew 
before that I was an improvisatore." 

" Nor I. Have you heard from papa lately 1 
I suppose he is quite in spirits at your success T" 

" My father is a man who seldom gives way to 
any elation of mind." 

" Ah, indeed ! a philosopher, I've no doubt like 
his son." 

" I have no claims, I believe, to the title of the 
philosopher, although I have had the advantage of 
studying in the school of Mrs. Felix Lorraine." 

" Lord ! what do you mean 1 If I thought you 
meant to be impertinent, I really would pull that 
pretty little curl, but I excuse you — I think the boy 
means well." 

" ! the boy means nothing — he never means 
any thing." 

" Come, Vivian ! we are going to part. Dan't 
let us quarrel the last day. There, my little pet, 
there's a sprig of myrtle for you ! 

' What! not to accept my foolish flower? 
Nay then, I am unblesl indeed !' 

And now you want it all ! ! you unreasonable 
young man ! If I were not the kindest lady in 
the land, I should tear this little sprig into a thou- 
sand pieces sooner ; but come, my pretty pet ! you 
shall have it. There ! it looks quite imposing in 
your buttonhole. How handsome you look to- 
day !" 

" How agreeable you are to-day ! I do so love 
compliments !" 

" O ! Vivian — will you never give me credit for 
any thing but a light and callous heart ? Will yoa 
never be convinced that — that — but why make this 
humiliating confession 7 ! no, let me never be 
misunderstood forever! The t. ,ie may come, 
when Vivian Grey will find that Amelia Lorraine 
was — " 

" Wa.s what, lady ?" 

" You shall choose the vi^ord, Vivian." 

" Say then my friend^ 

" 'Tis a monosyllable full of meaning, and I will 
not quarrel with it. And now, adieu ! Heaven 
prosper you ! Believe me, that my first thouglits 
and my last are for you and of you !" 



CHAPTER IV. 



THE POST. 



" Tins is very kind of you. Grey ! I was afraid 
my note might not have caught you. You haven't 
breakfasted ? Really, I wish you'd take up your 
qu.arters in Carabas house, for I want you now 
every moment." 

" What is the urgent business of this momusg, 
my lord ?" 

" O ! I've seen Beresford." 

" Hah !" 

" And every thing is most satisfactory. 1 did 
not go into detail ; I left that for you : but I ascer • 



64 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



(ained sufficient to convince me, that management 
vs now alone required." 

" Well, my lord, I trust that will not be wanting." 

" No, Vivian — you have opened my eyes to the 
Bituation in which fortune has placed me. The 
experience of every day only proves the truth and 
the soundness of your views. Fortunate, indeed, 
was the hour in which we met." 

^' My lord, I do trust that it was a meeting which 
neither of us will live to repent." 

" Impossible ! my dearest friend. I do not hesitate 
to say that I would not change my present lot for 
that of any peer of this realm ; no, not for that of 
his majesty's most favoured counsellor. What ! 
with my character and my influence, and my con- 
nexions, I to be a tool ! I, the Marquess of Cai-abas ! 
I say nothing of my own powers ; but as you often 
most justly and truly observe, the world has had 
the opportunity of judging of them ; and I think, 
I may recur without vanity to the days in which 
my voice had some weight in the royal counsels. 
And as I have often remarked, I have friends — I 
have you, Vivian. My career is before you. I 
know what I should have done, at your age ; not 
to say what I did do — I to be a tool ! The very 
last person that ought to be a tool. But I see my 
error ; you have opened my eyes, and blessed be 
the hour in which we met. But we must take care 
how we act Vivian ; we must be wary — eh ! 
Vivian — wary — wary. People must know what 
their situations are — eh ! Vivian V 

" Exceedingly useful knowledge, my lord, but I 
don't exactly understand the particular purport of 
your lordship's last observation." 

"You don't, ehl" asked the peer, and he fixed 
his eyes as earnestly and expressively as he 
possibly could upon his young companion. " Well, 
I thought not. I was positive it was not true," 
continued the marquess in a murmur. 

"What, my lordl" 

" ! nothing, nothing ; people talk at random 
— at random. I feel confident you quite agree 
with me, eh ! Vivian V 

" Really, my lord, I fear I'm unusually dull this 
mor-ainf ." 

" Dull ! no, no, you quite agree with me, I feel 
confident you do. People must be taught what 
their situations are — that's what I was saying, 
Vivian. My Lord Courtown/' added the marquess 
in a whisper, " is not to have every thing his own 
way — eh ! Vivian 1" 

" O, O !" thought Vivian, " this then is the 
result of that admirable creature, Mrs. Felix Lor- 
raine, staying a week with her dear friend. Lady 
Courtown." — " My lord, it would be singular if, 
in the Carabas party, the Carabas interest was not 
the predominant one." 

" I knew you thought so. I couldn't believe for 
a minute that you could think otherwise : but 
some people take such strange ideas into their 
heads — I can't account for them. I felt confident 
what would be your opinion. My Lord Courtown 
is not to carry every thing before him, in the spirit 
that I have lately observed, or rather in the spirit 
which I understand, from very good authority, is 
exhibited. Eh! Vivian — that's your opinion, 
isn't iti" 

" ! my dear marquess, we must think alike 
en this, as on all points." 

" I knew it. I felt confident as to your senti- 
ments upon this subject, I cannot conceive why 



some people take such strange ideas into their 
heads. I knew that you couldn't disagi-ee with 
me upon this point. No, no, no ; my Lord Cour- 
town must feel which is the predominant interest, 
as you so well express it. How choice your ex- 
pressions always are ! I don't know hov/ it is, but 
you always hit upon the right expression, Vivian 
— Tfie predominant intered — the pre-do-mi-nant 
— in-te-rest. To be sure. What ! with my high 
character and connexions, with my stake in society, 
was it to be expected that I, the Marquess of Cara- 
bas, was going to make any move which com- 
promised the predominancy of my interest 1 No, 
no, no, my Lord Courtown — the predominant in- 
terest must be kept predominant, — eh ! Vivian V 

"To be sure, to be sure, my lord; explicitness 
and decision will soon arrange any desagrernens^^ 

" I have been talking to the marchioness, Vivian, 
upon the expediency of her opening the season 
early. I think a course of parliamentary dinners 
would produce a good effect. It gives a tone to a 
political party," 

" Certainly ; the science of political gastronomy 
has never been sufliciently studied." 

" Egad ! Vivian, I'm in such spirits this morning. 
This business of Beresford so delights me ; and 
finding you agree with me about Lord Courtown, 
I was confident as to your sentiments on that point. 
But some people take such strange ideas in their 
heads ! To be sure, to be sure, the predominant 
interest, mine — that is to say, ours, Vivian, is 
the predominant interest. I've no idea of the pre- 
dominant interest not being predominant; that 
would be singular ! I knew you'd agree with me 
— we always agree. 'Twas a lucky hour when we 
met. Two minds so exactly alike ! I was just 
your very self when I was young ; and as for you 
— my career is before you." 

Here entered Mr. Sadler with the letters. 

" One from Courtown. I wonder if he has seen 
Mounteney. Mounteney is a very good-natured 
fellow, and I think might be managed. Ah! I 
wish you could get hold of him, Vivian; you'd 
soon bring him round. What it is to have brains, 
Vivian !" and here the marquess shook his head 
very pompously, and at the same time tapped very 
significantly on his left temple. " Hah ! what — 
what's all this I Here, read it, man — I've no head 
to-day." 

Vivian took the letter, and his quick eye dashed 
through its contents in a second. It was from 
Lord Courtown, and dated far in the country. It 
talked of private communications, and premature 
conduct, and the suspicons, not to say dishonest 
behaviour of Mr. Vivian Grey : it trusted that such 
conduct was not sanctioned by his lordship, but 
" nevertheless obliged to act with decision — re- 
gretted the necessity," &c. &c. &c. &c. In short, 
Lord Courtown had deserted, and recalled his 
pledges as to the official appointment promised to 
Mr. Cleveland, " because that promise was made 
while he was the victim of delusions created by the 
representations of Mr. Grey," 

"What can all this mean, my lord V 

The marquess swore a fearful oath, and threw 
another letter. 

" This is from Lord Beaconsfield, my lord," said 
Vivian, with a face pallid as death, " and appa- 
rently the composition of the same writer ; at leasi 
it is the same tale, the same refacimento of lies, 
and treachery, and cowardice, doled out with diplo 



VIVIAN GREY. 



65 



malic polifesse. But I will off to shire in- 
stantly. It is not yet too late to save every thing. 
This is Wednesday ; on Thursday afternoon I 
shall he at Noi-wood Park. Thank God ! I came 
this morning." 

The face of the marquess, who was treacherous 
as the wind, seemed already to indicate, " Adieu I 
Mr. Vivian Grey !" but that countenance exhibited 
some vei-y different passions, when it glanced over 
the contents of the next epistle. There was a 
tremendous oath — and a dead silence. His lord- 
ship's florid countenance turned as pale as that of 
his companion. The perspiration stole down in 
heavy drops. He gasped for breath ! 

" Good God ! my lord, what is the matter"!" 

"The matter !" howled the marquess, " the mat- 
ter! That I have been a vain, weak, miserable 
fool!" and then there was another oath, and he 
flung the letter to the other side of the table. 

It was the official conge of the most noble 
Sydney, Marquess of Carabas. His majesty had 
no longer any occasion for his services. His suc- 
cessor was Courtown ! 

I will not affect to give any description of the 
conduct ofthe Marquess of Carabas at this moment. 
He raved ! he stamped ! he blasphemed ! but the 
whole of his abuse was levelled against his former 
" monstrous clever" young friend ; of whose cha- 
racter he had so often boasted that his own was the 
prototype, but who was now an ' adventurer — a 
swindler — a scoundrel — a liar — a base, deluding, 
flattering, fawning villain, &c. &c. &c. &c. 

" My lord !" — said Vivian. 

" I'll not hear you — out on your fair words ! 
They have duped me enough already. That I, 
with my high character and connexions ! that I, 
the Marquess of Carabas, should have been the 
victim of the arts of a young scoundrel !" 

Vivian's fist was once clenched — but it was only 
for a moment. The marquess leaned back in his 
chair, with his eyes shut. In the agony of the 
moment, a projecting tooth of his upper jaw had 
forced itself through his upper lip, and from the 
wound the blood was flowing freely over his dead 
white countenance, Vivian left the room. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE RACK. 

He stopped one moment on the landing place, 
ere he was about to leave the house forever. 

"'Tis all over ! and so, Vivian Grey your game 
is up ! and to die, too, like a dog ! — a vi^oman's 
dupe ! Were I a despot, I should perhaps satiate 
my vengeance upon this female fiend, with the as- 
sistance of the rack — but that cannot be ; and, after 
all, it would be but a poor revenge in one who has 
worshipped the Empiue of the Istkllect, to 
vindicate the agony I am now enduring upon the 
base body of a woman. No ! 'tis not all over. 
There is yet an intellectual rack few dream of, far, 
far more terrific than the most exquisite contri- 
vances of Parj'satis. Madeleine," said he to a 
female attendant that passed, " is your mistress at 
homel" 

" She is, sir." 

" 'Tis well," said Vivian, and he sprang up 
slairs. 



"Health to the lady of our love!" said Vivian 
Grey, as he entered the elegant boudoir of Mrs. 
Felix Lorraine. " In spite of the easterly wina 
which has spoiled my beauty for the season, I could 
not refrain from inquiring after j^our prosperity, 
before I went to the marquess. Have you heard 
the news 1" 

" News ! no ; what news 1" 

" 'Tis a sad tale," said Vivian, with a melancholy 
voice. 

" ! then, pray don't tell it me. I'm in no 
humour for sorrow to-day. Come ! a bon mot, or 
a calembourg, or exit, Mr. Vivian Grey." 

" Well, then, good morning ! I'm off for a black 
crape, or a Barcelona kerchief. — Mrs. Cleveland is 
— dead.^' 

" Dead !" exclaimed Mrs. Lorraine. 

" Ay ; cold dead. She died last night — sudden- 
ly. Isn't it horrible V 

" Shocking !" exclaimed Mrs. Lorraine, with a 
mournful voice, and an eye dancing with joy. 
" Why \ Mr. Grey, I do declare you're weeping." 

" It is not for the departed !" 

" Nay, Vivian ! for Heaven's sake, what's the 
matter V 

" My dear Mrs. Lorraine !" — But hei-e the 
speaker's voice was choked with grief, and he could 
not proceed. 

" Pray, compose yourself." 

" Mrs. Felix Lorraine, can I speak with you half 
an hour, undisturbed V 

" ! certainly, by all means. I'll ring for Ma- 
deleine. Madeleine ! mind, I'm not at home to any 
one. Well ! what's the matter 1" 

" ! madam, I must pray your patience, I wisli 
you to shrive a penitent." " 

• "Good God! Mr. Grey, for Heaven's sake be 
explicit." 

" For Heaven's sake — for your sake — for my 
soul's sake, I would be explicit ; but explicitness is 
not the language of such as I am. Can you listen 
to a tale of horror ? can }'ou promise me to contain 
yourself!" 

"I will promise any thing. Pray, pray, pio- 
'ceed." 

But, in spite of her earnest solicitations, her 
companion was mute. At length he arose from 
his chair, and leaning on the chimney-piece buried 
his face in his hands, and wept most bitterly. 

" Vivian," said Mrs. Lorraine, " have you seen 
the marquess yet "!" 

" Not yet," he sobbed ; " I am going to him • 
but I'm in no humour for business this morning." 

" O, compose yourself, I beseech you. I will 
hear every thing. You shall not complain of an 
inattentive, or an irritable auditor. Now, my dear 
Vivian, sit down and tell me all." She led him to 
a chair, and then after stifling his sobs, with a 
broken voice he proceeded. 

" Yovi will recollect, madam, that accident mado 
me acquainted with certain circumstances connect- 
ed with yourself and Mr. Cleveland. Alas ! ac 
tuated by the vilest sentiments, I conceived a vio- 
lent hatred against that gentleman — a hatred only 
to be equalled by my passion for you ; but, I find 
difiiculty in dwelling upon the details of this sad 
story of jealousy and despair." 

" O ! speak, speak ! compensate for all you have 
done, by your present frankness; — be brief — be 
brief." 

" I will be brief,''' shouted Vivian, with terrific 
r 2 



66 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



earnestness ; " I will be hrief. Know then, madam, 
that in order to prevent the intercourse between 
you and Mr. Cleveland from proceeding-, I obtained 
his friendship, and became the confidant of his 
heart's sweetest secret. Thus situated, I suppress- 
ed the lei'ers with which I was entrusted from him 
to you, and poisoning his mind, I accounted for 
your silence, by your being employed in other cor- 
respondence ; nay, I did more ; with the malice of 

a fiend, I boasted of nay, do not stop me ; 

I have more to tell." 

Mrs. FeUx Lorraine, with compressed lips, and 
looks of horrible earnestness, gazed in silence. 

" The result of all this you know — but the most 
terrible part is to come ; and, by a strange fascina- 
tion, I fly to confess my crimes at your feet, even 
while the last minutes have witnessed my most 
heinous one. ! madam, I have stood over the 
liier of the departed ; I have mingled my tears with 
those of the son-owing widower — his young and 
tender child was on my knee ; and as I kissed his 
innocent lips, methought it was but my duty to the 
departed, to save the father from his mother's rival 
— " He stopped. 

" Yes — yes — yes," said Mrs. Felix Lorraine, in 
a low whisper. 

" It was then, even then, in the hour of his de- 
solation that I mentioned your name ; that it might 
the more disgust him ; and while he wept over his 
virtuous and sainted wife, I dwelt on the vices of 
his rejected misfrcss." 

Mrs. Lorraine clasped her hands, and moved rest- 
lessly on her seat. 

" Nay ! do not stop me ; — let me tell all. ' Cle- 
veland,' said I, ' if ever you become the husband 
of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, remember my last words : 
— It will be well for you, if your frame be like that 

of Mithridates of Pontus, and proof against 

poison.' " 

" And did you say this 1" shrieked the woman. 

" Even these were my words." 

•' Then may all evil blast you !" She threw her- 
self on the sofa ; her voice was choked with the 
convulsions of her passion, and she writhed in the 
most fearful agony. 

Vivian Grey, lounging in an arm-chair, in the 
easiest of postures, and with a face brilliant with 
smiles, watched liis victim with the eye of a Me- 
jjhistopheles. 

She slowly recovered, and with a broken voice 
jX)ured forth her sacred absolution to the reheved 
penitent. 

" You wonder I do not stab you — hah ! hah ! 
hah ! there is no need for ffiaf ,• — the good powers 
be praised, that you refused the draught I once 
proffered. Know, wretch, that j'our race is i-un. 
Within five minutes you will be a beggar and an 
outcast. Your golden dreams are over — your cun- 
ning plans arc circumvented — yourambitious hopes 
are crushed forever— you are blighted in the very 
spring of your life. O ! may you never die ! May 
you wander forever, the butt of the world's malice ! 
and may the slow moving finger of scorn point 
where'er you go to the ruined chaiiatixn !" 

" Ha, ha ! is it so, my lady ? O ! think you, 
that Vivian Grey would fall l;y a woman's wile 1 
O ! think you that Vivian Grey could be crushed 
by such a worthless thing as you/ Know, then, 
tliat your political intrigues have been as little con- 
cealed from rue, as your personal ones; — I have 
been acquainted with all. The man^uess has, him- 



self, seen the minister, and is more firmly establish- 
ed in his pride of place than ever. I have, myself, 
seen our colleagues, whom you tampered with, and 
their hearts are still true, and their purpose still 
fixed. All, all prospers ; and ere five days are pass- 
ed, ' the charlatan' will be a senator." 

The shifting expressions of Mrs. Lorraine's 
countenance, while Vivian was speaking, would 
have baffled the most cunning painter. Her com- 
plexion was capricious as the chameleon's, and her 
countenance wa:^ so convulsed, that her features 
seemed of all shapes and sizes. One large vein 
protruded nearly a quarter of an inch from her 
forehead ; and the dank light which gleamed in her 
tearful eye, was like an unwholesome meteor qui- 
veiang in a marsh. When he ended, she sprang 
from the sofii, and looking up, and extending her 
arms with unmeaning wildness, she gave one loud 
shriek, and drojjped like a bird shot on the wing 
she had burst a blood-vessel. 

Vivian raised her on the sofa and paid her every 
possible attention. There is always a vile apothe- 
caiT lurking about the mansions of the noble, and 
so a Mr. Andrews soon appeared, and to this wor- 
thy and the attendant Madeleine, Vivian delivered 
liis patient. 

Had Vivian Grey left the boudoir a pledged 
bridegroom, his countenance could not have been 
more triumphant ; but he was labouring under the 
most unnatural excitation : for it is singular that 
when, as he left the house, the porter told him that 
Mr. Cleveland was with his lord, Vivian had no idea 
at the moment what individual bore that name. The 
fresh air of the street revived him, and somewhat 
cooled the bubbling of his blood. It was then that 
the man's information struck upon his senses. 

" So, poor Cleveland !" thought Vivian, " then 
he knows all !" His own misery he had not yet 
thought of; but when Cleveland occurred to him, 
with his ambition once more balked — his high 
hopes once more blasted — and his honourable soul 
once more deceived, — when he thought of his fair 
wife, and his infant children, and his ruined pros- 
pects, a sickness came over his heart, he grew 
dizzy, and fell. 

" And the gentleman's ill, I think," said an 
honest Irishman ; and, in the fulness of his cha- 
rity, he placed Vivian on a door step. 

'• So it seems," said a genteel passenger in 
black ; and he snatched, with great sangfroid, Vi- 
vian's gold watch. 

"Stop thief!" hallooed the Hibernian. Paddy 
was tripped up. There was a row ; in the midst 
of which Vivian Grey crawled to a hotel. 



CHAPTER VL 

THE CLUB. 

Ix half an hour Vivian was at Mr. Clevelaiid's 

door. 

" My master is at the Marquess of Carahas's, 
sir; he will not return, but is going immediately 
to Richmond, where Mrs. Cleveland is staying." 

Vivian immediately wrote to Mr. Cleveland. 
'■ If your master has left the marquess's, let this be 
forwarded to him at Richmond immediately." 

" C1.KTF.LAN11 !— You know all. It would be 
mockery were I to say, that at this moment I am 



VIVIAN GREY. 



67 



not thinking of myself. I am a rained man in 
body and in mind. But my own misery is no- 
thing- ; I can die — I can go mad — and who will 
be harmed? But you I I had wished that we 
should never meet again ; but my hand refuses to 
trace the thoughts with which my heart is full, and 
I am under the sad necessity of requesting you to 
see me once more. We have been betrayed — and 
by a woman : but there has been revenge ! O ! 
what revenge ! Vivian Ghet." 

When Vivian left Mr. Cleveland's, he actually 
did not know what to do with hnnself. Home, at 
present, he could not ficc, and so he continued to 
wander about quite unconscious of locality. He 
passed in his progress many of his acquaintance, 
who, from his distracted air and rapid pace, ima- 
gined that he was intent on some important busi- 
ness. At length he found himself in one of the 
most sequestered parts of Kensington gardens. It 
was a cold, frosty day, and as Vivian flung himself 
upon one of the summer seats, the snow drifted 
from off the frozen board ; but Vivian's brow was 
as burning hot as if he had been an inhabitant of 
Sirius. Throwing his arms on a small garden 
table, he buried his face in his hands, and wept — 
as men can but once weep in this world ! 

O ! thou sublime and most subtle philosopher, 
who, in thy lamp-lit cell, art speculating upon the 
passions which thou hast never felt ! O ! thou 
splendid and most admirable poet, who, with cun- 
ning words, art painting with a smile a tale of wo ! 
tell me what is grief, and solve 'me the mystery of 
sorrow. 

Not for himself — for after the first pang, he 
would have whistled off his high hopes with the 
spirit of a Ripperda — not even for Cleveland — 
for at this moment, it must be confessed, his 
thoughts were not for his friend — did Vivian 
Grey's soul struggle as if it were about to leave its 
fleshy chamber. I said he wept ; as men can weep 
but once in this world, and yet it would have 
been impossible for him to have defined what, at 
that fearful moment, was the ca\ise of his heart's 
sorrow. Incidents of childhood of the most trivial 
nature, and until this moment forgotten, flashed 
a'.ross his memory ; he gazed on the smile of his 
mother — he listened to the sv^'eet tones of his fa- 
ther's voice — and his hand clenched with still more 
agonized grasp his rude resting-place ; and the 
scalding tears dashed down his cheek in still more 
ardent torrents. He had no distinct remembrance 
of what had so lately happened ; but characters 
flitted before him as in a theatre, in a dream — dim 
and shadowy, yet full of mysterious and indefin- 
able interest ; and then there came a horrible idea 
across his mind, that his glittering youth was gone 
and wasted ; and then there was a dark whisper 
of treachery, and dissimulation, and dishonour; 
and then he sobbed as if his very heart was crack- 
ing. All his boasted philosophy vanished — his ar- 
tificial feelings fled him. Insulted nature re-assert- 
ed her long-spurned authority, and the once proud 
Vivian Grey felt too humble even to curse himself. 
Gradually his sobs became less convulsed, and his 
t)row more cool ; and calm from very exhaustion, 
he sat for upwards of an hour motionless. 

At this moment there issued with their attend- 
ant, from an adjoining shrubbery, two beautiful 
children. They were so exceedingly lovely, that 
Hie passenger would have stopped to gaze upon 



them. The eldest, w': o yet was very young, was 
leading his sister hand-in-hand, with slow and 
graceful steps, mimicking the courtesy of men. 
But when his eye caught Vivian's, the boy uttered 
a loud cry of exultation, and rushed with the 
eagerness of infantile affection to his gentle and 
fxvourite playmate. They were the young Cleve- 
lands. With what miraculous quickness will man 
shake off the outward semblance of grief when 
his sorrow is a secret ! The mighty merchant 
who knows that in four-and-twenty hours the 
world must be astounded by his insolvency, will 
walk in the front of his confident creditor, as if 
he was the lord of a thousand argosies — the medi- 
tating suicide will smile on the arm of a compa- 
nion, as if to breathe in this sunny world were 
the most ravishing and rapturous bliss. We cling 
to our stations iiv our fellow-creatures' minds and 
memories ; we know, too well, the frail tenure on 
which wc are in this world great and considerate 
personages. Experience makes us shrink from 
the specious sneer of sympathy : and when we 
are ourselves falling, bitter memoiy whispers, that 
we have ourselves been neglectful. 

And so it was, that even unto these infants Vi- 
vian Grey dared not appear other than a gay and 
easy-hearted man ; and In a moment he was danc- 
ing them on his knee, and playing with their 
curls, and joining in their pretty prattle, and press- 
ing their small and fragrant lips. 

It was night when he paced down. — He passed 
his club ; that club, to become a member of which 
had once been the object of his high ambition, 
and to gain which privilege had cost such hours 
of canvassing ; such interference of noble friends ; 
and the incurring of favours from five thousand 
people, " which never could be forgotten." 

I know not what desperate feeling actuated him, 
but he entered the club-house. He walked into 
the great saloon, and met some fifty most '' parti- 
cular friends," all of whom asked him " how the 
mar([uess did," or " have you seen Cleveland 1" and 
a thousand other as comfortable queries. At 
length, to avoid these disagreeable rencontres, and, 
indeed, to rest himself, he went to a smaller and 
more private room. As he opened the door, his 
eyes lighted upon Cleveland. 

He was standing with his back to the fire. 
There were only two other persons in the room : 
one was a friend of Cleveland's, and the other an 
acquaintance of Vivian's. The latter was writing 
at the table. 

When Vivian saw Cleveland, he would have 
retired, but he was bid to " come in," in a voice 
of thunder. 

As he entered, he instantly perceived that Cleve- 
land was under the influence ctf wine. When in 
this situation, unlike other men, Mr. Cleveland's 
conduct was not distinguished by any of the little 
improprieties of behaviour by which a man is al- 
ways known by his friends " to be very drunk." 
He neither reeled nor hiccoughed, nor grew 
maudlin. The efi'ect of d'inking upon him was 
only to increase the intensity of the sensation by 
which his mind was, at the moment, influenced. 
He did not even lose the consciousness of identity 
of persons. At this moment it was clear to Vi- 
vian that Cleveland was under the influence of 
the extremest passion : his eyes rolled wildly, and 
seemed fixed only upon vacancy. As Vivian was 
no friend to scenas before strangers, he bowed to 



G8 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS 



the two sjentlemen, and saluted Cleveland with his 
wonted cordiality ; but his protfered hand was 
rudely repelled. 

"Away!" exclaimed Cleveland, in a furious 
tone, " I have no friendship for traitors !" 

The two gentlemen stared, and the pen of the 
writer stopped. 

'■ Cleveland !" said Vivian, m an earnest whis- 
per, as he came up close to him ; — " for God's sake 
contain yourself. I have written you a letter 
which explains all — but — " 

" Out ! out upon you ! Out upon your honey- 
ed words and your soft phrases ! I've been tlieir 
dupe too long !" and he struck Vivian with tre- 
mendous force. 

" Sir John Poynings I" said Vivian, with a 
quivering lip, turning to the man writing at the 
table — " we were school-fellows ; circumstances 
have prevented us from meeting often in after-life, 
but I now ask you with the frankness of an old 
acquaintance, to do me the sad service of accom- 
panying me in this quarrel — a quarrel which I call 
Heaven to witness, is not of my seeking." 

The baronet, who was in the guards, and, al- 
though a great dandy, quite a man of business in 
these matters, immediately rose from his seat, and 
led Vivian to a corner of the room. After some 
whispering, he turned round to Mr. Cleveland, and 
bowed to him with a very significant look. It was 
evident that Cleveland comprehended his meaning, 
for though he was silent, he immediately pointed 
to the other gentleman — his friend Mr. Castleton. 

" Mr. Castleton," said Sir John, giving his card, 
" Mr. Grey will accompany me to my rooms in Pall 
Mall ; it is now ten o'clock : we shall wait two 
hours, in which time I hope to hear from you. I 
leave time, and place, and terms to yourself. I 
only wish to be understood that it is the particular 
desire of my principal that the meeting should be 
as speedy as possible." 

About eleven o'clock the communication from 
Mr. Castleton arrived. It was quite evident that 
Cleveland vi'as sobered, for, in one instance, Vivian 
observed that the style wag corrected by his own 
hand. The hour was eight the next morning, 

at Common, about six miles from town. 

Poynings wrote to a professional friend to be on 
the ground at half-past seven, and then he and 
Vi\aan retired. 

Did you ever fight a duel ] No ! Nor send a 
challenge either 1 Well ! you're fresh indeed ! 
'Tis an awkward business, after all — even for the 
boldest. After an immense deal of negotiation, 
and giving the party every opportunity of coming 
to an honourable understanding, the fatal letter is 
at length signed, sealed, and sent. You pass your 
morning at your second's apartments, pacing his 
drawing-room, with a quivering lip and uncertain 
step. At length he enters with an answer, and 
while he reads, you endeavour to look easy, with 
a coimtenance merry with the most melancholy 
smiles. You have no appetite at dinner, but you 
are too h-aj^e not to appear at table ; and you are 
called out after the second glass by the arrival of 
your solicitor who comes to alter your will. You 
pass a restless night, and rise in the morning as 
bilious as a Bengal general. Urged by impending 
late vou make a desperate effort to accommodate 
matters, but in the contest between your pride and 
your terror, you at the same time prove (hat you're 
a coward, and fail in the negotiation. You both 



fire — and miss ; and then the seconds interfere, ahd 
then you shake hands, every thing being arranged 
in the most honoxirahle manner, and to the mutual 
satisfaction of both parties. The next day you arc 
seen pacing Bond street with an erect front, and a 
flashing eye — with an air at once dandyish and 
heroical — a mixture, at the same time, of Brummcl 
and the Duke of Wellington. 

It was a fine February morning. Sir John drove 
Vivian to the ground in his cabriolet. 

" Nothing like, a cab. Grey, for the business 
you're going on. I only keep it for meetingg. 
You glide along the six miles in such style, that it 
actually makes you quite courageous. I remember 
once going down on a similar purpose, in a post 
and pair ; and, 'pon my soul, when I came to the 
ground, my hand shook so that I could scarcely 
draw. But I was green then. Now when I go 
in my cab, with Philidor with his sixteen-mile-an- 
hour paces, egad ! I wing my man in a trice ; and 
take all the parties home to Pall Mall, to celebrate 
the event with a grilled bone, Havannahs, and 
Regent's punch. Ah ! there ! that's Cleveland 
that we have just passed, going to the ground in a 
chariot : he's a dead man, or my name's not Poyn- 
ings — " 

" Come, Sir John ; no fear of Cleveland's 
dying," said Vivian with a smile, 

" What, you mean to fire in the air, and all that 
sort of thing 1 — rsentimental, but slip-slop !" 

The ground is measured — all is arranged. Cleve- 
land, a splendid shot, fired first. His pistol 
grazed Vivian's elbow, Vivian' fired in the air. 
The seconds interfered, Cleveland was implacable 
— and " in the most irregular manner," as Sir John 
declared, insisted upon another shot. To the 
astonishment of all, he fired quite wild, Vivian 
shot at random ; and his bullet pierced Cleveland's 
heart, Cleveland sprang nearly two yards from 
the ground, and then fell upon his back. In a 
moment Vivian was at the side of his fallen 
antagonist ; but the dying man " made no sign," 
he stared wildly, and then closed his eyes forever. 



CHAPTER VII. 



Whex Vivian Grey remembered his existence, 
he found himself in bed. The curtains of his 
couch were closed ; but, as he stared around him, 
they were softly withdrawn, and a face that recalled 
every thing to his recollection, gazed upon him 
with a look of affectionate anxiety, 

" My father !" exclaimed Vivian — but the finger 
pressed on the parental lip warned him to silence. 
His father knelt by his side, and softly kissed his 
forehead, and then the curtains were again closed. 

Six weeks, unconsciously to Vivian, had elapsed 
since the fatal day, and he was now recovering 
from the effects of a fever, from which his medical 
attendants had suj)posed he never could have 
escaped. And what had been the past 1 It did, 
indeed, seem like a hot and feverish dream. Here 
was he, once more in his own quiet room, watched 
over by his beloved parents ; and had there then 
ever existed such beings as the marquess, and Mrs. 
Lorraine, and Cleveland, or were they only the 
actors in a vision 1 '• It must be so," thought 
Vivian; and he jumped up in bis bed, and stareil 



VIVIAN GREY 



69 



wililly around liim. '■' And yet jt was a horrid 
dream '. Murder ! horrible murder ! — and so real ! 
so palpable ! I muse upon their voices, as upon 
familiar sounds, and I recall all the evejats, not as 
the shadowy incidents of sleep — that mysterious 
existence in which the experience of a century 
seems caught in the breathing of a second — but as 
the natural and material consequences of time and 
stirring life. ! no ! it is too true !" shrieked 
the wretched sufferer, as his eye' glanced upon a 
desk which was on the table, and which had been 
given to him by the marquess ; " it is true ! it is 
true ! murder ! murder !" he foamed at the mouth 
and sunk exhausted on his pillow. 

But the human mind can master many sorrows, 
and after a desperate relapse, and another miracu- 
lous rally, Vivian Grey rose from his bed. 
" My father ! I fear that I shall live !" 
'' Hope, rather, my beloved." 
"0! why should I hopel" and the sufferer's 
head sank upon his breast. 

" Do not give way, my son ; all will yet be well, 
and we shall all yet be happy," said the father, with 
etreaming eyes. 

" Happy ! 0, not in this world, my father !" 
" Vivian, my dearest, your mother visited you 
this morning, but you were asleep. She was quite 
happy tfi find you slumbering so calmly." 

" And yet my dreams were not the dreams of 
joy. ! piy mother, you were wont to smile 
upon me — alas ! .you smiled upon your sorrow." 

" Vivian, my beloved ! you must indeed restrain 
your feelings. At your age, life cannot be the lost 
game you think it. A little repose, and I shall yet 
ece my boy the honour to society which he deserves 
to be." 

" Alas ! my father, you know not what I feel ! 
The springiness of my mind has gone. O ! man, 
what vain fool thou art! Nature has been too 
bountiful to thee. She has given thee the best of 
friends, and you value not the gift of exceeding 
price, until your griefs are past even friendship's 
cure. ! my father ! why did I leave you !" 
and he seized Mr. Grey's hand with a convulsive 
gi-asp. 

Time flew on even in this house of son-ow. 
" My boy,"' said Mr. Grey to his son one day, 
" your mother and I have been consulting together 
about you ; and we think, now that you have some- 
what recovered your strength, it may bo well for 
you to leave England for a short time. The 
novelty of travel will relieve your mind, without 
too much exciting it ; and if you can manage by 
the autumn, to settle down anywhere within a 
thousand miles of England, why we will come and 
join you, and you know that will be very pleasant. 
VVHiat say you, my boy, to this little plan?" 

In a few weeks alter this proposition had been 
made, ^''ivian Grey was in Germany. He wan- 
dered for some months in that beautiful land of 
rivers, among which flows the Rhine, matchless in 
its loveliness ; and at length, the pilgrim shook the 
dust off his feet at Heidelburg, in which city Vivian 
proposed taking up his residence. It is, in truth, 
a place of surpassing loveliness ; where all the 
romantic wildiiess of German scenery is blended 
with the soft beauty of the Italian. An immense 
plain, which, in its extent and luxuriance, reminds 
you of the most fertile tracts of Tuscany, is bordered 
on one side by the Bergstrasse mountains, and on 
the other by the range of the Vosges. Situated 



on the river Neckar, in a ravine of the Bergstrasse, 
amid mountains covered vvith vines, is the city of 
Heidelburg : its ruined castle backing the city, and 
still frowning from one of the most commanding 
heights. In the middle of the broad plain may be 
distinguished the shining spires of Maimheim, 
Worms, and Frankenthal; and pouring its rich 
streams through its luxuriant land, the beautiful 
and abounding Rhine receives the tribute of the 
Neckar. The range of the Vosges fonns the ex- 
treme distance. 

To the httle world, of the little city, of which he 
was now an inhabitant, Vivian Grey did not 
appear a broken-hearted man. He lived neither 
as a recluse, nor a misanthrope. He became ex- 
tremely addicted to field sports, especially to hunt- 
ing the wild boar ; for he feared nothing so much 
as thought, and dreaded nothing so much as the 
solitude of his own chamber. He was an early 
riseT, to escape from hideous dreams ; and, at break 
of dawn, he wandered among the wild passes of 
the Bergstrasse ; or, climbing a lofty ridge, was a 
watcher for the rising sun ; and in the evening he 
sailed upon the star-lit Neckar. 

I fear me much, that Vivian Grey is a lost man ; 
but I am sure that every sweet and gentle spirit, 
who has read this sad story of his fortunes, will 
breathe a holy prayer this night for his restoration 
to society and to liimself. 



BOOK THE FIFTH. 



CHAPTER I. 

Tnoc rapid Aar ! thy waves are swollen by the 
snows of a thousand hills — but for whom are thy 
lea'ping waters fed 1 — Is it for the Rhine 1 

Calmly, O placid Neckar ! does thy blue 
stream glide through thy vine-clad vales — but 
calmer seems thy course when it touches the 
rushing Rhine ! 

How fragrant are the banks which are cooled 
by thy dark-green waters, tliou tranquil Maine I — 
but is not the perfume sweeter of the gardens of 
the Rhine ] 

Thou impetuous Nah ! I lingered by thine 
islands of nightingales, and I asked thy rushing 
waters whv they disturbed the music of thy groves ? 
— They told me, they were hastening to the 
Rhine ! 

Red Moselle ! fierce is the swell of thy spread- 
ing course — but why do thy broad waters blusli 
when they meet the Rhine ? 

Thou delicate Meuse I how clear is the current 
of thy limpid wave — as the wife yields to the 
husband, do thy pure waters yield to the Rhine ! 

And thou ! triumphant and imperial river, 
flushed with the tribute of these vassal streams; 
thou art thyself a tributary, and hastenest even in 
the pride of conquest to confess thine own vassal- 
age ! But no superior sti-eam exults in the homage 
of thy servile waters : the ocean, the eternal ocean, 
alone comes forward to receive thy kiss ! — not as 
a conqueror, but as a parent, he welcomes with 
proud joy his gifted child, the offspring of his 
honour ; thy duty — his delight ; thy tribute -thine 
own glory ! 

Once more upon thy banks, most beauteous 



70 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Rhine ! In tlie spring-time of my youth I gazed 
on thee, and deemed thee matchless. Thy vine- 
enamoured mountains — thy spreading waters — 
thy traditionary crags — thy shining cities — the 
sparkling villages of thy winding shores — thy 
antique convents — thy gray and silent castles — 
the purple glories of thy radiant grape — the vivid 
tints of thy teeming flowers — the fragrance of thy 
sky — the melody of tliy birds, whose carols tell the 
pleasures of their sunny woods, are they less 
lovely now, less beautiful, less sweet 1 

Once more upon thy banks, most beauteous 
Rhine ! Since I first gazed on thee, other climes 
have revealed to me their wonders and their glor^' 
— other climes, which Fame, perhaps, loves more; 
which many deem more beautiful — but not for a 
moment have I forgotten thy varied banks, and 
n5y memory still clings to thee, thou river of my 
youth ! 

The keen emotions of our youth are often the 
occasion of our estimating too ardently' ; but the 
first impression of beauty, though often over- 
charged, is seldom sujiplanted : and as the first 
great author which he reads is reverenced by the 
hoy as most immortal, and the first beautiful wo- 
man that he meets is sanctified by him as the most 
adorable ; so the impressions created upon us by 
those scenes of nature which first realize the ro- 
mance of our reveries, never escape fi-om our 
minds, and are ever consecrated in our memories ; 
— and thus some great spirits, after having played 
their part on the theatre of the world, have retired 
from the blaze of courts and cities; to the sweet 
seclusion of some spot, which they have accident- 
ally met with in the earlier years of their career. 

But we are to speak of one who had retired 
from the world before his time ; of one, whose 
early vices, and early follies, have been alreadj' ob- 
truded, for no unworthy reason, on the notice of 
the public, in as hot and hurried a sketch as ever 
yet was penned ; but, like its subject — for what is 
youth but a sketch — a brief hour of principles un- 
settled, passions luwestrained, powers undeveloped, 
and purposes unexecuted ! 

I am loath to speak even one moment of the 
author, instead of the hero; but with respect to 
those who have with such singular industry asso- 
ciated the character of the author of V^ivian Grey 
with that of its hero, I must observe, that as this 
is an inconvenience which I share in company 
with more celebrated writers, so also is it one 
which will never prevent me from describing any 
character which my mind may conceive. 

To those who, alike unacquainted with my per- 
son, my life, my habits, have, with that audacious 
accuracy for which ignorance is celebrated, not 
only boldly avowed that the original of my hero 
may be discovered in myself, but that the charac- 
ter, at the same time, forms also a flattering por- 
trait of a more frail original, I shall say nothing. 
Most of these chatterers are included in that vast 
catalogue of frivolous beings who carry on in so- 
ciety an espionage on a small scale, not precisely 
Uirough malice, but from an invincible ambition of 
having something to say, when they have nothing 
10 think about. A few of those persons, I am in- 
formed, cannot even plead a brainless skull as an 
excuse for their indecent conduct; but dreading 
that in time the lash might be applied to their own 
guilty littleness, they have sought in the propaga- 
tion of falsehood on their part, u boasted means 



for the prevention of further publication on mine. 
Unlucky rogues ! how effectual have been your 
exertions ! Let me not by one irritable expression 
console these clumsy midwives of calumny for 
the abortion of their slander ; but pass over their 
offences with that merciful silence, to which even 
insolent imbecility is ever entitled. 

Of the personal and political matter contained 
in the former books of this work, I can declare, 
that though written in a hasty, it was not written 
in a reckless spirit; and that there is nothing con- 
tained in those volumes of which I am morally 
ashamed. As to the various satires in verse, and 
political and dramatic articles of unsuccessful 
newspapers, which have been palmed, vi'ith such 
lavish liberality, upon myself, or upon another in- 
dividual as the supposed author of this work — in- 
asmuch as I never wrote one single line of them, 
neither of the articles nor of the satires, it is. un- 
necessary for me to apologize for their contents. 
They have been made the ostensible, the avowed 
pretext for a series of attacks, which I now, for 
once, notice, only to recommend them to the at- 
tentive study of those ingenious gentlemen who 
wish to be libellers with impunity ; and who are 
desirous of vindicating imaginary wrongs, or 
maintaining a miserable existence by the publica- 
tion of periodical rhapsodies, whose foul scurrility, 
over-wrought malice, ludicrous passion, evident 
mendacity, and frantic feebleness, alike exempt 
them from the castigation of literary notice or the 
severer penalties of an outraged law. 

Of the literary vices of Vivian Grey, no one is 
perhaps more sensible than their autiior. I con- 
ceive the character of a youth of great talents, 
whose mind had been corrupted, as the minds of 
many of our youth have been, by the artificial age 
in which he lived. The age was not less con-upt- 
ed than the being it had generated. In his whole 
career he was to be pitied; but for his whole 
career he was not to be less punished. When I 
sketched the feelings of his early boyhood, as the 
novelist, I had already foreseen the results to 
which those feelings were to lead ; and had in 
store for the fictitious character the punishment 
which he endured. I am blamed for the affecta- 
tion, the flippancy, the arrogance, the wicked wit 
of this fictitious character. Yet was Vivian Grey 
to talk like Simon Pure, and act like Sir Charles 
Grandison ] 

But to our tale. — Upwards of a year had now 
elapsed since Vivian Grey left England. The 
mode of life which he pursued at Heidelburg for 
many months, has already been mentioned. He 
felt himself a broken-hearted man, and looked for 
death, whose delay was no blessing ; but the feel- 
ings of youth which had misled him in his burn- 
ing hours of joy, equally deceived him in his dnys 
of sorrow, he hved; and in the course of time, 
found each day that life was less burdensome. 
The truth is, that if it be the lot of man to suffer, 
it is also his fortune to forget. Oblivion and sor- 
row share our being in much the same manner a« 
darkness and light divide the course of time. It 
is not in human nature, to endure extremities ; and 
sorrows soon destroy either us or themselves. 
Perhaps the fate of Niobe is no fable, but a type 
of the callousness of our nature. There is a time 
in human sulfering when succeeding sorrows are 
but like snow falling on an iceberg. It is true. 
that it is horrible to think tlial our peace of mind 



1 



VIVIAN GREY, 



71 



should arise, not ftom a retrospection of the past, 
but from a forgetfulness of it; but though this 
peace of mind is produced at th6 best by a men- 
tal laudanum, it is not valueless ; and oblivion, 
after all, is a just judge. As we retain but a 
faint remembrance of our felicity, it is but fair that 
the smartest stroke of sorrow should, if bitter, at 
kast be brief. But in feeling that he might yet 
again mingle in the world, Vivian Grey also felt 
that he must meet mankind with different feelings, 
and view their pursuits with a different interest. 
He woke from his secret sorrow in as changed a 
state of being as the water-nymph from her first 
embrace ; and he woke with a new possession, not 
only as miraculous as Undine's soul, but gained at 
as great a price, and leading to as bitter results. The 
nymph woke to new pleasures, and to new sor- 
rows ; and innocent as an infant, she deemed man- 
kind a god, and the viorld a paradise. Vivian 
Grey discovered that this deity was but an idol of 
brass, and this garden of Eden but a savage waste ; 
for if the river-nymph had gained a soul, he had 
gained expehience. 

Experience — word so lightly used, so little un- 
derstood I Experience, — mysterious spirit ! whose 
result is felt by all, whose nature is described b}' 
none. The father warns the son of your p.pproach, 
and sometimes looks to you its his oflspr jig's cure, 
and his own consolation. We hear of you in the 
nursery — we hear of you in the worlds — we hear of 
you in books ; but who has recognised you until 
lie was your subject, and who has discovered the 
object of so much fame until he has kissed your 
chain 1 To gain you is the work of all, and the 
curse of all ; you are at the same time necessary 
to our happiness, and destructive of our felicity ; 
you are the saviour of all things, and the destroyer 
of all things ; our best friend, and our bitterest ene- 
my ; for you teach us truth, and that truth is — 
despair. Ye youth of England, would that ye 
could read this riddle ! 

To wake from your bright hopes, and feel that 
all is vanity — to be roused from your crafty plans, 
and know that all is worthless, is a bitter, but your 
sure destiny. Escape is impossible ; for despair is 
the price of conviction. How 'many centuries 
have fled, since Solomon, in his cedar palaces, sung 
die vanity of man ! Though his harp was golden, 
and his throne of ivory, his feelings were not less 
keen, and his conviction not less complete. How 
many sages of all nations, have, since the monarch 
of Jeiusalem, echoed his sad philosophy ! yet the 
vain bubble still glitters, and still allures and must 
forever. 

The genealogy of Experience is brief; for Ex- 
perience is the child of Thought, and Thought is 
the child of Action. W^e cannot learn men from 
books, nor can we form, from written descriptions, 
a more accurate idea of the movements of the hu- 
man heart than we can of the movements of nature. 
A man may read all his life, and form no concep- 
tion of the rush of a mountain torrent or the 
waving of a forest of pines in a storm ; and a man 
may studv in his closet the heart of his fellow- 
creatures for ever, and have no idea of the power 
of ambition or the strength of revenge. 

It is when we have acted ourselves, and have 
seen others acting ; it is when we have laboured 
ourselves under the influence of our passions, and 
have seen others labouring ; it is when our great 
hopes have been attained, or have been ballied ; 



it is when, after having had the human heart re- 
vealed to us, we have the first opportunity to think ; 
it is then, if we can think, that the whole truth 
lights upon us ; it is then, that we ask of ourselves 
whether it be wise to endure such anxiety of mind, 
such agitation of spirit, such harrowing of the soul, 
to gain what may cease to interest to-morrow, or 
for which, at the best, a few years of enjoyment 
c; n alone be afforded ; it is then that we waken to 
the hollowness of all human things ; it is then that 
the sayings of sages, and the warnings of prophets 
are explained and understood ; it is then that we 
gain expehience. 

To deem all things vain is not the part of a dis- 
appointed man, who may feign it, but who can 
never feel it. To deem all things vain is the bitter 
portion of that mind, who, having known the world, 
dares to think. Experience will arise as often from 
satiety of joy as from the sting of sorrow. But 
knowledge of the world is only an accpiaintance 
with the powers of human passions, formed from 
our observation of our fellow-creatures, and of our- 
selves. He whose courage has been put to the 
test — who has relied on the love, or suffered by 
the hate of woman — has been deceived by man, 
and has deceived himself — may have as much 
knowledge of the world at twenty as if he had 
lived a century. We may travel over the whole 
globe, and not gain more, although, certainly, we 
might have more opportunities of seeing the same 
farce repeated, the same game of broken promises, 
and balked hopes, false expectation, and self-delu- 
sion. Few men were better acquainted with their 
species than Gil Bias, when he sat down at Lirias, 
and yet he had only travelled in two or three Span- 
ish provinces. 

Vivian Grey woke, as we have said, to a con- 
viction of the worthlessness of human fortunes. 
His character was changed ; and this is the mot- 
wonderful of all revolutions — a revolution which 
precept or reason can never bring about, but which 
a change of circumstances or fortune may. In his 
career through the world he resembled a turbid 
mountain river, whose colour had been cleared, 
and whose course had been calmed in its passage 
through a lake. 

But he commenced by founding his philosophy 
on a new error ; for he fancied himself passionless, 
which man never is. His trial had iieen severe, 
and because he could no longer interest himself in 
any of the usual pursuits of men, he believed that 
he could interest himself in none. But doubting 
of all things, he doubted of himself; and finding 
himself so changed from what he had been only a 
year or two before, he felt as if he should not be 
astonished if he changed again. 

With all his grief^ he was no cynic — if he smiled 
on men, it was not in bitterness ; if he thought 
them base, he did not blame them. He pitied those 
whose baseness, in his opinion, was their sufficient 
punishment ; for nothing they could attain could 
repay them for the hot contest of their passions. 
Subdued, but not melancholy ; contemplative, but 
not gloomy ; he left his solitude. Careless of what 
was to come, the whole world was before him. 
Indifference is at least the boon of sorrow ; for 
none look forward to the future with indifierenee, 
who do not look back to the past with dread. 

Vivian Grey was now about to join, for the se- 
cond time, the great and agitated crowd of beings, 
who are all intent in the search after that undis- 



D-ISUAELI'S NOVELS. 



coverable talisman — Happix^ss. That he enter- 
tained the slightest hopes of being the successful 
inquirer, is not for a moment to be imagined. He 
considered that the happiest moment in human life 
is exactly the sensation of a sailor who has escaped 
a shipwreck ; and that the mere belief that his 
wishes are to he indulged, is the greatest bliss en- 
joyed by man. 

How far his belief was correct, how he prospered 
in this, his second venture on the great ocean of 
life, it is our business to relate. There were mo- 
ments, when he wished himself neither experienced 
nor a philosopher — moments when he looked back 
to the lost paradise of his innocent boyhood — those 
glorious hours, when the unruffled river of his 
hfe mirrored the cloudless heaven of his hope ! 



CHAPTER n. 

ViTiAN pulled up his horse, as he ascended 
through the fine beech wood, which leads imme- 
diately to the city of Frankfort, from the Darmstadt 
road. The crowd seemed to increase every moment, 
but as they were all hastening the same way, his 
progress was not much impeded. ' It was Frankfort 
fair ; and all countenances were expressive of that 
excitement which we always experience at great 
meetings of our fellow-creatuves ; whether the 
assemblies be for slaughter, pleasure, or profit, and 
whether or not we ourselves join in the banquet, 
the battle, or the fair. At the top of the hill is an 
old Roman tower, and from this point the flourishing 
city of Frankfort, with its picturesque cathedral, 
its numerous villas, and beautiful gardens in the 
middle of the fertile valley of the Maine, burst 
upon Vivian's sight. On crossing the bridge over 
the river, the crowd became almost impassable, and 
it was with the greatest diiTiculty that Vivian steered 
liis way through the old, narrow, winding streets, 
full of tall, ancient houses, with heavy casements 
and notched gable ends. These structures did not, 
however, at the present moment, greet the traveller 
with their usual sombre and antique appearance : 
their outside walls were, in most instances, entirely 
covered with pieces of broad-cloth of the most 
showy colours ; red, blue, and yellow predominat- 
ing. These standards of trade were not merely 
useJ for the purpose of exhibiting the quality of the 
articles sold in the interior; but also of informing 
the curious traveller, the name and nation of their 
adventurous owners. Inscriptions in German, 
French, Russian, English, Italian, and even Hebrew, 
appeared in striking characters on each woollen 
specimen ; and, as if these were not sufficient to 
attract the attention of the passenger, an active ap- 
prentice or assistant commented in eloquent terms 
on the peculiar fairness and honesty of his master. 
The public squares, and other open spaces, and 
indeed every spot which was secure from the hur- 
lying wheels of the heavy old-fashioned coaches of 
the Frankfort aristocracy, and the spirited pawings 
of their sleek and long-tailed coach horses, were 
covered with large and showy booths, which groaned 
under the accumulated treasures of all countries : 
French silks and French clocks rivalled Manches- 
ter cottons and Sheffield cutlery ; and assisted to 
attract or entrap the gazer, in company with Vene- 
tian chains, Neapolitan coral, and Vienna pipe- 



heads ; here was the booth o a great bookseller, 
W'ho looked to the approaching Leipsic fair for 
some consolation for his slow sale, and the bad 
taste of the people of Frankfort ; and there was a 
dealer in Bologna sausages, who felt quite con- 
vinced that in some things the taste of the Frankfort 
public was by no means to be lightly spoken of. 
All was bustle, bargaining, and business : there 
were quarrels and conversation in all languages ; 
and Vivian Grey, although he had no chance either 
of winning or losing money, was amused. 

At last, Vivian gained the High street; and 
here, though the crov^'d was not less, the space 
was greater ; and so in time he arrived at the grand 
hotel of "the Roman Emperor," where he stopped. 
It was a long time before he could be informed 
whether Baron Julius von Konigstein at present 
honoured that respectable establishment with his 
presence ; for, although Vivian did sometimes suc- 
ceed in obtaining an audience of a hunying waiter, 
that animal, when in a hurry, has a peculiar habit 
of never attendmg to a question which a traveller 
addresses to him. In this dilemma Vivian was 
saluted by a stately-looking personage above the 
common height. He was dressed in a very splen- 
did uniform of green and gold, covered with em- 
broidery and glittering with frogs. He wore a 
cocked hat, adorned with a flowing party-coloured 
plume, and from bis broad golden belt was sus- 
pended a weapon of singular shape and costly 
workmanship. This personage was as stiff and 
stately as he was magnificent. His eyes were 
studiotisly preserved from the profanation of meet- 
ing the ground, and his well-supported neck sel- 
dom condescended to move from its perpendicular 
position. His coat was buttoned to the chin and 
ovpr the breast, with the exception of one small 
aperture, which was elegantly filled up by a deli- 
cate white cambric handkerchief, very redolent of 
rich perfumes. This gorgeous gentleman, who 
might have been mistaken for an elector of the 
German Empire, had the German empire been in 
existence, or the governor of the city at the least, 
turned out to be the chasseur of the Baron von 
Konigstein; and, with his courtly assistance, Vivian 
soon found himself ascending the staircase of the 
Roman Emperor. 

Vivian v^as ushered into an apartment, in which 
he found three or four individuals at breakfast. A 
middle-aged man of very elegant appearance, in a 
most outr^ morning gown of Parisian chintz, 
sprung up from a many cushioned easy chair of 
scarlet morocco, and seized his hand as he was 
announced. 

" My dear Mr. Grey ! and so you are really 
kind enough to call upon rne — I was so fearful 
lest you should not come — Eugene was so desi- 
rous that we should meet, and has said so many 
things of you, that I should have been mortified 
beyond expression if we had missed. I have left 
notice for you at all the principal hotels in the 
city. And how is Eugene I his is wild blood for 
a young student, but a good heart, an excellent 
heart — and you have been so kind to him ! — he 
feels under such particular obligations to you — un- 
der very particular obligations,.! assure you — and 
will you breakfast ? — Ah ! I see you smile at my 
supposing a horseman unbreakfasted. And have 
you ridden here from Heidelburg this morning ? 
impossible ! Only from Darmstadt ! I thought 
so ! You were at the opera then last night. And 



VIVIAN GREY 



73 



how is the little signora ? Wc are to gain her 
thoxigh! trust the good people of Frankfort for 
that ! Pray he seated — but really I'm forgetting 
the commonest rules of breeding. Next to the 
pleasure of having friends is that of introducing 
them to each other : Prince, you will have great 
pleasure in being introduced to my friend, Mr. 
Grey — Mr. Grey — Prince Salvinski ! my particu- 
lar friend, Prince Salvinski. The Count von Al- 
tenburgh ! Mr. Grey ! my very particular friend, 
the Count von Altenburgh — and the Chevalier dc 
Boeffleurs ! Mr. Grey ! my most particular friend, 
the Chevalier de Bceffleurs." 
. After this most hospitable reception from a man 
he had never seen before, Vivian Grey sat down. 
Baron Julius von Konigstein was minister to the 
diet of Frankfort, from what is termed a " first- 
rate" German power. In person he was short, 
but most delicately formeJ, his head was a little 
bald, but as he was only five-and-thirty, this could 
scarcely be from age ; and his remaining hair, 
black, glossy, and curling, proved that their com- 
panion ringlets had not been long lost. His fea- 
tures were small, but not otherwise remarkable ; 
except a pair of luscious-looking, liquid, black eyes, 
of great size, which would have hardly become a 
stoic, and which gleamed with great meaning and 
perpetual animation, 

" I understand, Mr. Grey, that you're a regular 
philosopher. Pray, who is the favourite master 1 
Kant or Fichte 1 or is there any other new star 
who has discovered the origin of our essence, and 
proved the non-necessity of eating ! Count, let 
me help you to a little more of these saucisses aux 
choitx. I'm afraid, from Eugene's account, that 
you're almost past redemption ; and I'm sorry to 
say, that although I'm very desirous of being your 
physician and effecting your cure, Frankfort will 
supply me with very few drags to work your reco- 
very. If you could but get nic an appointment 
once again to your delightful Iiondon, I might in- 
deed produce some ellect ; or were I even at 
Berlin, or at your delicious Vienna, Count Alten- 
burgh ! (the count bowed ;) or at that paradise of 
women, Warsaw, Prince Salvinski ! ! (t!ie prince 
bowed ;) or at Paris ! ! ! Chevalier, (the chevalier 
bowed ;) why then, indeed, you should have some 
difficulty in finding an excuse for being in low 
spirits with Julius von Konigstein ! But Frank- 
fort, my dear fellow, is really the most horrible of 
all liuman places ! perfectly provincial — eh ! de 
Boeffieurs !" 

" ! perfectly provincial," sighed the French 
chevalier, who was also attached to a mission in 
this very city, and who was thinking of his own 
gay Boulevards, and his brilliant Tuileries. 

"And the men, such brutes ! mere citizens!" 
continued the baron, taking a long pinch of snuff, 
— " mere citizens ! Do you take snuff? I merely 
keep this box for my friends ;" and here he ex- 
tended to Vivian a magnificent gold snuff-box, 
covered with the portrait of a crowned head, sur- 
rounded with diamonds : " A present from the 
king of Sardinia, when I negotiated the marriage 

of tlie duke of and his niece, and settled the 

long agitated controversy, about the right of an- 
chovy fishing on the left bank of the Mediterra- 
nean : I merely keep it for my friends ; my own 
suuir is here." And , the baron pointed very sig- 
!Mficantly to his waistcoat-pocket cased with tin. 

' ^ut the Women," continued the baron, •' the 
10 



women — Ihat is a different thing. — There's some 
amusement among the little burgeoises, who are 
glad enough to get rid of their commercial beaus ; 
whose small talk, after a waltz, is about bills of 
exchange, mixed up with a little patriotism about 
their free city, and some chatter about what they 
call — ' the fine arts ;' their horrid collections of 
' the Dutch school :' — School, forsooth I a cabbage, 
by Gerard Dow ! and a candlestick, by Mieris ! — 
And now will you take a basin of soup, and warm 
yourself, while his highness continues his account 
of being frozen to death this spring at the top of 
Mont Blanc : how was it, prince 1" 

" I think I was at the second attempt ]" asked 
the Pole, collecting himself after this long inter- 
ruption. — He was, as all Poles are, a great travel- 
ler ; had seen much and described more — though a 
great liar, he was a dull man ; and the baron, who 
never allowed himself to be outdone in a good 
story, affected to credit the prince's, and returned 
him his thanks in kind, which his highness, in 
spite of his habitual mendacity on the point of his 
own travels, singularly enough, always credited. 

" Did your highness ultimately ascend to the top 
of Mont Blanc"!" asked Vivian. 

" No — " said the prince, very slowly, as if he 
confessed the fact with reluctance : " I did tiot — I 
certainly did not ; although I did reach a much 
higher point than I contemplated after my repulse ; 
a point, indeed, which would warrant some indivi- 
duals in asserting that they had even reached the 
summit ; but in matters of science I am scrupu- 
lously correct, and I certainly cannot say that I 
did reach the exircmr top. I say so, because, as I 
believe, I mentioned before, in matters of science 
I make it a point to be particularly correct. It is 
singular, but no less true, that after reaching the 
fifth glacier, I encountered a pyramidal elevation 
of, I should calculate, fifteen hundred feet in 
height. This pyramidal elevation was not perpen- 
dicular, but had an unhappy inchnation forward, 
of about one inch in eight. It was entirely of 
solid, green, polished ice. Nature had formed no 
rut to assist the philosopher. — I paused before this 
pyramidal elevation of polished, slippery, green 
ice. I was informed that it was necessary for me 
to ascend this pyramidal elevation during the 
night; and this pyramidal elevation of solid, gi-een, 
polished, slippery ice, Mr. Grey, with an unhappy 
inclination forward, of one inch 'in eight from the 
perpendicular, was the top of Mont Blanc. Saus- 
sure may sai/ that he ascended it forever ! For 
my part, when I beheld this pyramidal elevation, 
gentlemen, I was not surprised that there was 
some little variance as to the exact height of this 
mighty mountain, among all those ph.ilosophers 
who profess to have reached its summit." On this 
head the travelling Pole would have discoursed for 
ever; but the baron, with his usual presence of 
mind, dexterously interfered. 

" You were fortunate, prince ; I congratulate 
you, I've heard of that iceberg before. I remem- 
ber, mv cousin, who ascended the mountain about 
ten years ago — was it ten years ago ? — yes. ten 
years ago. 1 remember he slept at the foot of that 
very pyramidal elevation, in a miserable mountain- 
hut, intending to climb it in the morning. He 
was riot so well-instructed as your highness, who, 
doubtless, avoided the diurnal ascent, from fear of 
the effect of the sun's rays on the slippery ice 
Well, my cousin, as I said befoie, slept in the 
G 



74 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



mountain-hut ; and in the night there came such a 
fall of snow, that when he awoke, he found the 
cottage-door utterly blocked up. In fact, the whole 
building was encrusted in a coating of snow, of 
above forty feet thick. In this state of affairs, 
having ])reviously made a nuncupative will, to 
which tlie guides were to be witnesses, in case of 
their escape, he resigned himself to his fate. But 
Providence interfered ; a violent tornado arose. 
Among other matter, the gigantic snowball was 
lifted up in tiie air with as much ease as if it were 
merely a drop of .sleet. It bounded from glacier to 
glacier with the most miraculous rapidity, and at 
length vaulted on the Mcr-de-glace, where it crack- 
ed into a thousand pieces. My cousin was taken 
up by a couple of young English ladies, who were 
sketching the Montanvert, with three or four of the 
principal glaciers for a back-ground. The only in- 
conveniences he sustained were a severe cold, and 
a slight contusion ; and he was so enchanted with 
the manners of the youngest lady, who, by-the-by, 
had a very considerable fortune, that he married 
her the next week." Here the baron took a very 
long pinch of snufF. 

" Mun Dieti .'" exclaimed the Polish prince, 
who affected French manners. 

" 3Inn Dieu /"' exclaimed the Austrian count, 
who was equally refined. 

" Man bleu .'" exclaimed the Frenchman ; 
who, believing his own country .superior in every 
possible particular, was above borrowing even an 
oath, or an ejaculation, from another land. 

" Mr. Grey — I wish that Frankfort could have 
been honoured by your presence yesterday," said 
the baron ; " there really was an entertainment at 
the president's which was not contemptible, and a 
fine display of women, a very fine display ! eh, de 
Boeffleursi" 

" Remarkably so, indeed I but what a room !" 
said the chevalier, shrugging up his shoulders and 
elevating his eyebrows. 

" We want the saloon of Wisbaden here," said 
the baron ; " with that, Frankfort might be endu- 
rable. As it is, I really must give up my appoint- 
ment ; I cannot carry on public business in a city 
with such a saloon as we met in last night." 

" The most imposing room, on the whole, that 
I ever was in," said Prince Salvinski, " is the chief 
hall of the seraglio at Constantinople. It's a most 
magnificent room.^' 

" You have been in the interior of the seraglio, 
then ?" asked Vivian. 

" All over it, sir, all over it ! The women unfor- 
tunately were not there ; they were at a summer 
palace on the Bosphorus, where they are taken re- 
gularly every year for an airing in large gold 
cages." 

" And was the furniture of the room you are 
speaking of very gorgeous 1" 

" No, by no means ; a great deal of gilding and 
carving, but rude, rude; very much like the exte- 
rior carving of a man-of-war; nothing exquisite. 
I remember the floor was covered with carpets, 
which, by-the-by, were English. To give you an 
idea of the size of the room, it might have taken, 
perhaps, sixty of the largest carpets that you ever 
saw to cover the floor of it." 

" Does your highness take snuff!" asked the 
baron dryly 

" Thank you, no ; I've left off snuff ever since 
I passed a winter at I3aflin's Bay, You've no idea 



how very awkward an accidental sneeze is neai 

the pole." 

" Your highness, I imagine, has been a great 
traveller ;" said Vivian, to the baron's great an- 
noyance. Unfortunately Vivian was not so much 
used to Prince Salvinski as his excellency. 

" I have seen a little of most countries ; these 
things are interesting enough when we are young ; 
but when we get a little more advanced in life, the 
novelty wears off, and the excitement ceases. I 
have been in all quarters of the globe. In Europe 
I have seen every thing except the miracles of 
Prince Hohenlohe. In Asia I have seen every- 
thing except the ruins of Babylon. In Africa I 
have seen every thing but Timbuctoo ; and in 
America I have seen every thing except Cruker'.s 
Mountains." 

All this time the Austrian had not joined in the 
conversation ; not, however, because his mouth was 
shut — that is never the fault of an Austrian. Count 
von Altcnburgh had now, however, finished his 
breakfast. Next to eating, music is the business 
in which an Austrian is most interested. The 
count having had the misfortune of destroying, for 
the present, one great source of his enjoyment, be- 
came very anxious to know what chance there 
existed of his receiving some consolation from the 
other. Flinging down his knife and fork, as if he 
estimated those instrumenfts very slightly, now that 
their services were useless, and pushing his plate 
briskly from him, he demanded with an anxious 
air — " Can any gentleman inform me what chance 
there is of the signora coming T' 

" No news to-day," said the baron, with a mourn- 
ful look, "I'm almost in despair ; — what do you 
think of the last notes that have been interchanged 1" 
" Very little chance," said the Chevalier de 
Bcrflleurs, shaking his head ; " really these burgh- 
ers, with all their alTected enthusiasm, have 
managed the business exceedingly ill. No opera 
can possibly succeed, that is not conducted by a 
committee of noblemen." 

" Certainly I" said the baron; " we're sure then 
to have the best singers, and be in the gazette tlie 
same season." 

" Which is much better, I think, Von Konig- 
stein, than paying our bills, and receiving no plea- 
sure." 

" But these burghers," continued the baron ; 
" these clumsy burghers, with their affected enthu- 
siasm, as you well observ'c, who could have con- 
templated such novices in diplomacy ? Whatever 
may be the issue, I can at least lay my head upon 
my pillow, and feel that I have done my duly. 
Did not I, de Bceflleurs, first place the negotiation 
on a basis of acknowledged feasibility and mutual 
benefit 1 Who drew the protocol, I should like to 
know 1 Who bafiled the intrigues of the Enghsh 
minister, the Lord Amelius Fitz-fudge Boroughby '! 
Who sat up one whole night with the signora's 
friend, the Russian envoy, Baron Squallanoff — 
jind who was it that first arranged about the extra 
chariot?" and here the representative of a first-rate 
German power looked very much like a resigned 
patriot, who feels that he deser\'es a riband. 

" No doubt of it, my dear Von Konigstcin," 
echoed the French charge d'aliaires, " and I think, 
whatever may be the result, that I too may look 
back to this negotiation with no ungratified feelings. 
Had the arrangement been left, as I had wished, 
merely to the miuisters of the Great Powers, I am 



VIVIAN G R E \" 



75 



confident that the signora would have been singing 
tliis night in our opera house." 

" What is the grand point of diflerence at pre- 
sent?" asked the Austrian. 

" A most terrific one," said the baron ; " the lady 
demanded six-and-thirty covers, two tables, two 
rarriages, one of which I arranged should be a 
cliariot ; — that at least the town owes to me ; — and, 
let me see, what else ] merely a town mansion and 
establishment. Exerting myself day and night, 
these terms were, at length, agreed to by the mu- 
nicipality, and the lady was to ride over from 
Darmstadt to sign and seal. In the course of her 
ride, she took a cursed fancy to the country villa 
of a great Jevs' banker, and since that moment the 
arrangement has gone ofl". We have offered her 
every thing — the commandant's country castle — his 
lady's country farm — the ^•illa of the director of the 
opera — the retreat of our present prima donna — all, 
all in vain. Wc have even hinted at a temporary le- 
pose, a neighbouring royal residence — but all, all 
useless I The banker and the signora are equally 
intractable, and Frankfort is in despair." 

'■ She ought to have signed and sealed at Darm- 
stadt," said the count very indignantly. 

" To be sure I — they should have closed upon 
hercayirice, and taken her when she was in the fancy." 

" Talking of opera girls," commenced the Polish 
prince, '• I remember the Countess Katszinski — " 

'■ Your highness has nothing upon your plate," 
quickly retorted the baron, who was in no humour 
for a story. 

'• Nothuig more, I thank you," continued the 
prince : " as I was saying, I remember the Count- 
ess Kalszinski — " 

'• Mr. Brinkel !" announced the chasseur ; and 
the entrance of a very singular-looking personage 
saved the company from the Pole's long story. 

Mr. Brinkel was a celebrated picture-dealer. Ke 
was a man about the middle size, with keen, black 
eyes, a sharp nose rather unduly reclining to his 
right cheek, and which somewhat singular contor- 
tion was, perhaps, occasioned by an habitual and 
sardonic grin \\'hich constantly illuminated his 
features, and lit up his shining, dark-brown face, 
which was of much the same tint as one of his own 
varnished, " deep-toned,'' modern antiques. There 
were odd stories about respectiiig Mr. Brinkel and 
his " undoubted originals," in which invaluable 
pieces of property he alone professed to deal. But 
the Baron von Konigstein was, at any rate, not 
one of Mr. Brinkel's victims; and his excellency 
v«as among the rare few, whom a j)icture-dealer 
knows it is in vain to attempt to take in : he was an 
amateur who thoroughly understood art, one of the 
rarest characters in existence. The baron and 
Brinkel were, however, great friends ; and at the 
present moment, the picture-dealer was assisting 
the diplomatist in the accomplishment of a ver^' 
crafty and splendid plan. Baron von Konigstein, 
for various renson:^, which shall now be nameless, 
was generally in want of money Now the baron, 
tired with his perpetual shifts, determined to make 
a fortune at one great cuiip. He had been in Eng- 
land, and was perfectly aware of the rishig feeling 
for the arts wliich at the present moment daily 
flourisiies in this country. The baron was gene- 
.'ous enough to determine materially to assist in 
the formation of our national taste. He was, him- 
self, forming at a cheap rate a very extensive collec- 
tion of original pictures, which he intended to sell 



at an enormous price to the National Gallery. 
Brinkel, in order to secure t'ne enii-ee of the baron's 
room, which afforded various opportunities of get- 
ting off his "undoubted" originals on English and 
Russian travellers, was in return assisting the mi- 
nister in his great operation, and acted as his gene- 
ral agent in the affair, on which he was also to get 
a respectal le commission. This business was, of 
course, altogether a close secret. 

And now, before Mr. Brinkel opens his mouth, I 
may, perhaps, be allowed to say a few words upon 
a subject m which wc are all interested. We are 
now forming, at great expense, and \\i\h greater 
anxiety, a national gallery. What is the princi- 
pal object of such an institution ■! Doubtless to ele- 
vate the productions of our own school by affording 
our artists an op{)oitunity of becoming acquainted 
with the works of the great masters who have pre- 
ceded them. Why, then, have we deviated from 
the course whicli has been pursued in tlie formation 
of all other national galleries ] Xhere we shall see 
arranged in chronological order, specimens of the 
art in all ages, from the period in wliich Cimabue 
rescued it from the Greek painters unto the present 
time. The excellent is doubtless to be conceived 
in tlie study of the excellent ; but we should always 
remember that excellence is relative ; and that to the 
philosopher, the frescos of Masaccio, are perhaj)s 
more marvellous than the frescos of the Vatican. 
Introduce a young and inexperienced painter to the 
Assumption of Titian, the Madonna della Pieta of 
Guido, the I^eo of Eafi'aelle, the St. Jerome of Do- 
menichino ; and, instead of being incited and in- 
spired, he will leave the chamber in despair. But, 
before he witnesses these miracles, let him trace on 
the walls of the gallery the history of his art. Let 
him view the fu'st hazardous efforts of the inexpe- 
rieiiced, wavering, and timid pencil, depicting- 
mummies rather than men — sticks, rather than 
trees ; let him view the unrelieved surface — the ill- 
proportioned extremities — the harsh and unsubdued 
tints ; then, let him watch perspective stealing into 
the back-ground; let him witness the attenuated 
forms, falling into gi'aceless, but energetic groups , 
let him admire the first deception of chiaro 'scuro ; 
then bring him to the correct design, the skilful 
foreshortening, the exact extreiuities ; to the round- 
ed limb — to tlie breathing mouth — to the kindled 
eye — to the moving group ! Add to these all the 
magic of colour, and lo ! a grand picture. We 
stand before the work with admiring awe ; forget- 
ting the means in the result; the artist, in the creator. 

Thus gradually, I repeat, should our young 
artist be introduced to the great masters, whom 
then the wise pride of human nature would incite 
him to imitate. Then, too, he would feel that to 
become a great artist, he must also become a great 
student ; that no sudden inspirations produced the 
^'^irgins of Rafl'acllc ; that, by slow degrees, by pain- 
ful observation, by diligent comparison, by frequent 
experiment, by frequent failure, by the experience of 
many styles, the examination of all schools, the 
scholar of Perugino won for himself a name, than 
which no one is more deeply graven on fame's eter- 
nal tablets. 

For half the sum that we are giving for a suspi- 
cious Correggio, the young English artist would be 
able to observe all this, and the efforts of the early 
Germans to boot. I make these observations witli 
no disposition to disparage the management of our 
Galleiy ; nor in that carping humour wliich some 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



think if safe to assume, when any new measure is 
proposed, or is neiiig earned into execution. I 
know the ditRcuhies that the directors have to con- 
tend with. I know the greater diilicuhies that 
await them ; and I have made these observations 
because I behove there is a due disposition, in the 
proper quarter, to attend to honest sug2:estions; and 
because I feel that the true interests of the arts, have, 
at this present time, in our monarch, a steady, a 
sincere, and powerful advocate; one who, in spite 
of the dishearterting opposition of vulgar clamour, 
and uneducated prejudice, has done more in a 
short reign for the patronage of the iine arts, than 
all the dynasties of all the Medicis. Roman ajid 
Florentine, together. And now for Mr. Brinkcl. 

" My dear baron !" commenced the • picture- 
dealer ; and here seeing strangers he jiulled up, in 
order to take a calm view of the guests, and see 
whether there v^'ere any unpleasant faces among 
them ; any gentleman to whom he had sold a 
Jjconardo da Vinci, or a Salvator Rosa. All look- 
ing very strange, and extrtmely amiable, Mr. 
Erinkel felt reassured, and proceeded. 

" My dear baron ! merely a few words." 

" O, my dear Brinkel ! — proceed — proceed." 

" Another time ; your excellency is engaged at 
present." 

" My dear Brinkel ! before these gentlemen you 
may say any thing." 

" Your excellency's so kind," continued Mr. 
Brinkel, though with a hesitating voice, as if he 
thought that when the nature of the communica- 
tion was known, the baron might repent his over- 
confidence. " Your excellency's so kind !" 

" My dear little Rembrandt, you may really say 
any fhing" 

" Well, then," continued he, half-hesitating, and 
half in a whisper; "may it please your excellency, 
I merely stc]!ped in to say, that I am secretly, but 
credibly informed, that there is a man just arrived 
from Italy, with a mnrble Pieta of Michel Angelo, 
stolen from a church in Genoa. The fact is noiyet 
known, even to the police ; and long before the Sardi- 
nian minister can apply for the acquirer's apprehen- 
sion, he will be safely stowed in one of my cellars." 

"A marble Pieta I by Michel Angelo," ex- 
claimed the prince, with great eagerness. The 
Polish nobleman had a conimission from the im- 
perial viceroy of his country, to make purchases 
of all exquisite specimens of art that he could 
meet with; as the imperial government was veiy 
desirous of reforming the taste of the nation in mat- 
ters of art, which indeed was in a particularly de- 
praved state. Caricatures had been secretly circu- 
lated in tlJe highest circles of Warsaw ar:d Wilria, 
in which the emperor and his ministers did not look 
quite as dignified as when shrouded in the sacred 
sanctuary of the Kremlin ; ai'.d altb.ough the knoul, 
the wheel, and Siberia, supi-iresscd these little in- 
temperances for the moment, still it was imagined 
by the jjrime minister, who chanced to be a philo- 
sopher, that the only method of permanent pre- 
vention was directing tlie public taste to the study 
of the beautiful; aiid that therefore the ordy mode 
of saving the sovereign from being squibbed, was 
the formation of a national gallery. Ours, there- 
fore, is not the only infant institute. 

"A marble I'ieta, by Michel Angelo!" ex- 
claimed the prince ; " but a great price, I sup- 
pose, demanded !" 

" Dear — but cheap ;" oracularly answered Mr. 



Brinkel ; and the sinistral forefinger was signifi 
cantly apjjiied to the left nide of his nose. 

" I confess, I am no extravagant admirer of 
Michel Angelo," said the baron. "In the sacred 
shades of Santa Oroce, sculpture, painting, and 
architecture mourn him as their lost master. 
Poetry might, have been added to the charming 
sisters. But in all these glorious arts, though his 
performances were remarkable, they werfe not mi- 
raculous ; and I look in vain for any production 
of Michel Angelo, which per se stamps him as a 
master spirit. 

" It was his custom to treat sculpture as his 
profession, and in his profession he has left scarcely 
one finished work. The tombs of the Medicis are 
not completed, and although there is a mysterious, 
and undcfinabic moral in his ' Night and Day,' 
which may attract the contemplative, and interest 
the poet, yet I imagine few, who have preconceived 
that monument from the written descriptions, have 
looked on the original without disappointment. 
His Moses, — and for a moment I will grant that 
the legislator is as sublime as his warmest admirers 
maintain, — is only one finished figure of a monu- 
ment, in which it was to have been not the most 
remarkable. But what, if this statue be only a 
kindred personification of the .same conception 
which he has depicted in the brawny prophets of the 
Sistine chapel, where it would seem that the artist 
had mistaken contortion for inspiration, and large- 
ness of stature for dilatation of soul ! His marble 
Pictiis and Madonnas unfinished, abound in the 
Italian churches ; and though I grant a striking 
simplicity is often observable in the countenances 
of his Virgins, yet that simplicity is often severe, 
and sometimes sullen. We look in vain for the 
subdued loveliness of the mother of God — for that 
celestial resignation which is not akin to despair. 
As for the corfise, it might suit the widow's child, 
or the deceased Layarus ; and if not always abso- 
lutely vulgar, the face is at best but that of a young, 
and not very intellectual rabbi. If we turn from 
sacred subjects to ancjient mythology, I cannot for- 
get that Michel Angelo was the first arti.st, who 
dared to conceive a god as less than a man ; and 
in his ' Drunken Bacchus,' presented us with the 
sovereign of the grape, as the slave of his own 
subject, in a position too clumsy for a Faun, and 
too dull for a Silenus ! 

" Although sculpture was the profession of Mi- 
chel Angelo, ho is still more esteemed by his ad- 
mirers as a fiainter. Nolwdthstanding Sir .Joshua 
Reynolds ranks him even above Rafliielle, it seems 
now pretty well understood that his fame as a painter 
must depend upon his Roman frescos, and his 
one oil jiainting — the ' Holy P^amily,' at Florence. 
Whether this ])ainting really be in oil is doubtful, 
but that is of little moment. I will only ask, 
what mind unprejudiced by the doctrines, and un- 
coniaminated by the babbie of schools, has looked 
upon that boasted treasure of the Tribune, with 
any other feeling except disgust? Where is the 
diviniiv of the boy 1 When; the inspiration of 
the mother ? Where the proud felicity of the 
human husband ? 

*• Of fresco-paintinaf, Michel Ajigelo was mn- 
fcssedly ignorant, and once threw down the brush 
in disgust at his own incompetence. The theorist 
of art still finds some plan and order lurking ia 
the inexplicable arrangement of the Sistine ceiling; 
but vvliile he consoles himself for the absence of 



VIVIAN GREY. . 



n 



the more delightful cSccts of art, by conjuring up 
a philosophical arrangement of the prophets, anJ 
a solution of the dark mysteries of theocracy, he 
turns in silence from the walls, gloomy with the 
frightless purgatory, and the unexhilarating para- 
dise of ' The last Judgment ;' where the Gothic 
conceptions of the middle ages are again served 
up in the favourite temple of modern Rome, and 
in a manner in which crude composition seems 
only to be exceeded by confused arrangement — in 
which the distracted eye turns to a thousand points, 
and is satisfied by none — wearied with tints, 
which, though monotonous, are not subdued, and 
which, possessing none of the attractions of colour, 
seemed cursed with all its faults. 

" Michel Angelo was not educated as an archi- 
tect ; but an Italian, and a man of genius, may 
become a great architect, even without an educa- 
tion. Let us briefly examine his works. The 
domestic architecture of Florence is due to him ; 
and if we complain of palaces which look like 
prisons, and lament the perpetual presence of rustic 
bossages, we are told that the plans of Michel An- 
gelo were dictated by the necessities of the times ; 
and that, in his age, it was absolutely requisite that 
every palace should be prepared to become a fort- 
ress. If this be admitted as a valid excuse for the 
absence of beauty, it is against all principles of 
logic, that, because in these structures beauty was 
incompatible with safety, Michel Angelo could 
therefore have conceived the beautiful. In the 
chapel of the Medicis, we in vain look for the 
master ; where is that happy union of the .sciences, 
of the harmony of proportion, and the harmony 
of combination, which mark the great architect ! 
where the harmonious whole, consisting of parts 
beautiful in detail, and unobstrusive in effect ! 
We see only a dungeon, at once clumsy and con- 
fined. 

" If we turn from Florence to Rome, who is 
there to defend the complexities of the Capitoline 
Galleries, and the absurdities of the Porta Pia 1 
We approach St. Peter's: — although the work of 
many artists, the design of Michel Angelo has, 
on the whole, been very faithfully adhered to. 
That St. Peter's is magnificent, who can deny 1 — 
but how. could such a mass of stone, and masonry, 
and architectural embellishment, such a blaze of 
gilding, marbles, andi mosaics, be otherwise than 
magnificent 1 We must not be deceived by the 
first impression of a general effect which could not 
be avoided. It is acknowledged that this church, 
which is the largest in Christendom ; which re- 
quired so many years for its erection ; which ex- 
hausted the papal treasures, and endangered the 
j)apal dominion ; affects tht^ mind of the entering 
stranger, neither with its sublimity, nor its gran- 
deur ; and presents no feature which would lead 
him to suppose, that he was standing in the most 
celebrated temple in Europe. All our li'avellers 
and writers, who have alike experienced disap- 
|)ointment on entering this famous building, have 
attempted to account for this effect by attributing 
the cause to the exactness of- the proportions. 
But this is like excusing a man's ignorance, by 
assuring you that he has received a regular educa- 
tion. If exactness of proportion produce poverty 
of effect, exactness of proportion ceases to be a 
merit; but is this true ? What lover of Palladio 
can deny that it is the business of the great archi- 
tect to produce striking and chaste effects &om 



poor and limited materials ; and that exactnosg of 
proportion satisfying the mind, and not forcing it 
t(> ask for more, does in fact make that which is 
less appear greater, and that which is great, im- 
mense. 

" But if I mention the faults of Michel Angelo, 
I am bid to remember the early period of art in 
which he lived ; I am reminded of the mean ele- 
vations of those who preceded him — of the tone 
which he gave to the conceptions' of his successors. 
Yet many celebrated sculptors were his contempo- 
raries, and surely Leonardo da Vinci was not the 
scholar of his genius. But in painting especially, 
he was preceded by Fra Bartolomeo, a miraculous 
artist ; — who, while in his meek Madonnas he has 
only been equalled by Raffaelle, has produced in 
his St. Mark — his Job — and his Isaiah — creations 
which might have entitled him to the panegyrics 
which posterity has so liberally bestowed upon 
the sculptor of Moses, and the painter of the Sis- 
tine Chapel. 

" In architecture, I will not notice Brunelleschi ; 
but let me mention this astonishing fact : — San 
Michele was born only nine ov ten years after 
Michel Angelo, and as he died a few years before 
him, may be considered his exact contemporary. 
While the chapel of the Medicis was erected at 
Florence ; at Verona, in the chapel of the Pelle'- 
grini, San Michele was reproducing ancient beauty, 
in combinations unknown to the antique. While 
the barbaric absurdities of the Porta Pia disgiaced 
the capital of the papal state, San Michele pro- 
duced in the Porta Stupa a structure worthy of 
ancient Rome. And while Michel Angelo was 
raising palaces for his Florentine contemporaries, 
whose dark and rugged elevations are to be ex- 
cused, on account of the necessity of their being 
impregnable to the assaults of popular tumult, the 
streets of Verona, the constant seat of sedition, 
were filling, under the direction of San Michele, 
with numberless palaces, which, while they de- 
fended their owners alike among the dangers of 
civil broils and foreign invasion, at the same time 
presented elevations, for their varied beauty, and 
classic elegance, have only been equalled by Pal- 
ladio !" 

Nothing is more dchghtful than to hear the 
sound of our own voice. The baron's lecture was 
rather long, but certainly unlike most other lec- 
turers, he understood his subject. Before Vivian 
could venture an observation in defence of the 
great Florentine, the door opened, and Ernstorff 
handed a despatch to the baron, recommending it 
to his excellency's particular attention. 

" Business, I suppose," said the plenipotentiary: 
" it may wait till to-morrow." 

" From M. Clarionet, your excellency." 
"From M. Clarionet!" eagerly exclaimed the 
baron, and tore open the epistle. "Gentlemen ! gen- 
tlemen ! gentlemen ! congratulate me — congratu- 
late yourselves— congratulate Frankfort — such 
news — it is really too much for me," and the diplo- 
matist, overcome, leaned back in his chair. — '^ She 
is ours, Salvinski ! she is ours. Von Altenburgh ! 
she is ours, my dear De Boeffleurs ! Grey, you're the 
happiest fellow in Christendom ; the signora has 
signed and sealed — all is arranged — she sings to- 
night ! What a fine spirited body is this Frankfort 
municipality ! what elevation of soul ! what geim- 
ine enthusiasm ! — eh, De Bffiffleursi" 

"Most genuine !" exclaimed the chevalier, who 
c 2 



78 



D' ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



hated German music with all his heart, and was ] the more remote and ancient streets. In crossing at 



now humming an air from the Dame Blanche. 

" But mind, my dear felIow.s — this is a secret, 
a cabinet secret — the municipality are to have the 
gratification of announcing the event to the city in 
a puhHc decree — it is but fair. I feci that I have 
only to hint, to secure your silence." 

At this moment, with a thousand protestations 
of secrecy, the party broke up, each hastening to 
have the credit of first spreading the joyful intelli- 
gence through their circles, and of depriving the 
Frankfort senate of their hard-earned gratification. 
The baron, who was in high spirits, ordered the 
carriage to drive Vivian round the ramparts, where 
he was to he introduced to some of the most fash- 
ionable beauties, previous to the evening triumph. 
Mr. Brinkel, disappointed at present of increasing, 
through the assistance of the Polish prince, any 
collection in the North, directed his subtle steps 
up another flight of the staircase of the Roman 
Emperor, wliere lodged an English gentleman, for 
whom Mr. Brinkel had a very exquisite niorceaii ,■ 
having received the night before from Florence a 
fresh consignment of Carlo Dolces. 



CHAPTER ITI. 



Vivian passed a week very agreeablj' at Frank- 
fort. In the baron and his friends he found the 
companions that he had need of; their conversation 
and pursuits diverted his mind without engaging 
his feeUngs, and allowed him to pause and think. 
There were moments, indeed, when he found in 
the baron a companion neither frivolous nor unin- 
structive. His excellency had travelled in most 
countries, and had profited by his travels. His taste 
for the fine arts was equalled by his knowledge of 
them ; and his acquaintance with many of the 
most eminent men of Europe enriched his conver- 
sation with a variety of anecdotes, to which his 
lively talents did ample justice. He seemed fond, 
at times, of showing Vivian that he was not a mere 
artificial man of the world, destitute of all feelings, 
and thinking only of himself: he recurred with 
satisfaction to moments of his life, when his pas- 
sions had been in full play ; and, while he acknow- 
ledged the errors of his youth with candour, he 
excused them with grace. In short, Vivian and he 
became what the world calls friends ; that is to 
say, they were men who had no objection to dine 
in each other's company, provided the dinner were 
good ; assist each other in any scrape, provided no 
particular personal responsibility were incurred by 
the assistant ; and live under the same roof, provi- 
ded each wer« master of his own time. Vivian 
and the baron, indeed, did more than this — they 
might have been described as vEi-y parliailcir 
friend.s — for his excellency had persuaded our hero 
to accompany him for the summer to the baths of 
Eni6, a celebrat&l German watering-place, situated 
in the dutchy of Aassau, in the vicinity of the 
Rhine. 

On the morrow they were to commence their 
journey. The fair of Frankfort, which had now 
lasted nearly a month, was at its close. A bright 
sunshiny afternoon was stealing into twilight, 
when Vivian, escaping from the principal street, 
and the attractions of the Braunfels, or chief shops 
under the E.xchange, directed his steps to some of 



little square, his attention was excited by a crowd, 
which had assembled round a conjuror ; who, from 
the top of a small cart, which he liad converted irv 
to a stage, was haranguing, in front of a green cur- 
tain, an audience with great fervency, and appa- 
rently with great eflect; at least Vivian judged so, 
from the loud applauses which constantly burst 
forth. The men pressed nearer, shouted, and clap- 
ped their hands; and the anxious mothers strug- 
gled to lift their brats higher in the air, that they 
might early form a due conception of the powers 
of magic ; and learn that the maternal threats 
which were sometimes extended to them at home, 
were not mere idle boasting. Altogether, the men 
with their cocked hats, stift'holiday coats, and long 
pipes ; the women with their glazed gowns of 
bright fancy patterns, close lace caps, or richly 
chased silver head-gear ; and the children with 
their gaping mouths and long heads of hair, ofler- 
ed very quaint studies for a Flemish painter. 
Vivian became also one of the audience, and not 
an uninterested one. 

The appearance of the conjuror was very pecu- 
liar. He was not much more than five feet high, 
but so slightly formed, that he reminded you rather 
of the boy than the dwarf. The upper part of his 
face was even delicately moulded ; his sparkling 
black eyes became his round forehead, which was 
not too much covered by his short, glossy, black 
hair ; his complexion was clear, but quite olive ; 
his nose was very small and straight, and contrast- 
ed singularly with his enormous mouth, the thin, 
bluish lips of which were seldom closed, and con- 
sequently did not conceal his large square teeth, 
which, though very white, were set apart, and 
were so solid that tliey looked almost like double 
teethi This enormous mouth, which was support- 
ed by large jawbones, attracted the attention of the 
spectator so keenly, that it was some time before you 
observed the prodigious size of the cars, which also 
adorned this extraordinary countenance. The cos- 
tume of this singular being was not less remark- 
able than his natural appearance. He wore a com- 
plete under-dress of pliant leather, which fitted 
close up to his throat, and down to his wrists and 
ankles, where it was clasped with large fastenings 
either of gold or some gilt material. This, with 
the addition of a species of hussar jacket of gre^n 
cloth, which was quite unadorned, with the ex- 
ception of its vivid red lining, was tlie sole cover- 
ing of the conjuror ; wIk), with a light cap and 
feather in his hand was now haranguing the spec- 
tators. . The object of his discourse was a pane- 
gj'ric of himself, and a satire on all other conjur- 
ors. He was the only conjuror — the real conjuror 
— a worthy descendant of the magicians of old. 

" Were I to tell that broad-faced Herr," con- 
tinued the conjuror, "who is now gaping opposite 
to me, that this rod is the rod of Aaron, mayhaji 
he would call me a liar ; yet were I to tell him 
that he was the son of his father, he would not 
think it wonderful I And yet, can he prove it ! 
My friends, if I am a liar, the. whole world is a lii'.r 
— and yet any one of you who'll go and proclaim 
that on the Braunfels, will get his skull cracked. 
Every truth is not to be spoken, and every lie is 
not to be punished. I've told you that it's better 
for you to spend your money in seeing my tricks, 
than it is in swigging schnaps in the chimney cor- 
ner; and yet, my friends, this may be a lie. I'v** 



VIVIAN GREY. «! 



79 



told Tou that the profits of this whole night shall 
be given to some poor and worthy person in this 
town ; and perhaps I shall give them to myself. 
What then ! I shall speak the truth ; and you will 
perhaps cravk my skull. Is this a reward for truth 1 
O, genef..tion of vipers ! My friends, what is 
truth 1 who can find it in Frankfort 1 Suppose I 
call upon you, Mr. Baker, and sup with you this 
evening ; you will receive me as a neighbourly 
man should, tell me to make myself at home, and 
do as I like. Is it not so 1 I see you smile, as if 
my visit would make you bring out one of the 
bottles of your best Asmanchausen." 

Here the crowd laughed out ; for we are always 
glad when there is any talk of another's hospitali- 
ty being put to the test, although we stand no 
chance of sharing the entertainment ourselves. 
The baker looked foolish, as all men singled out 
in a crowd do. 

" Well, well," continued the conjuror ; " I've no 
doubt his wine would be as ready as your tobacco, 
Mr. Smith ; or a wafila from your basket, my ho- 
nest cakesellcr ;" and so saying, with a peculiarly 
long, thin wand, the conjuror jerked up the basket 
of an itinerant and shouting pastry-cook, and im- 
mediately began to thrust the contents into his 
mouth with a rapidity ludicrously miraculous. — 
The laugh now burst out again, but the honest 
baker now joined in it this time with an easy 
spirit. 

" Be not disconcerted, my little custard-monger ; 
if thou art honest, thou shalt prosper. Did I not 
say that the profits of this night were for the most 
poor, and the most honest 1 If thy stock in trade 
were in thy basket, my raspberry-pulf, verily you 
are not now the richest there ; and so, therefore, 
if your character be a fair one — that is to say, if 
vou only cheat five times a day, and give a tenth 
of your chcatery to the poor, you shall have the 
benefit. I ask you again, what is truth 1 If I sup 
with the baker, and he tells me to do what I like 
with all that is his, and I kiss his wife, he will 
kick me out ; yet to kiss his wife might he my 
pleasure, if her bieatb were sweet. I ask you 
again, what is truth 1 Truth, they say, lies in a 
well ; but perhaps this is a lie. How do we know 
that truth is not in one of these two boxes?" ask- 
ed the conjuror, placing his cap on his head, and 
holding one small snuff-box to a tall, savage-look- 
ing one-eyed Bohemian, who, with a comrade, had 
walked over from the Austrian garrison at.Mentz. 

" I see but one box," growled the soldier. 

" It is because thou hast only one eye, friend ; 
open the other, and thou shalt sec two," said the 
conjuror, in a slow, malicious tone, with his neck 
extended, and his hand with the hateful box out- 
stretched in it, 

"Now, by our black Lady of Altoting, I'll soon 
stop thy prate, chatterling !" bellowed the enraged 
Bohemian. 

"Murder! murder! murder! — the protection of 
the free city against the Emperor of Austria, the 
King of Bohemia, Hungary,- and Lombardy I" and 
the knave retreated to the very extremity of tlie 
stage, and affecting the most agitating fear, hid him- 
self behind the green curtain, from a side of which 
his head was alone visible, or rather an immense red 
tongue, which wagged in a'l shapes at the unlucky 
soldier, except when it retired to the interior of his 
mouth, to enable him to reiterate " murder .'" and 
invoke the privileges of tlic free city of Frankfort. 



When the soldier was a little cooled, the con- 
juror again came forward ; and, having moved his 
small magical table to a corner, and lit two tapers, 
one of which he placed at each side of the stage, 
he stripped off his hussar jacket, and began to imi- 
tate a monkey ; an animal which, by the faint 
light, in his singular costume, he very much re- 
sembled. How amusing were his pranks! He 
first plundered a rice plantation, and then he 
cracked cocoa-nuts ; then he washed his face, and 
arranged his toilet with his right paw ; and finally, 
he ran a race with his own tail, which humorous 
appendage to his body was very wittily performed 
for the occasion, by a fragment of an old tarred 
rope. . His gambols were so diverting, that they 
even extracted applause from his enemy, the one- 
eyed sergeant; and emboldened by the acclama- 
tions, irom monkeys the conjuror began to imitate 
men. He first drank lilce a Dutchman, and hav- 
ing reeled round with a thousand oaths, to the 
manifold amusement of the crowd, he suddenly 
began to smoke like a Prussian. Nothing could 
be more admirable than the look of complacent 
and pompous stolidity with which he accompanied 
each puff of his cigar. The applause was con- 
tinued ; and the one-eyed Bohemian sergeant, de- 
lighted at the ridicule which was heaped on his 
military rival, actually threw the mimic some 
groschcn. 

" Keep your pence, friend," said the conjuror ; 
" you'll soon owe me more ; we have not yet closed 
accounts. My friends, I have drunk like a Dutch- 
man ; I have smoked like a Prussian ; and now — 
I will eat like an Austrian I"— and here the im- 
mense mouth of the actor seemed distended even 
a hundi-ed degrees bigger, while with gloating eyes 
and extended arms, he again set to at the half- 
emptied wjafila basket of the unhappy pastry-cook. 

"Now, by cm- black Lady of Altoting, thou art 
an impudent varlet," growled the Austrian soldier. 

" You are losing your temper again," retorted 
the glutton, with his mouth full ; " how difficult 
you are to please! — Well, then, if the Austrians 
may not be touched, what say you to a Bohemi;4n 
— a tall one-eyed Bohemian sergeant, with an aj>- 
petite like a hog, and a liver like a lizard ?" 

" Now, by our black Lady of Altoting, this is 
too much !" and the frantic soldier sprang at the 
conjuror. 

" Hold him ! hold liim !" cried Vivian Grey ; for 
the mob, frightened at the soldier, gave way. 

" There is a gentle's voice under a dark cloak !'' 
cried the conjuror ; " but I want no assistance ;" 
and so saying, with a dexterous spring, the conjuror 
leapt over the heads of two or three staring children, 
and lighted on the nape of the sergeant's gigantic 
neck ; placing his forefingers behind each of the 
soldier's ears, he threatened to slit them immedi- 
ately, if he were not quiet. 'I'he sergeant's com- 
panion, of course, came to his rescue, but Vivian 
engaged him, and attempted to arrange matters. 
" My friends, my friends, surely, a gay word at a 
kermis is not to meet v/ith militaij punishment! 
What is the use of living in the free city of Frank- 
fort, or, indeed in any other city, if jokes are to be 
answered with oaths, and a light laugh met with 
a heavy blow ? Avoid bloodshed, if possible ; but 
stand by the conjuror. His business is gibes and 
jests, and this is the first time that I ever saw 
Mer)-y Andrew an'csted. Come, come, my gocxi 
fellov/s I" said he to the soldiers, " we had better Lo 



80 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



off. men so important as you and I shoulJ not be I 
spectators of these mummeries." The Austrians, 
who understood Vivian's compliment Hterally, 
were not sorry to make a dignified retreat ; parti- 
cularly as the mob, encouraged by Vivian's inter- 
ference, began to show fight. Vivian also took 
his departure as soon as he could possibly steal off 
unnoticed ; but not before he had been thanked by 
the conjuror. 

"I knew there was gentle blood under that 
cloak ! If you like to see the Mystery of the Cru- 
cifixion, with the Resurrection, and real fireworks, 
it begins at eight o'clock, and you shall be admit- 
ted gratis. I knew there was gentle blood under 
that cloak, and some day or other when your high- 
ness is in distress, you shall not want the aid of 
EssrER George !" 



CHAPTER IV. 

It was late in the evening when a britchska stop- 
ped at the post-house of Coblentz. M. Maas, whom 
all English travellei-s must remember, for all must 
have experienced his genuine kindness, greeted its 
two inmates with his usual hospitality ; but regret- 
ted that, as his house was very full, his excellency 
must have the condescension to sup in the public- 
room. The passage-boat from Bingen had just 
arrived ; and a portly judge from the Danube, a 
tall, gaunt Prussian ofticcr, a sketching English 
artist, two university students, and three or four 
travelling cloth-merchants, chiefly returning from i 
Frankfort fair, were busily occupied at a long table 
in the centre of the room, at an ample banquet, in 
which sour-crout, cherry soup, and very savoury 
sausages were not wanting. So keen • were the 
appetites, and so intense the attention of these 
worthies, that the entrance of the new comers was 
scarcely noticed; and the baron and his friend 
seated themselves very quietly at a small table 
in the corner of the room, where they waited 
with due ])atience for the arrival of one of Mon- 
sieur Maas's exquisite little suppers; ?ilthough 
hunger, more than once, nearly induced them to 
join the table of the boat's crew ; but as the baron 
facetiously observed, a due terror of the Prussian 
officer, who, the moment they arrived, took care to 
help himself to every dish at table, and a proper 
respect for Ernstorff, prevented a consummation 
which they devoutly wished for. 

For half an hour nothing was heard but the 
sound of crashing jaws, and of rattling knives and 
forks. How singular is the sight of a do7>en hun- 
gry uidividuals intent upon their prey ! what a 
noisy silence ! A human voice was at length 
heal'd. It proceeded from the fat judge from the 
Danube. He was a man at once convivial, digni- 
fied, and economical : he had not spoken for two 
minutes before his character was evident to every 
person in the room, although he flattered himself 
that his secret purpose was concealed from all. 
Tired with the t'nin Moselle which M. Maas gra- 
tuitously allowed to the table, the convivial judge 
from the Danube wished to comfort himself with a 
glass of more generous Hquor ; aware of the price 
of a bottle of good Rudesheimer, the economical 
judge Iron, the Danube was desirous of forming a 
copartnership with one or two gentlemen in the 
bottle ; still more aware of liis exalted situation, 



the dignified judge from the Danube felt it did not 
become him to appear in the eyes of any one as an 
unsuccessful suppliant. 

"This Moselle is very thin," observed the judge, 
shaking his head. 

" Very fair table-wine, I think," said the artist, 
refilling his tumbler, and then proceeding with his 
sketch, which was a raugh likeness, in black chalk, 
of the worthy magistrate himself. 

" Very good wine, I think," swore the Pnissian, 
taking the bottle. With the officer there was cer 
tainly no chance. 

The cloth-merchants mixed even this thin ^'•l 
selle with water, and therefore they could hard';/ 
be looked upon as boon companions ; and the stu 
dents were alone left, A German student is no 
flincher at the bottle, although he generally drinks 
beer. These gentry, however, were -no great fa 
vourites with the magistrate, who was a loyal maw 
of regular habits, and no cncouragcr of brawls, 
duels, and other still more disgraceful outrages 
to all which abominations, besides drinking beer 
and chewing tobacco, the German student is most 
remarkably addicted : but in the present case, what 
was to be done ? He offered the nearest a pinch 
of snuff, as a mode of commencing his acquaint- 
ance and cultivating his complaisance. The Ger- 
man student dug his thumb into the box, and, with 
the additional aid of the forefinger, sweeping out 
half its contents, growled out something like 
thanks, and then drew up in his seat, as if he had 
too warmly encouraged the impertinent intrusion 
of a Philistine, to whom lie had never been intro- 
duced. 

The cloth-merchant, ceasing from sipping his 
meek liquor, and taking out of his pocket a letter, 
from which he tore off the back, carefully com- 
menced collecting with his forefinger the particles 
of dispersed snuff in a small pyramid, which, when 
formed, was dexterously slipped into the paper, 
then folded up and put into his pocket ; the pru- 
dent merchant contenting himself for the moment 
with the refreshment which was aflbrdcd to his 
senses by the truant particles which had remained 
in his nail. 

" Kelner !" — never call a German waiter gm'- 
^on, or else you'll stand a chance of going supper- 
less to bed ; — " Kelner ! a bottle of Rud'eshtimer !" 
bellowed the convivial judge from the Danube, 
" and if any gentleman or gentlemen would like to 
join me'; they may ;" added the economical judge 
from the Danube, in a more subdued tone. No 
one answered, and the bottle was put down. The 
judge slowly poured out the bright yellow fluid 
into a tall bell glass, adorned with a beautiful and 
encircling wreath of vine leaves : he held the glass 
a moment before the lamp, for his eye to dwell 
with still greater advantage on the transparent 
radiancy of the contents ; and then deliberately 
poured them down his throat, and allowing them 
to dwell a moment on his palate, he uttered an 
em])hatic " hah .'" and sucking in his breath, 
leaned back in his chair. The student immediately 
poured out a glass from the same bottle, and drank 
it off. ■ The dignified judge from the Danube gave 
him a look ; — the economical judge from the 
Danube blessed himself that though his boon com- 
panion was a brute, still ho v.ould lessen the 
exj>cnse of the bottle, which nearly amounted to a 
day's pay ; and the convivial judge from the 
Danube again filled his glass — but this was merely 



VIVIAN GREY. 



81 



to secure his fair portion. He saw the student 
Wi.j a rapid drinker ; and, although he did not like 
to hurry his own enjoyment, he thought it most 
prudent to keep his glass well stored by his side. 

" I hope your highnesses have had a pleasant 
voyage," hallooed out a man, entering the room 
very rapidly as he spoke ; and deliberately walking 
up to the table, he pushed between two of the cloth 
merchants, who quietly made way ; and then 
placing a small square box before him, he imme- 
diately opened it, and sweeping aside all the dishes 
and glasses which surrounded him, he began to 
fill their places with cups, balls, rings, and other 
mysterious-looking matters which generally accom- 
pany a conjuror. 

" I hope your highnesses have had a pleasant 
voyage. I've been thinking of you all the day. 
(Here the cups were arranged.) Next to myself, 
I'm interested for my friends. (Here the rice was 
sprinkled.) I came from Fairyland this morning. 
(Here the trick was executed.) Will any gentle- 
man lend me a handkerchief 1 Now, sir, tie any 
knot you choose : — tighter — tighter — tight as you 
can — tight as you can : — now pull I — Why, sir, 
where's your knot 1" Here most of the company 
good-naturedly laughed at a trick which had 
amused them before a hundred times. But the 
dignified judge from the Danube had no taste for 
such trivial amusements ; and, besides, tire convi- 
vial judge from the Danube thought that all this 
noise spoiled the .pleasure of his wine, and pre- 
vented him from catching the flavour of his 
Rudesheimer. Moreover, the judge from the 
Danube was not in a very good humour. The 
German student appeared to have very little idea 
of the rules and regulations of a fair partnership ; 
for not only did he not regulate his draughts by the 
moderate example of his bottle companion, but 
actually filled tlie glass of his University friend, 
and even offered the precious green flask to his 
neighbour, the cloth-merchant. That humble in- 
dividual modestly refused the profTer. The very 
unexpected circumstance of having his health 
drunk by a stranger, seemed alone to have pro- 
duced a great impression upon him ; and adding 
a little more water to his already diluted potation, 
he bowed most reverently to the student, who, in 
return, did not notice him. All these little circum- 
stances prevented the judge from the Danube from 
being in his usual condescending and amiable 
humour, and therefore the judge from the Danube 
did not laugh at the performances of our friend 
Essper George : for I need hardly mention that the 
conjuror was no other than that quaint personage. 
His ill-humour did not escape the lord of the cups 
and ball ; who, as was his custom, immediately 
began to torment him. 

" Will your highness choose a card 1" asked 
the magician of the judge, with a most humble 
look. 

This was too much for the magistrate. 
" No, sir !" 

Essper George looked very penitent, as if he felt 
he had taken a great liberty by his application ; 
and so, to compensate for liis incorrect behaviour, 
he asked the magistrate whether he would have the 
goodness to lend him his watch. The judge was 
verj- irate, and determined to give the intruder a 
set down. 

" No, sir ; I am not one of those who can be 
amused by tricks that his grandfather knew." 
11 



" Grandfather !" shrieked Essper ; " what a 
wonderful grandfather yours must have been ! All 
my tricks are fresh from Fairyland this morning. 
Grandfather, indeed ! Pray, is this your grand- 
father!'' and here the conjuror, leaning over the 
table, with a rapid catch drew out from the fat 
paunch of the judge, a long grinning wooden 
figure, with great staring eyes, and the parrot nose 
of a Punchinello. The laugh which followed this 
humorous specimen of sleight-of-hand, was loud, 
long, and universal. The judge lost his temper ; 
and Essper George took the opportunity of the con- 
fusion to drink oft' the glass of Rudesheimer, which 
stood, as we have mentioned, ready-charged at the 
magistrate's elbow. 

The kelner now went round to collect the money 
of the various guests who had partaken of the boat- 
supper ; and, of course, charged the judge extra 
for his ordered bottle, bowing at the same time very 
low, as was proper to so good a customer. These 
little attentions at inns encourage expenditure. 
The judge tried at the same time the bottle, which 
he found empty, and applied to his two boon com- 
panions for their quota ; but the students affected 
a sort of brutal surprise at any one having the pre- 
sumption to imagine that they were going to pay 
then- proportion ; and flinging down their money 
for their own supper on the table, they retired ; the 
frantic magistrate, calling loudly for M. Maas, fol- 
lowed them out of the room. 

Essper George stood moraUzing at the table, and 
emptying every glass whesse contents were not 
utterly drained ; with the exception of the tumblers 
of the cloth-merchants, of whose liquor he did not 
approve. 

" Dear me ! poor man ! to get only one glass 
out of his own bottle ! I wish I hadn't taken his 
wine ; it was rather sour. Ay ! call — call away 
for M. Maas : threaten — threaten — threaten as you 
will. Your grandfather will not help you here. 
Blood out of a wall and money out of a student 
come the same day. — Ah ! is your liighness here!" 
said Essper, turning roimd to our two travellers 
with aflected surprise, although he had observed 
them the whole time. " Is your highness here ! 
I've been looking for you through Frankfort this 
whole morning. There ! — it will do for your glass. 
It is of chamois leather ; and I made it myself from 
a beast I caught last summer in the valley of the 
Rhone." So saying, he threw over Vivian's neck 
a neat chain, or cord, of very curiovisly-worked 
leather. 

"Who the devil's this, Grey 1" asked the 
baron, 

" A funny knave, whom I once saved from a 
threshing, or something of the kind, which I do 
him the justice to say he well deserved." 

" Who the devil's this 1" said Essper George. 
" Why that's exactly the same question I myself 
asked when I saw a tall, pompous, proud fellow, 
dressed hke a peacock on a May morning, standing 
at the door just now. He looked as if he'd pass 
himself off for an ambassador at least ; but I told 
him that if he got his wages paid, he was luckier 
than most servants. Was I right, your excel- 
lency 1" 

"Poor ErnstoriT!" said the baron, laughing. 
"Yes; lie certainly gets paid. Here, — you're a 
clever varlet ; fill your glass." 

" No, no, no, no wine — no wine. — Don't you 
hear the brawling, and nearly the bloodshed, which 



83 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



are going on up-stairs about a sour bottle of 
Rudesheimer ? and here I see two gentles who have 
ordered the best wine merely to show that they are 
masters and not servants of the green peacock — 
and lo ! cannot get through a glass — Lord ! Lord ! 
what is man 1 If my fat friend and his grandfather 
would but come down stairs again, here is liquor 
enough to make wine and water of the Danube ; 
for he comes from thence by his accent. No, no, 
I'll have none of your wine ; keep it to throw on 
the sandy floor, that the dust may not hurt your 
delicate shoes, nor dirt the hand of the gentlemen 
in green and gold when he cleans them for you in 
the morning." 

Here the baron laughed again, and, as he bore 
his impertinence, Essper George immediately 
became polite. 

" Does your mighty highness go to Ems 1" 

" We hardly know, my friend." 

" ! go there, gentlemen. I've tried them all 
— Aix-la-Chapelle, Spa, Wisbaden, Carlsbad, Pier- 
mont, every one of them ; but what are these to 
Ems 1 there we all live in the same house, and 
eat from the same table. When there, I feel that 
you are all under my protection — I consider you 
all as my children. Besides, the country — how 
delightful ! the mountains — the valleys — the rivers 
— the woods — and then the company, so select ! no 
sharpers — no adventurers — no black-legs : at Ems 
you can be taken in by no one except your intimate 
ti-iend. ! go to Ems, go to Ems, by all means. 
I'd advise you, however, to send the gentleman in 
the cocked hat on before you to engage rooms ; 
for I can assure you that you'll have a hard chance ; 
the baths are very full." 

" And how do you get there, Essper 1" asked 
Vivian. 

" Those are subjects on which I never speak," 
answered the conjuror, with a solemn air. 

" But have you all your stock in trade with you, 
m)' good fellow 1 Where's the mystery V 

" Sold, sir, sold ! I never keep to any thing long. 
Variety is the mother of enjoyment. At Ems I 
shall not be a conjuror : but I never part with my 
box. It takes no more room than one of those 
medicine chests, which I dare say you've got with 
you in your carriage, to prop up your couple of 
shattered constitutions." 

" By Jove ! you're a merry, impudent fellow," 
said the baron ; " and if you like to get up behind 
my britchska, you may." 

" No, no, no ; a thousand thanks to your mighty 
highnesses, I carry my own box, and my own body, 
and I shall be at Ems to-morrow in time enough 
to receive your lordships." 



CHAPTER V. 

Ix a delightful valley of Nassau, formed by the 
picturesque windings of the Taunus mountains, 
and on the banks of the noisy river Lahn, stands 
an immense brick pile, of very irregular architect- 
ure, which nearly covers an acre of ground. This 
building was formerly a favourite palace of the ducal 
house of Nassau ; but for reasons which I cannot 
give, and which the reader will perhaps not re- 
quire, the present prince has thought proper to let 
out the former residence of his family, as a hotel 



for the accommodation of the company, who m 
the season frequent this, the most lovely spot in 
his lovely little dutchy. This extensive building 
contains two hundred and thirty rooms, and eighty 
baths ; and these apartments, which are under the 
management of an official agent, who lives in the 
" Princely Bathing House," for such is its present 
dignified title, are to be engaged at fixed prices, 
which are marked over the doors. All the rooms 
in the upper story of the Princely Bathing House 
open on, or are almost immediately connected 
with, a long corridor, which extends the whole 
length of the building. The ground floor, besides 
the space occupied by the baths, also affords a very 
spacious promenade, arched with stone, and sur- 
rounded with stalls, behind which are marshalled 
venders of all the possible articles which can ba 
required by the necessities of the frequenters of a 
watering-place. There you are greeted by the 
jeweller of the Palais Royal, and the marchnnte 
de mode of the Rue de la Paix ; the print-seller 
from Manheim, and the china-dealer from Dres- 
den ; and other little speculators in the various 
fancy articles which abound in Vienna, Berlin, 
Geneva, Basle, Strasburgh, and Lausanne ; such 
as pipes, costumes of Swiss peasantry, crosses of 
Mont Blanc crystal, and all varieties of national 
bijoulerie. All things may here be sold, save 
those which administer to the nourishment of the 
body, or the pleasure of the palate. Let not those 
of my readers, who have already planned a trip to 
the sweet vales of the Taunus, be frighlened by 
this last rather alarming sentence. At Ems, " eat- 
ables and drinkables" are excellent, and abound- 
ing ; but all those are solely supplied by the res- 
taurateur, who farms the monopoly from the 
duke. This gentleman, who is a pupil of Beau- 
villier's, and who has conceived an exquisite 
cuisine, by adding to the lighter graces of French 
cookery something of the more solid virtues of the 
German, presides in a saloon of immense size and 
magnificent decoration ; in which, during the sea- 
son, upwards of three hundred persons frequent 
the table d'hote. It is the etiquette at Ems, that, 
however distinguished, or however humble, the 
rank of the visiters, their fare, and their treatment 
must be alike. In one of the most aristocratic 
countries in the world, the sovereign prince, find 
his tradesman subject, may be found seated in the 
morning at the same board, and eating from tha 
same dish ; as in the evening they may be seen 
staking on the same colour at the gaming-table, and 
sharing in the same interest at the Redoute. 

I have said that the situation of Ems was de- 
lightful. The mountains which form the valley 
are not, as in Switzerland, so elevated that they 
confine the air, or seem to impede the facility of 
breathing. In their fantastic forms, the picturesque 
is not lost in the monotonous ; and in the rich 
covering of their various woods, the admiring eye 
finds, at the same time, beauty and repose. Oppo- 
site the ancient palace, on the banks of the Lahn, 
are the gardens. In these, in a neat pavilion, a 
band of excellent musicians seldom cease from 
enchanting the visiters by their execution of the 
most favourite specimens of German and Italian 
music. Numberless acacia arbours, and retired 
sylvan seats are here to be found, where the stu- 
dent, or the contemplative, may seek refuge from 
the Eoise of his more gay companions) and the 
tedium of eternal conversation. Here too a tele- 



VIVIAN GREY 



83 



^•tete will seldom be disturbed ; and in some spe- 
cies of lete-d-tcks, we all know how very neces- 
!^•(lry and how very delightful are the perfumes of 
flowers, and the shade of secret trees, and the 
cooling sound of running waters. In these gar- 
dens, also, are the billiard-room, and another sa- 
loon, in which each night meet, not merely those 
who are interested in the mysteries of rouge et 
nuir, and the chances of roulette ; but, in general, 
the whole of the company, male and female, who 
are frequenting the baths. In quitting the gardens 
for a moment, we must not omit mentioning the 
interesting booth of our friend the restaurateur, 
where coilee, clear and hot, exquisite confitures, 
delicious liqueurs, and particularly genuine ma- 
rashino of Zara are never wanting. Nor should I 
forget the glittering pennons of the gay boats 
which glide along the Lahn, nor the handsome 
donkeys, who, with their white saddles and red 
bridles, seem not unworthy of the princesses 
whom they sometimes bear. The gardens, with 
an alley of lime-trees, which are farther on, near 
the banks of the river, afford easy promenades to 
Jie sick and debilitated ; but the more robust and 
active need not fear monotony in the valley of the 
Lahn. If they sigh for the champaign country, 
they can climb the wild passes of the encircling 
mountains, and from their tops enjoy the most 
magnificent views of the Rhineland. There they 
may gaze on that mighty river flowing through 
the prolific plain, which, at the same time, it nou- 
rishes and adorns, — bounded on each side by 
mountains of every form, clothed with wood or 
crowned with castles. Or, if they fear the fatigues 
of the ascent, they may wander farther up the 
valley, and in the- 'wild dells, romantic forests, and 
gray ruins of Stein and Nassau, conjure up the 
old times of feudal tyranny, when the forest was 
the only free land ; and he who outraged the laws, 
the only one who did not suffer from their autho- 
rity. 

Besides the Princely Bathing House, I must 
mention, that there was another old and extensive 
building near it, which, in very full seasons, also 
accommodated visiters on the same system as the 
palace. At present, this adjoining building was 
solely occupied by a Russian archduke, who had 
engaged it for the season. 

Such is a faint description of Ems, a place 
almost of unique character ; for it is a watering- 
place with every convenience, luxury, and accom- 
modation ; and yet without shops, streets, or 
houses. 

The baron and Vivian were fortunate in finding 
rooms, for the baths were very full ; the extraor- 
dinary beauty of the weather having occasioned a 
very early season. They found themselves at the 
baths early on the morning after their arrival at 
Coblentz, and at three o'clock in the same day, had 
taken their places at the dinner-table in the great 
saloon. At the long table upwards of two hun- 
dred and fifty guests were assembled, of different 
nations, and very different characters. There was 
the cunning, intriguing Greek, who served well 
his imperial master, the Russian. The order of 
the patron saint of Miscow, and the glittering 
stars of other nations which sparkled on his green 
uniform, told how well he had laboured for the 
interest of all other countries except his own ; but 
his clear, paie complexion, his delicately-trimmed 
mustachios, his lofty forehead, his arched eyebrow, 



and his Eastern eye, recalled to the traveller, in 
spite of his barbarian trappings, the fine counte- 
nances of the iEgean ; and became a form which 
apparently might have struggled in Thermopylae. 
Next to him was the Austrian diplomatist, the 
Sosia of all cabinets : in whose gay address, and 
rattling conversation, you could hardly recognise 
the sophistical defender of unauthorized invasion 
and the subtle inventor of holy alliances, and im 
perial leagues. Then came the rich usurer from 
Frankfort, or the prosperous merchant from Ham- 
burgh ; who, with his wife and daughters, were 
seeking some recreation from his flourishing count- 
ing-house, in the sylvan gayeties of a German 
bathing-place. Flirting with these, was an ad- 
venturous dancing-master from Paris, whose pro- 
fession at present was kept in the background, 
and whose well-curled black hair, diamond pin, 
and frogged coat, hinted at the magnificio incog. : 
and also enabled him, if he did not choose in time 
to follow his own profession, to pursue another 
one, which he had also studied, in the profitable 
mystery of the Redoute. There were many other 
individuals, whose commonplace appearance did 
not reveal a character which perhaps they did 
not possess. There were officers in all uniforms, 
— and there were some uniforms without officers. 
But all looked perfectly comme il faut, and on 
the whole very select; and if the great persons 
endeavoured for a moment to forget their dignity, 
still these slight improprieties were amply made 
up by the affected dignity of those little persons 
who had none to forget. 

" And how like you the baths of Ems ?" asked 
the baron of Vivian ; " we shall get better seats 
to-morrow, and perhaps be among those whom 
you shall know. I see many friends, and some 
agreeable ones. In the mean time, you must take 
to-day a good dinner, and I'll amuse you, and 
assist your digestion by putting you up to all the 
curious characters whom you are dining with." 
So saying, the baron seized the soup-ladle. 

At this moment a party entered the room, who 
were rather late in their appearance, but who at- 
tracted the attention of Vivian so keenly, that he 
almost forgot the gay crowd on whom he was 
lately gazing with such amusement. The group 
consisted of three persons ; a very handsome fa- 
shionable-looking young man, who supported on 
each arm a female. The lady on his right arm was 
apparently of about five-and-twenty years of age. 
She was of majestic stature ; her complexion of 
untingcd purity. Her features were like those 
conceptions of Grecian sculptors, which, in mo- 
ments of despondency, we sometimes believe to be 
ideal. Her full eyes were of the same deep blue 
as a mountain-lake, and gleamed from under their 
long lashes, as that purest of waters beneath its 
fringing sedge. Her light brown hair was braided 
from her high forehead, and hung in long full curls 
over her neck ; the mass gathered up into a Gre- 
cian knot, and confined by a bandeau of cameos. 
She wore a superb dress of tlie richest black vel- 
vet, whose folding drapery was confined round a 
waist which was in exact symmetry with the pro- 
portions of her full bust, and the polished round- 
ness of her bending neck. On the little finger of 
an ungloved hand, sparkled a diamond of unknown 
value, which was linked by a small Venetian chain 
to a gorgeous bracelet of the most precious stones 
The countenance of the lady was dignified, with- 



84 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



out any expression of pride ; and reserved with- 
out any of the harshness of austerity. In gazing 
on her, the enraptured spectator for a moment be- 
lieved that Minerva had forgotten her severity, and 
had entered into a delightful rivalry with Venus. 

Her companion was much younger, much short- 
er, and of slender form. The long tresses of her 
chestnut hair shaded her oval face. Her small 
aquiline nose, bright hazel eyes, delicate mouth, 
and the deep colour of her lips, were as remarkable 
as the transparency of her complexion. The flush 
cf her cheek was singular — it was of a brilliant 
])ink : you may find it in the lip of an Indian shell. 
The blue veins played beneath her arched forehead, 
like lightning beneath a rainbow. She was simply 
dressed in white, and a damask rose, half hid in her 
clustering hair, was her only ornament. This 
lovely creature glided by Vivian Grey almost unno- 
ticed, so fixed was his gaze on her companion. 
Yet, magnificent as was the style of Ladt Made- 
XEiNE Trevoh, there were few who preferred even 
her commanding graces to the softer beauties of 
Violet Fane. 

This party having passed Vivian, proceeded to 
the top of the room, where places had been kept for 
them. Vivian's eye watched them till they were 
lost among surrounding visitors; their peculiar 
loveliness could not deceive him. 

" Enghsh, no doubt," observed he to the baron ; 
" who can they be 1" 

" I haven't the least idea — that is, I don't ex- 
actly know — that is, I thinlc they are English," 
answered the baron, in such a confused manner 
that Vivian stared. Whether his excellency ob- 
served his friend's astonishment or not, I cannot 
say ; but, after musuig a moment, he recovered 
himself. 

" The luiexpected sight of a face we feel that we 
know, and yet cannot immediately recognise, is ex- 
tremely annoying — it is almost agitating. They 
are English ; the lady in black is Lady Madeleine 
Trevor ; I knew her in London." 

"And the gentleman]" asked Vivian, rather 
anxiously : "is the gentleman a Mr. Trevor?" 

" No, no, no ; Trevor, poor Trevor is dead, I 
think — is, I'm sure, dead. That, I am confident, 

is not he. He was of the family, and 

was in office when I was in England. It was in 
my diplomatic capacity that I first became ac- 
quainted with him. Lady Madeleine was, and as 
you see is, a charming woman, — a very charming 
woman is Lady Madeleine Trevor." 

" And the young lady with her?" 

" The young lady with her — I cannot exactly 
say — I do not exactly know. Her face is familiar 
to me, and yet I cannot remember her name. She 
must have been very young, as you may see, when 
I was in England, she cannot now be above 
eighteen. Miss Fane must, therefore, have been 
very young when I was in England. Miss Fane ! 
— how singular I should have mentioned her 
aame ! — that is her name — Violet Fane — a cousin, 
or some relation of Lady Madeleine's; — good 
family, very good family. — Shall I help you to 
s-3me soup?" 

Whcthex it was from not being among his 
friends, or some other cause, I know not, but the 
baron was certainly not in his usual spirits this day 
at dinner. Conversation, which with him was 
generally as easy as it was brilliant — like a foun- 
tain at the same time sparkling and fluent — was 



e-.idently constrained. For a few minutes he 
talked very fast, and was then uncommunicative, 
absent, and dull. He moreover drank a great 
deal of wine, which was not his custom ; but the 
grape did not inspire him. Vivian found amuse- 
ment in his next neighbour, a forward, bustling 
man, clever in his talk, very fine, but rather vulgar. 
He was the manager of a company of Austrian 
actors, and had come to Ems on the chance of 
forming an engagement for his troop, who gene- 
rally performed at Vienna. He had been success- 
ful in his adventure, the archduke having engaged 
the whole band at the New House, and in a few 
days the troop were to arrive ; at which time, the 
manager was to drop the character of a travelling 
gentleman, and cease to dine at the table d'hote 
of Ems. From this man Vivian learned that 
Lady Madeleine Trevor had been at the baths for 
some time before the season commenced ; that at 
present, hers was the party which, firom its long 
stay, and eminent rank, gave the tone to the 
amusements of the place; the influential circle, 
which those who have frequented watering-places 
have often observed, and which may be seen at 
Ems, Spa, or Piermont, equally as at Harrowgate, 
Tunbridge Wells, or Cheltenham. 



CHAPTER VL 

Whek dinner was finished, the party broke up, 
and most of them assembled in the gardens. The 
baron, whose countenance had assumed its wonted 
cheerfulness, and who excused his previous dulness 
by the usual story of a sudden headache, proposed 
to Vivian to join the promenade. The gardens 
were very full, and the beiron recognised many of 
his acquaintance. 

" My dear colonel, — who possibly expected to 
meet you here ? why ! did you dine in the saloon ? 
I only arrived this morning — this is my friend, Mr. 
Grey — Colonel von Trumpetson." 

"An Englishman, I believe?" said the colonel, 
bowing. He was a starch militaire, with a blue 
frock-coat buttoned up to his chin, a bald head 
with a few gray hairs, and long thin mustachios 
like a mandarin's. " An Englishman, I believe ; — 
pray, sir, can you inform me whether the waistcoats 
of the household troops, in England, have the 
double braid?" 

" Sir !" said Vivian. 

" I esteem myself particularly fortunate in meet- 
ing with an English gentleman, your excellency. 
It was only at dinner to-day that a controversy 
arose between Major von Musquetoon, and the 
Prince of Buttonstein, about the waistcoats of the 
English household troops. As I said to the prince, 
you may argue forever, for at present we cannot 
decide the fact. How little did I think, when I 
parted from the major, that, in a few minutes, I 
should be able to settle this important question be- 
yond a doubt ; — I esteem myself particularly fortu- 
nate in meeting with an Englishman." 

" I regret to say, colonel, that far from being 
able to decide this important question, I hardly 
know what household troops really are." 

" Sir, I wish you good morning," said the 
colonel, very dryly; and, staring very keenly at 
Vidian, he walked away. 



VIVIAN GREY. 



85 



" Well, that's beautiful, Grey, to get rid of that 
horrible old bore with such exquisite tact — Double 
braid ! an old dunderpate ! — he should be drummed 
out of the regiment ; but he's good enough to fight, 
I suppose," added the plenipotentiary, with a 
smile and shrug of the shoulders, which seemed to 
return thanks to Providence, for having been edu- 
cated in the civil service. 

At this moment Lady Madeleine Trevor, leaning 
on the arm of the same gentleman, passed, and the 
baron bowed. The bow was stiffly returned. 

" You know her ladyship, then ! — well !" 

" I did know her," said the baron, " but I see 
from her bow, that I am at i)resent in no very high 
favour. The truth is, she is a charming woman, 
but I never expected to see her in Germany, and 
there was some little commission of hers which I 
neglected — some Httle order for Eau de Cologne — 
or a message about a worked pocket handkerchief, 
or a fancy shawl, which I utterly forgot; — and 
then, I never wrote ! — and you know, Grey, thgit 
these little sins of omission are never forgiven by 
women." 

" My dear friend De Konigstein — one pinch ! 
one pinch !" chirped out a little old, odd-looking 
man, with a very poudre head, and dressed in a 
costume in which the glories of vieille cour seemed 
vO retire with reluctance. A diamond ring 
CTvinkled on the snuffy hand, which was encircled 
by a rich ruffle of dirty lace. The brown coat 
was not modern, and yet not quite such a one as 
was worn by its master, when he went to see the 
king dine in public, at Versailles, before the Revo- 
lution : — large silver buckles still adorned the well- 
polished shoes ; and silk stockings, whose hue was 
originally black, were picked out, with clock-work 
of gold. 

" My dear marquis — I'm most happy to see you ; 
will you try the bouldngero ?" 

" With pleasure ! — with pleasure ! — A-a-h ! 
what a box ! a Louis-quatorze, I think 1" 

" 0, no I by no means so old." 

" Pardon me, my dear fellow, my dear De Ko- 
nigstein ; I've studied the subject ! I think a 
Louis-quatorzeP 

" I tell you I bought it in Sicily." 

" A-a-h !" slowly exclaimed the little man : 
then shaking his head — " I think a Louis-qua- 
torze .?" 

" Well, have it so, if you like, marquis." 

" A-a-h! I thought so — I thought a Lnnis- 
quatorze. Will you try mine ] — will your friend 
try a pinch ? — does he take snuff? — what box 
has he got ] — is it an old one 1—is it a Louis- 
quatorze ?" 

" He doesn't take snuff at all." 

" A-a-h ! if he did, perhaps he'd have a box — 
perhaps it would be an old one — most likely a 
Louis-quatorze." 

" Very prob.ably," said the baron. 

" A-a-h ! I thought so," said the old man. 

" Vv'ell, good afternoon," said the baron, pass- 
ing on. 

" My dear De Konigstein — one pinch — one 
pinch — you've often said you have a particular 
regard for me." 

" My dear marquis !" 

" A-a-h ! I thought so — you've often said 
•Vou'd serve me, if possible." 

" My dear marquis, be brief," 

" A-a-h ! I will — there's a cursed crusty old 



Prussian ofScer here — one Colonel de Trumpet- 
son." 

" Well, my dear marquis, what can I do ''. 
you're surely not going to fight him !" 

" A-a-h ! no, no, no — I v/ish you to speak to 
him." 

" Well, well, what V 

" He takes snuff." 

" What's that to me 1" 

" He's got a box." 

" Well !" 

" It's a Louis-quatorze — couldn't you get it 
for me 1" 

" Good morning to you," said the baron, pulling 
on Vivian. 

" You've had the pleasure. Grey, of meeting 
this afternoon two men, who have each only one 
idea. Colonel von Trumpetson, and the Marquis 
de la Tabatiere, are equally tiresome. But are 
they more tiresome than any other man who 
always speaks on the same subject 1 We are 
more irritable, but not more wearied, with a man 
who is always thinking of the pattern of a button- 
hole, or the shape of a snuff-box, than with one 
who is always talking about pictures, or chemis- 
try, or politics. The true bore is that man who 
thinks the world is only interested in one subject, 
because he, himself, can only comprehend one." 

Here the Lady Madeleine passed again, and this 
time the baron's eyes were fixed on the ground. 

A buzz and a bustle at the other end of the gar- 
dens, to which the baron and Vivian were advanc- 
ing, announced the entry of the archduke. His 
imperial highness was a tall man, with a quick 
piercing eye, which was prevented from giving to 
his countenance the expression of intellect which 
it otherwise would hare done, by the dull and al- 
most brutal effect of his flat, Calmuck nose. He 
was dressed in a plain, green uniform, adorned by 
a single star ; but Iris tightened waist, his stiff stock, 
and the elaborate attention which had evidently 
been bestowed upon his mustachios, denoted tlie 
military fop. The archduke was accompanied by 
three or four stiff and stately-looking personages, in 
whom the severity of the martmct seemed sunk in 
the severity of the aid-de-camp. 

The baron bowed very low to the prince, as he 
drew near, and his highness, talking off his cocked- 
hat with an appearance of cordial condescension, 
made a full stop. The silent gentlemen in the 
rear, who had not anticipated this suspense in their 
promenade, almost foundered on the heels of their 
royal master ; and frightened at the immensity of 
the profanation, forgot their stiff pomp in a preci- 
pitate retreat of half a yard. 

" Baron," said his highness, " why have I not 
seen you at the New House 1" 

" I have but this moment arrived, may it please 
your imperial highness." 

"Your companion," continued the archduke, 
pointing very graciously to Vivian. 

" My Ultimate friend, my fellow-traveller, and an 
Englishman. May I have the honour of presenting 
Mr. Grey to your highness 1" 

"Any friends of the Baron von Konigstein I 
shall always feel great pleasure in having presented 
to me. Sir, I feel great pleasure in having you 
presented to me. Sir, you ought to be proud of 
the name of an Englishman — sir, the English are 
a noble nation — sir, I have the highest respect iot 
the English nation !" 

H 



86 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Vivian of course bowed very low, and of course 
made a very proper speech on the occasion, which, 
as all speeches of that kind should be, was very du- 
tiful and quite inaudible. 

" And what news from Berlin, baron 1 let us 
move on," and the baron, with Vivian on his arm, 
lumed with the archduke. The silent gentlemen, 
settling their mustachios, followed in the rear. 
For about half an hour, anecdote after anecdote, 
scene after scene, caricature after caricature, were 
poured out with prodigal expenditure for the amuse 
ment of Ms highness ; who did nothing during the 
exhibition but smile, stroke his whiskers, and at 
the end of the best stories fence with his forefinger 
at the baron's side — with a gentle laugh, and a 
mock shake of the head — and a " Eh ! Von Konig- 
stcin, you're too bad !" Here Lady Madeleine Tre 



vor passed again, and the archduke's hat nearly vacated side. 



" She certainly does feel herself much better, 
but my anxiety about her does not decrease. In 
her illness apparent convalescence is sometimes 
more fearful than actual suffering." 

The archduke continued by the side of her lady- 
ship for aliout twenty minutes, seizing every oppor- 
tunity of uttering, in the most courtly tone, the 
most inane compliments ; and then trusting that 
he might soon have her ladyship's opinion respect- 
ing the Austrian troop at the New House ; and 
that Von Konigstein and his English friend would 
not delay letting him see them there, his imperial 
highness, followed by his silent suite, left the gar- 
dens. 

" I am afraid, 3'our ladyship must have almost 
mistaken me for a taciturn lord chamberlain," said 
the baron, occupying immediately the archduke's 



touched the groimd. He received a most gracious 
bow. 

" Finish the story about Salvinski, baron, and 
then I'll introduce you for a reward to the most 
lovely creature in existence — a countrywoman of 
}ours, Mr. Grey — Lady Madeleine Trevor." 

"I have the honour of a slight acquaintance 
with her ladyship," said the baron ; " I had the 
pleasure of knowing her in England." 

" Indeed ! 0, most fortunate mortal ! I see she 
has stopped, talking ie some stranger. Let us 
turn and join her." 

The archduke and the two friends accordingly 
turned, and of course the silent gentlemen in the 
rear followed with due precision. 

" Lady Madeleine !" said his highness, " I flat- 
tered myself for a moment that I might have had 
the honour of presenting to you a gentleman for 
whom I have great esteem ; but lie has proved 
to me this moment that he is more fortunate than 
myself, since he had the honour before me of an 
acquaintance with Lady Madeleine Trevor." 

" I have not forgotten Baron von Konigstein," 
said her ladyship, with a serious air ; " may I ask 
your highness how you prospered m your negoti- 
ation with the Austi-ian troop V 

" Perfectly successful ! — perfectly successful ! — 
Inspired by your ladyship's approbation, my stew- 
ard has really done wonders. He almost deserves 
a diplomatic appointment for the talent which he 
lias shown , but what should I do without Cra- 
cowsky 1 Lady Madeleine, can you conceive 
what I should do without Cracowsky ?" 

" Not the least," said her ladyship, very good- 
naturedly. 

" Cracowsky is every thing to me — every thing. 
It is impossible to say what Cracowsky is to me. 
I owe every thing to Cracowsky. To Cracowsky I 
owe being here." The archduke bowed very low, 
for his eulogium on his steward also conveyed a 
compliment to her ladyship. The archduke- wns cer- 
tainly right in believing that he owed hio sunnncr 
excursion to Ems to his steward. That wily Pole, 
regularly every year put his imperial master's sum- 
mer excursion up at auction, and according to Ihe 
biddings of the proprietors of the chief baths, did he 
take care that his master regulated his visit. The 
resiaura/eur of Ems, in collusion with the official 
agent of the Duke of Nassau, were fortimate this 
season iii having the arcnduke knocked down to 
them. 

" May I flatter myself that Miss Fane feels her- 
self better 1" asked the archduke. 



Baron von Konigstein mast be veiy changed, 
if silence be imputed to him as a fault," said Lady 
Madeleine, with rather a severe smile. 

" Baron von Konigstein is verj' much changed 
since last he had the pleasure of conversing with 
Lady Madeleine Trevor ; more changed than her 
ladyship will perhaps believe ; more changed than 
he can sometimes himself believe ; I hope, I flatter 
myself, I feel sure, that he will not be less accepta- 
ble to Lady Madeleine Trevor, because he is no 
longer rash, passionate, and unthinking ; because 
he has learned to live more for others and less for 
himself." 

" Baron von Konigstein does indeed appear 
changed ; since, by his own account, he has be- 
come in a very few years, a being, in whose 
existence philosophers scarcely beheve — a perfeci 
man." 

" My self-conceit has been so often reproved by 
your ladyship, that I will not apologize for a quali- 
ty which I almost flattered myself I no longer pos- 
sessed ; but you will excuse, I am sure, one who 
in zealous haste to prove himself amended, has, I 
fear, almost shown that he has deceived himself." 

Some strange thoughts occurred to Vivian, 
whose eyes had never quitted her ladyship's face 
while this conversation was taking place. " Is 
this a woman to resent the neglect of an order for 
Eau de Cologne 1 my dear Von Konigstein, you're 
a very pleasant fellow, but this is not the way 
men apologize for a nonpurchase of a pocket hand- 
kerchief !" 

" Plas your ladyship been long at Ems 1" 
" Nearly a month ; we are travelling in conse- 
quence of the ill-health of a relation. It was our 
intent'cr. to have gone to Pisa, but our physician, 
ir c^jnsequence of the extreme heat of the sum- 
lUer, is afraid of the fatigue of travelling, and has 
recommended Ems. The air between these moun- 
tains is very soft and pure, and I have no reason to 
regret at present that we have not advanced farther 
on our journey." 

" The lady who was with your party at dinner 
is, I fear, your invalid. She certauily does not 
look like one. I think," said the baron, with an 
eflort, " I think that her face is not unlinown to me. 
It is difficult, even after so many years, to mistake 

Miss " 

" Fane — ," said Lady Madeleine, very firmly 
for it seemed that the baron required a little assist- 
ance at the end of his sentence. 

" Ems," returned his excellency, with great 
1 rapidity of utterance, — " Ems is, indeed, a chaiminj? 



VIVIAN GREY. 



87 



place — at least to me, I have, within these few 
years, quite recurred to the feehngs of my boy- 
hood ; nothing to me is more disgusting!)'' weari- 
some than the gay bustle of a city. My present 
diplomatic appointment at Frankfort ensures a con- 
stant Hfe among the most charming scenes of na- 
ture. Naples, which was ofi'ered to me, I 
refused. Eight years ago, I should have thought 
an appointment at Naples a paradise on earth." 

" Your excellency must indeed be changed," 
remarked her ladyship. 

" How beautiful is the vicinity of the Rhine ! 
I have passed within these three days, for almost 
the twentieth time in my life, through the Rhein- 
gau ; and yet how fresh, and lovely, and novel, 
seemed all its various beauties. My young travel- 
ling companion is very enthusiastic about this gsm 
of Germany. He is one of your ladyship's coun- 
trymen. Might I take the liberty of introducing 
to you — Mr. Grey 1" 

Her ladyship, as if it could now no longer be 
postponed, introduced to the two gentlemen, her 
brother, Mr. St. George. This gentleman, who, 
during the whole previous conversation, had kept 
his head in a horizontal position, looking neither 
to the right, nor to the left, and apparently uncon- 
scious that any one was conversing with his sister, 
because, according to the English custom, he was 
not " introduced" — now suddenly turned round, 
and welcomed his acquaintance wdth great cor- 
diality. 

" Mr. Grey," asked her ladyship, " are you of 
Dorsetshire V 

" My mother is a Dorsetshire woman ; her fa- 
mily name is Vivian, which name I also bear — Sir 
Hargrave Vivian, of Chester Grange." 
" Have j'ou a father living, may I ask ?" 
" At present in England." 

" Then I think we are longer acquainted than 
we have been introduced. I met your father at 
Sir Hargrave Vivian's jnly last Christmas. Of 
such a father you must indeed be proud. He spoke 
of you in those terms that make me congratulate 
myself that I have met the son. You have been 
long from England, I think ?" 

" Neai-ly a year and a half; and I only regret 
my absence from it, because it deprives me of the 
presence of my parents." 

The baron had resigned his place by Lady Ma- 
deleine, and was already in close conversation with 
Mr. St. George, from whose arm Lady Madeleine's 
was disengaged. No one acted the part of Asmo- 
deus with greater spirit than' his excellency ; and 
the secret history of every person whose secret 
history could be amusing, delighted Mr. St. George. 
" There," said the baron, " goes the son of an 
unknown father ; his mother followed the camp, 
and her offspring was early initiated in the myste- 
ries of military petty larceny. As he grew up, he 
became the most skilful plunderer that ever rifled 
the dying of both sides. Before he was twenty, 
he fo!l«wed the army as a petty chapman, and 
amassed an excellent fortune by re-acquiring, after 
a battle, the very goods and trinkets which he had 
sold at an immense price before it. Such a wretch 
could do nothing but prosper, and in due time the 
sutler's brat became a commissary-general. He 
made millions in a period of general starvation, 
and cleared at least a hundred thousand dollars, by 
embezzling the shoe-leather during a retreat. He 
^ now a baron, covered with orders, and his daugh- 



ters are married to some of our first nobles. There 
goes a Polish count, who is one of the greatest 
gamblers in Christendom. In the same season he 
lost to a Russian general, at one game of chess, his 
chief castle, and sixteen thousand acres of wood- 
land ; and recovered himself on another game, on 
which he won of a Turkish pasha one hundred 
and eighty thousand leopard skins. The Turk, 
who was a man of strict honour, paid the count 
by embezzling the tribute in kinc of the province 
he governed ; and, as on quarter-day he could not, 
of course, make up his accounts with the Divan, 
he joined the Greeks." 

While the baron was entertaining Mr. St. 
George, the conversation between Lady Madeleine 
and Vivian proceeded. 

" Your fother expressed great disappointment to 
me, at the impossibility of his paying j^ou a visit, 
in consequence of your mother's illness. Do you 
not long to see him 1" 

" More, much more than I can express. Did 
your ladyship think my father in good spirits 1" 

" Generally so ; as cheerful as all fathers can 
be without their only son," said her ladyship, 
smiling very kindly. 

" Did he complain then of my absence ?" 
" He regretted it." 

" I linger in Germany with the hope of seeing 
him ; otherwise I should have now been much 
farther south. You will be glad to hear that my 
mother has quite recovered ; at least my last letters 
inform me so. Did you find Sir Hargrave as 
amusing as everl" 

" When is the old gentleman otherwise than the 
most delightful of old men 1 Sir Hargrave is one 
of my greatest favourites. I should like to per- 
suade you to return and see them all. Can't you 
fancy Chester Grange very beautiful now, Albert ?" 
said her ladyship, turning to her brother, " what is 
the number of our apartments 1 Mr. Grey, the 
sun has now disappeared, and I fear the night air 
among these mountains. We have hardly yet 
summer nights, though we certainlj' have summer 
days. We shall be happy to see you at our 
rooms." So saying, bowing very cordially to Vi- 
vian, and less stiffly to the baron than she had 
done. Lady Madeleine left the gardens. 

" There goes the most delightful woman in the 
world," said the baron ; " how fortunate that you 
know her I for really, as you might have observed, 
I have no great claims on her indulgent notice. I 
was certainly very wild in England ; but then, 
young men, you know. Grey ! — and I didn't leave 
a card, or call, before I went; and the English are 
very stiff and precise about those things ; and the 
Trevors had been very kind to me. I think we'd 
better take a little colfee, now ; and then, if you 
like, we'll just stroll into the REnouTE." 

In a brilhantly illuminated saloon, adorned with 
Corinthian columns, and casts from some of the 
most famous antique statues, assembled between 
nine and ten o'clock in the evening, many of the 
visiters at Ems. On each side of the room was 
placed a long, narrow table, one of which was 
covered with green baize, and unattended ; while 
the variously-coloured leather surface of the other 
was very closely surrounded by an interested 
crowd. Behind this table stood two individuals 
of very different appearance. The first was a 
short, thick man, whose only business was dealing 
certain portions of playmg-cards with quick sue- 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



cession, one after the other; and as the Me of the 
table was decii'?.;} by this process, did his compa- 
nion, an extremely tall, thin man, throw various 
pieces of money upon certain stakes, which were 
deposited by the bystanders on different parts of 
the table ; or, Vi'hich was much oftener the case, 
with a silver r^ke with a long- ebony handle, svv'ocp 
into a larg-e enclosure near him, the scattered sums. 
This enclosure was called the bank, and the mys- 
terious ceremony in which these persons were as- 
sisting, was the celebrated game of rouge-et-noir. 
A deep silence was strictly preserved by those who 
immediately surrounded the table; no voice was 
heard, save that of the little, short, stout dealer ; 
when, without an expression of the least interest, 
he seemed mechanically to announce the fate of 
the diflerent colours. No other sound was heard, 
except the jingle of the dollars and Napoleons, and 
the ominous rake of the tall, thin banker. The 
countenances of those who were hazarding their 
money, were grave and gloomy : their eyes were 
fixed, their brows contracted, and their lips project- 
ed ; and yet there was an evident effort visible, to 
show that they were both easy and unconcerned. 
Each player held in his hand a small piece of paste- 
board, on which, with a steel pricker, he marked 
the run of the cards, in order, from his observa- 
tions, to regulate his own play : — the rouge-et- 
noir player imagines that chance is not capricious. 
Those who were not interested in the game, pro- 
menaded in two lines within the tables ; or, seated 
in recesses between the pillars, formed small par- 
ties for conversation. 

As Vi\aan and the baron entered. Lady Made- 
leine Trevor, leaning on the arm of an elderly 
man, left the room ; but as she was in earnest con- 
versation she did not obser\'e them. 

" I suppose we must throw away a dollar or two. 
Grey ?" said the baron, as he walked up to the table. 

"My dear De Konigstein — one pinch — one 
pinch !" 

" Ah ! marquis, what fortune to-night V 

" Bad — bad ! I have lost my Napoleon : I 
never risk farther. There's that cursed crusty old 
De Trumpetson, persisting, as usual, in his run of 
bad luck ; because he never will give in. Trust 
me, my dear De Konigstein, it'll end in his ruin ; 
and then, if there's a sale of his eflects, I shall, 
perhaps, get his snuff-box — a-a-h !" 

" Come, Grey ; shall I throw down a couple of 
Napoleons on joint account. Ldon't care much 
for play myself; but I suppose, at Ems, we must 
make up our minds to lose a few Louis. Here ! 
now for the red — joint account, mind !" 

" Done." 

" There's the archduke ! Let us go and make 
our bow ; we needn't stick at the table as if our 
whole soul were staked with our crown pieces : — 
we'll make our bow, and then return in time to 
know our fate." So saying, the gentlemen walk- 
ed up to tlie top of the room. 

" Why, Grey ! — Surely no — it cannot be — and 
yet it is. De Boeffleurs, how d'ye do i" said the 
baron, with a face beaming with joy, and a hearty 
shake of the hand. " My dear, dear fellow, how 
the devil did you manage to get off so soon ? I 
thought you were not to be here for a fortnight : 
we only aiTived ourselves to-day." 

" Yes — but I've made an arrangement which I 
did not anticipate ; and so I posted after you im- 



mediately. Whom do you think I have brought 
with me 1" 

".Who?" 

" Salvinski." 

" Ah ! And the count V 

" Follows immediately. I expect him to-morrow 
or next day. Salvinski is talking to the archduke ; 
and see, he beckons to me. I suppose I am going 
to be presented." 

The chevalier moved forward, followed by the 
baron and Vivian. 

" Any friend of Prince Salvinski I shall always 
have great pleasure in having presented to me. 
Chevalier, I feel great pleasure in having you pre- 
sented to me. Chevalier, you ought to be proud 
of the name of Frenchman. Chevalier, the French 
are a grand nation. Chevalier, I have the highest 
respect for the French nation." 

" The most subtle diplomatist," thought Vivian, 
as he recalled to mind his own introduction, 
" would be puzzled to decide to which interest his 
imperial highness leans." 

The archduke now entered into conversation 
with the prince, and most of the circle who sur- 
rounded him. As his highness was addressing 
Vivian, the baron let slip our hero's arm, and 
seizing hold of the Chevalier de Boeflleurs, began 
walking up and down the room with him, and 
was soon engaged in very animated conversation. 
In a few minutes, the archduke, bowing to his 
circle, made a move, and regained the side of a 
Saxon lady, from whose interesting company he 
had been disturbed by the arrival of Prince Sal- 
vinski — an individual of whose long stories and 
dull romances the archduke had, from experience, 
a particular dread : but Iris highness was always 
very courteous to the Poles. 

"Grey, I've despatched De Boeffleurs to the house, 
to instruct his servant and Ernstorff to do the im- 
possible, in order that our rooms may be altogether. 
You'll be delighted with De Boeffleurs when you 
know him, and 1 expect you to be great friends. ! 
by-the-by, his unexpected arrival has quite made 
us forget our venture at rouge-et-noir. Of course 
we're too late now for any thing ; even if we had 
been fortunate, our doubled stake, remaining on 
the table, is, of course, lost : we may as well, how- 
ever, walk up." So saying, the baron reached the 
table. 

" That is your excellency's stake ! — that is your 
excellency's stake !" exclaimed many voices as he 
came up. 

" What's the matter, my friends 1 what's tlie 
matter"!" asked the baron very calmly. 

" There's been a run on the red ! there's been a 
run on the red ! and your excellency's stake has 
doubled each time. It has been 4 — 8 — 16 — 32 — 
64 — 128 — 2.56 — and now it's 512!" quickly rat- 
tled a little thin man in spectacles, pointing at the 
same time to his unparalleled hne of punctures. This 
was one of those ollicious, noisy httle men, who are 
always ready to give you unasked information on 
every possible subject ; and vv'ho are never so happy 
as when they are watching over the interest of 
some stranger, who never thanks diem for their un- 
necessary solicitude. 

Vivian, in spite of his philosophy, felt the excite- 
ment and wonder of the moment. He looked very 
earnestly at the baron, whose countenance, how 
ever, was perfectly immoved. 



VIVIAN GREY. 



89 



" Grej'," said he, very coolly, " It seems we're in 
luck." 

" The stake's then not all your own ?" very ea- 
gerly asked the little man in spectacles. 

" No part of it is yom's, sir," answered the baron 
very dryly. 

" I'm going to deal," said the short, thick man 
behind. "Is the board cleared"!" 

" Your excellency then allows the stake to re- 
main ■?" inquired the tall thin banker, with affected 
nonchalance. 

" O ! certainly," said the baron, with real non- 
chalance. 

" Three — eight — fourteen — twenty-four — thirty- 
four. Rouge 34 — ." 

All crowded nearer ; the table was surrounded 
five or six deep, for the wonderful rmi of luck had 
got wind, and nearly the whole room were round 
the table. Indeed, the archduke and Saxon lady, 
and of course the silent suite, were left atone at the 
upper part of the room. The tall banker did not 
conceal his agitation. Even the short, stout dealer 
ceased to be a machine. All looked anxious ex- 
cept the baron. Vivian looked at the table ; his 
excellency watched, with a keen eye, the little 
dealer. No one even breathed as the cards de- 
scended — "Ten — twenty" — (Here the countenance 
of the banker brightened) — twenty-two — twenty- 
five — twenty-eight — thirty-one — Noir 31. — The 
bank's broke : no more play to-night. The roulette 
table opens immediately." 

In spite of the great interest which had been ex- 
cited, nearly the whole crowd, without waiting to 
congratulate the baron, rushed to the opposite side 
of the room in order to secure places at the roulette 
table. 

" Put these five hundred and twelve Napoleons 
into a bag," said the baron ; " Grey, this is your 
share, and I congratulate you. With regard to the 
other hallf, Mr. Hermann, what bills have you 

gotr' 

" Two on Gogel's house of Frankfort, — accepted 
of course, — for two hundred and fifty each, ai)d 
these twelve Napoleons will make it right," said the 
tall banker, as he opened a large black pocket book, 
from which he took out two. small bits of paper. 
The baron examined them, and after having seen 
them endorsed, put them calmly into his pocltet, 
not forgetting the twelve Napoleons; and then 
taking Vivian's arm, and regretting extremely that 
he should have the trouble of carrying such a weight, 
he wished Mr. Hermann a very good night and suc- 
cess at his roulette, and wallced with his companion 
quietly home. Thus passed a day at Ems I 



CHAPTER VII. 

Os the following morning, Vivian met with his 
fi-iend Essper George, behind a small stall in the 
bazaar. 

" Well, your highness, what do you wish 1 Here 
are eau-de-cologne, violet soap, and watch ribands ; 
a smelling-bottle of Ems crystal ; a snuff-box of fig- 
tree wood. Naine your price, name your price : 
the least trifle that can be given by a man who 
breaks a bank, must be more than my whole stock 
in trade's worth." 

" I have not paid you yet, Essper, for my glass 
chain. There is your share of my winnings : the 
12 



fame of which, it seems, has reached even you !" 
added Vivian, with no pleased air. 

" I thank your highness for the nap ; but I hope 
I have not offended by alluding to a certain event 
which shall be passed over in silence,'' continued 
Essper George, with a look of mock solemnity. "I 
really think your highness has but a faint appetite 
for good fortune. They deserve her most who value 
her least." 

" Have you any patrons at Ems, Essper, that 
have induced you to fix on this place in particular 
for your speculations. Here, I should think, you 
have many active rivals," said Vivian, looking 
round the various stalls. 

^' I have a patron here, may it please your high- 
ness, a patron who has never deceived, and w lo will 
never desert me, — I want no other; — and that's 
myself Now here comes a party : could your 
highness just toll ine the name of that tall lady 
now ?" 

" If I tell you it is Lady Madeleine Trevor, what 
will it profit youl" 

Before Vivian could well finish his sentence, 
Essper had drawn out a long horn from beneath his 
small counter, and sounded a blast which echoed 
through the arched passages. The attention of 
every one was excited, and no part of the following 
speech was lost. 

"The celebrated Essper George, fresh from 
Fairjiand, dealer in pomatum and all sorts of per- 
fumery, watches, crosses, Ems cr3-stal, coloured 
prints, Dutch toys, Dresden china, Venetian chains, 
Neapolitan coral, French crackers, chamois brace- 
lets, tame poodles, and Cherokee corkscrews, mender 
of mandolins and all other musical instruments, 
&c. &c. &c. &c. to her royal highness. Lady Ma- 
deleine Trevor, and all her royal family, has just 
arrived at Ems, where he only intends to stay two 
or three^bys, and a few more weeks besides. — Now 
your lac^liip, what do you wishl" 

"Mr. Grey," said her ladyship, smiling, "you 
can perhaps explain the reason of this odd greeting. 
Who is this singular being 1" 

" The celebrated Essper George, just" again 

commenced the conjuror ; but Vivian prevented the 
repetition. 

" He's an old knave. Lady Madeleine, that I've 
met with before at other places. I believe I may 
add an honest one. What say you, Essper]" 

" More honest than moonlight, my lady, for that 
deceives every one ; and less honest than self-praise, 
my lady, for that deceives no one." 

" My friend,'you have a ready wit." 

" My wit is like a bustling servant, my lady ; 
always ready when not wanted ; and never present 
at a pinch." 

"Come, I must have a pair of your chamois 
bracelets. How sell you them?" 

" I sell nothing, my lady ; all here is gratis to 
beauty, virtue, and nobility ; and these are ni}' only 
customers." 

" Thanks v/ill not supply a stock-in-trade, though, 
Essper," said Vivian. 

" Very true ! your highness ; but my customers 
are apt to leave some slight testimonies behind them 
of the obligations which they are under to me ; and 
these, at the same time, are the prop of my estate, 
and the proof of their discretion. But who comes 
herel" said Essper, drawing out his horn. The 
sight of this terrible instrument reminded Lady 
Madeleine how greatly the effect of music is height- 
u 2 



90 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



ened by distance, and she made a speedy retreat. 
Her ladyship, witli her companion, the elderly gen- 
tleman with whom slie left the Eedoute the preced- 
ing- night, and Vivian, stopped one moment to 
Watch the party to whom Esspcr George alluded. 
It was a family procession of a striking character. 

Three daughters abreast, flanked by two elder 
sons farmed the first file. The fathei", a portly, 
prosperous-looking man, followed with his lady on 
his arm. Then came two nursery maids, with three 
children, between the tender ages of five and six. 
The second division of the grand army, consisting 
of three younger sons, immediately followed. This 
was commanded by a tutor. A governess and two 
young daughters then advanced ; and then came the 
extreme rear — the sutlers of the camp — in the per- 
sons of two footmen in rich laced liveries, who each 
bore a basket on his arm filled with various fancy 
articles which had been all purchased during the 
promenade of this nation through only part of the 
bazaar. 

" Who can they hcV said her ladyship. 

" English," said the elderly gentleman ; who had 
been already uitroduced by Lady Madeleine to 
Vivian as her uncle, Mr. Sherborne. 

The trumpet of Essper George produced a due 
effect upon the great party. The commander-in- 
chief stopped at his little stall, and, as if tliis were 
the signal for general attack and plunder, the files 
were all immediately broken up. Each individual 
dashed at his prey, and the only ones who strug- 
gled to maintain a semblance of discipline, were 
the nursery maids, the tutor, and the governess, 
who experienced the greatest difliculty in suppres- 
fiing the early taste which the detachment of light 
infantry indicated for booty. But Essper George 
was in his element : he joked, lie assisted, he exhi- 
bited, he explained : tapped the cheeks of the child- 
ren, and complimented the elder ones ; ai^ finally, 
having parted at a prodiaious profit with fparly his 
whole stock, paid himself out of a large and heavy 
purse, which the portly father, in his utter inability 
to comprehend the complicated accounts and the 
debased cuiTency, with great frankness deposited 
in the hands of the master of the stall, desiring him 
to settle his own claims. 

" The tradesman is more singular even than his 
customers," said Mr. Sherborne ; '' I think you said 
you knew something of him, Mr. Grey V 

" I knew him, sir, before, as a conjuror at Frank- 
fort fair." 

" By a conjuror, do you mean, Mr. Grey, one of 
those persons who profess an ability tb summon, by 
tjlie adjuration in a sacred name, a departed spirit ; 
or merely one, who, by his dexterity in the practice 
of sleight-of-hand, produces certain optical delusions 
on the sight and senses of his fellow-men 1" 

" I met Essper George certainly only in your 
latter capacity, Mr. Sherborne." 

" Then, sir, I cannot agree with you in your 
definition of his character. I should rather style 
him a. juggler, than a conjuror. Would you call 
tliat man a conjuror who plays a trick with a cup 
and balls, a sprinkling of rice, or a bad shilling 1" 

"You are, perhaps, sir, critically speaking, right ; 
but the world in general are not such purists as 
Mr. Sherborne. I should not hesitate to describe 
Essper George as a conjuror. It is a use of the 
word which common parlance has sanctioned. 
We must always remember that custom is stronger 
than etymology," 



" Sir, are you aware that you're giving loose to 
very dangerous sentiments T I may be too precise, 
I majf be too particular ; but sir, I read Addison— 
and, sir, I think Pope a poet." 

" Then, sir, I am happy to say that our tastes 
agree," said Vivian, bowing. 

" I'm very happy to heai" it — I'm very glad of it 
— sir, I congi-atulate you — give me your hand — 
you're the first bearable young man that I've met 
with for these last twenty years. Sir, they some- 
times talk of our laws and constitution being in 
danger, which is seldom true — how is it that no one 
calls out that our language is in danger 1 A noble 
poet, whom I honour for his defence of Pope, and 
who, in my opinion, has gained more glory b}' that 
letter of his, than by all the rhapsodies of false bril- 
liancy, bad taste, and exaggerated feeling, which 
ever claimed the attention of the world under the 
title of Eastern Talcs, has called this the Age of 
Broxze — why didn't he call it the Aer, op 
Slanr 1" 

" But, my dear uncle," said Lady Madeleine, 
" now that you and Mr. Grey understand each 
other, you surely will not maintain that his use of 
the word cotjuror was erroneous. Custom surely 
has some influence upon language. You would 
think me very aflbcted, I'm sure, if I were to talk of 
putting on a neck-kercliief." 

" My dcai', Mr. Grey was right, and I was wrong: 
I carried the point a little too far ; but I feel it my 
duty to take every opportunity of informing the 
youth of the present day that I hold them in abso- 
lute contempt. Their affectation, their heartless- 
nese, their artificial feelings, their want of all real, 
genuine, gentlemanly, English sentiments, — and, 
above all, their slant— have disgusted me — I'm very 
glad to find that Mr. Grey is not guilty of these 
follies. I'm very glad to find that he believes that 
a man older than himself is not quite a fool — I wish 
I could say as much for Albert, Mr. Grey was 
certainly right: — next to being correct, a man 
should study to be candid — I haven't met with a 
candid man these fifty years — no one now will own, 
by any chance, they're ever wrong. Now, for my- 
self, it's very odd, I never form a hasty opinion, and 
yet I'm not always right : but I always own it — I 
make it the principle of my life to be candid," 

" I hope I may be allowed to ask after Miss 
Fane, although I have not the honour of her ac- 
quaintance." 

" She continues much better ; my uncle and 
myself are now about to join her in the Lime-walk, 
where, by this time, she and Albert must have ar- 
rived ; if you are not otherwise engaged, and will 
join our morning stroll, it will give us much plea- 
sure." 

Nothing' in the world could give Vivian •greater 
pleasure ; he felt himself irresistibly impelled to the 
side of Lady Madeleine ; and only regretted his 
acquaintance with the baron, because he felt con- 
scious that there was some secret cause, which pre- 
vented that intimacy from existing between his 
exceliency and the Trevor party, which his amusing 
talents and his influential rank would otherwise 
have easily produced. When they reached the 
Lime-walk, Miss Fane and her cousin were not 
there, although the time of appointment was con- 
siderably past. 

•' I hope nothing has happened," said Lady 
Madeleme ; " I trust she is not taken unwell." 

"Quite improbable!" said Mr. Sherborne; 



VIVIAN GREY 



91 



"there must be some other reason: if she were 
anwell, the servant would have beew here." 
• " Let us return," said Lady Madeleine. 

" By no means, ray dear," said Mr. Sherborne, 
who had the greatest aftcction for his nieces ; " Mr. 
Grey will. I have no doubt, have the goodness to 
remain with )'our ladyship, and I will fetch Violet ; 
you may depend upon it, she is ready to come ;" 
so saying, Mr. Sherborne stalked ofT at a very quick 
pace. 

" My dear uncle is rather a character, Mr. Grey ; 
but he is as remarkable for his excellence of heart, 
as for any little peculiarities in his habits. I am glad 
that you have made a favourable impression upon 
him ; because, as I hope you will be much in his 
company, you stand now no cliance of being in- 
cluded in the list of young men whom he deUghts 
to torment, at the head of which, I regret to say, is 
my brother. By-the-by, I do not know whether I 
may be allowed to congratulate you upon your 
Drilliant success at the Redoute last night. It is 
fortunate that aO have not to regret your arrival at 
Ems as much as poor Mr. Hermann." 

" The run of f :)rtune was certainly most extra- 
ordinary. I'm only sorry that the goddess should 
have showered her favours on one who neither 
deserves nor desires them ; for I've no wish to be 
rich ; and as I never lost by her caprices, it is 
hardly fair that I should gain by them." 

" You do not play then, much V 

" I never played in my life, till last night. Gamb- 
ling has never been one of my follies : although 
my catalogue of errors is fuller, perhaps, than most 
men's." 

" I think Baron von Konigstein was your part- 
ner in the exploit." 

" He was ; and apparently a.s little pleased at 
tlie issue as myself." 

" Indeed ! — Havej-ou known the baron longl" 

" You will be surprised to hear that we are only 
friends of a week. I have been living, ever since 
I was in Germany, a most retired life. A circum- 
stance of a most painful nature drove me from 
England — a circumstance of which, I can hardly 
flatter myself, and can hardly wisli, that your lady- 
ship should be ignorant." 

" I am not unacquainted, Mr. Grey," said Jjady 
Madeleine, much moved, " with an unhappy event, 
which we need not again mention. Believe me, 
that I learned the sad histoiy from one, who, while 
he spoke the rigid truth, spoke of the living suflerer 
in terms of the fondest afi'ection." 

" A father !" said Vivian, with an agitation which 
he did not affect to suppress, " a father can hardly 
be expected to be impartial." 

" Such a father as yours must always be so. He 
is one of those men who must be silent, or speak 
truth. I only wish that he was with us now, to 
assist me in bringing about what he must greatly 
desire — your return to England." 

" It cannot be — it cannot be — I look back to the 
last year which I spent in that country with feel- 
ings of such disgust, I look forward to a return to 
that country with feelings of such repugnance — 
that — but I feel I'm trespassing beyond all bounds, 
in dwelling on these subjects to your ladyship. 
'I'hey are those on which I have never yet con- 
versed with human being; but the unexpected meet- 
ing with a friend — with a friend of my father, I 
mean, has surprised me into a display of feelings 
which I diought were dead within me; and for 



which, I am sure, the custom of society requires an 
apology." 

" ! do not say so, Mr. Grey — do not say so ! 
When I promised your father, tliat in case we met, 
I should even seek your society, I entered into an 
engagement, which, though I am surprised I am 
now called upon to fulfil, I did not form in a care- 
less spirit. Let us understand each other : I am 
inclined to be your friend, if you will permit it ; 
and the object which I wish to obtain by our friend- 
ship, I have not concealed : at least, I am frank. I 
have suffered too much myself, not to understand 
how dangerous, and how deceitful is the excess of 
grief. You have allowed yourself to be overcome 
l)y that which Providence intended as a lesson of 
instruction — not as a sentence of despair. In your 
solitude you have increased the shadow of those 
fantasies of a heated brain, which converse with the 
pure sunshine of the world would have enabled 
you to dispel." 

" The pure sunshine of the world. Lady Made- 
leine ! — would that it had never lighted me ! My 
youth flourished in the unwholesome sultriness of 
a blighted atmosphere, which I mistook for the 
resplendent brilliancy of a summer day. How 
deceived I was, you may judge, not certainly from 
finding me here ; but I am here, because I have 
ceased to suffer, only in having ceased to hope." 

" You have ceased to hope, Mr. Grey, because 
hope and consolation are not the visible companions 
of solitude, which are of a darker nature. Hope 
and consolation spring from those social affections, 
which your father, among others, has taught me to 
believe imperishable. With such a parent, are you 
justified in acting the part of a misanthrope '' 
Ought you not rather to hope, to believe that there 
are others, whose principle of being is as benevo- 
lent, if not as beneficial as his own 1" 

" Lady Madeleine, I do believe it ; if I had 
doubted it, my doubts must end this day ; hist you 
mistake in believing that I am a misanthrope. It 
is not sorrow now that makes me sad ; but thought 
that has made me grave. I have done with grief; 
but my release from suffering has been gained at a 
high price. The ransom which freed me from the 
slavery of sorrow was — Happiness." 

" I am no metaphysician, Mr. Grey, but I fear 
you have embraced a dark philosophy. Converse 
with the world, now that your passions are subdued, 
and your mind matured, will do more for you than 
all the arguments of philosophers. I hope yet to 
find you a believer in the existence of that good 
which we all worship, and all pursue. Happiness 
comes when we least expect it, and to those who 
strive least to obtain it — as you were fortunate yes- 
terday at the Redoute, when you played without 
any idea of winning. The truth seems, that after 
all, we are the authors of our own sorrow. In an 
eager pursuit to be happy, and to be rich, men do 
many unwise, and some unprincipled actions ; it 
ends in their becoming miserable, and continuing 
poor. The common course of events will bring to 
each mortal his fair share of fortune. The whole 
secret of life seems to be to restrain our passions, 
and let the common course of events have its run. 
But I will not enter into an argument which I have 
not the vanity to suppose that I possess the ability 
to maintain ; and yet which I feel that I ought not 
to have the weakness to lose. But here comes my 
uncle, and Violet too ! Well, my dear sir, you'vo 
brought the truant, I see !" 



92 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Brought her, indeed, clear little thing ! I knew 
It was not her fault ; I said she was not unwell ; I 
wonder what St. George will do next ! Mr. Giey, 
this is my niece Violet, Miss Fane : and Violet, 
my dear, this is Mr. Grey, and I wish all persons 
of his age were like him. . As for the Honourable 
Mr. St. George, he gets more unbearable every 
day. I suppose soon he'll 'cut' his own family." 

" Well, I regret, uncle, that I think in this busi- 
ness you are entirely wrong," said Miss Fane. 

" Now, Violet ! now how can you be so wilful ! 
to contradict rre so, when you have not a shadow 
of a defence for your cousin's unprincipled con- 
duct !" 

" Mv dear uncle, is it so unprincipled to break an 
appointment 1 I think it is one of the most agree- 
able and pleasant habits in the world. No young 
man is expected to keep an appointment." 

" Now Violet ! how can you go on so ] You 
know if there's one thing in the world that I de- 
test more than another, it is breaking an appoint- 
ment — a vice, which, as far as-I can observe, has 
originated in your young men of the present day. 
And who the devil are these young men, that the 
whole system of civilized society is to be disorgan- 
ized for their convenience 1 Young met), indeed:! 
I hate the phrase. I wish I could hear of more 
young gentlemen, and fewer young men. There 
isn't a young man in the world for whom I haven't 
the most sovereign contempt ; I don't mean you, 
Mr. Grey. I've the highest respect for you. I mean 
that mass of half-educated, inexperienced, insolent, 
conceited puppies, who think every man's a fool 
who's older than themselves ; whose manners are a 
mixture of the vices of all nations, and whose talk 
is the language of none ; at the head of whom is 
my nephev,' — your brother, Lady Madeleine Tre- 
vor — your cousin, Violet Fane — I mean Mr. Al- 
bert St. George." 

Mr. Sherborne had now worked himself into a, 
temble passion ; and the two ladies increased his 
irritability, by their incessant laughter. 

" Well, 1 confess I do not see that Albert de- 
serves this tirade," continued Miss Fane; "only 
think, my dear uncle, how many unexpected de- 
mands a man has upon his time. For all we know, 
unforeseen business may have peremptorily requir- 
ed Albert's attention. How do you know that he 
hasn't been looking at a horse for a friend ; or 
completing the purchase of a monkey ; or making 
some discoveries in the highest branches of experi- 
mental philosophy 1 perhaps he haf^ succeeded in 
lighting his cigar with a burning glass." 

" Miss Fane !" • 

" Mr. Sherborne I" 

" If I were here alone, if Lady Madeleine were 
only here, I could excuse this ; but how you are 
to answer to your conscience giving a stranger, Mr. 
Grey, a young gentleman for whom I have the 
highest respect, the impression that you, my niece, 
can tolerate for a moment, the existence of such 
monstrous absurdities i=. w me the most unaccount- 
able thing that " 

" My dear uncle ! how do you know that Mr. 
Grey has not got a monkey himself? You really 
ehould remember who is present, when you are 
delivering these philippics on the manners of the 
present century, and bo cautious, le.st, at the same 
lime, you arc not only violent but personal." 

" Now, Violet, my dear !" 

" My dear sir !" said Lady Madeleine, " Violet 



is exerting herself too much ; you know you are 
an enchanted lady at present, and may neither 
laugh, speak, nor sing." 

" Well then, dear uncle, let us talk no more of 
poor Albert's want of memory. Had he come, I 
should very likely have been unwell, and then he 
would have stayed at home the whole morning for 
no earthly good. As it is,' here I am ; with the 
prospect of a very pleasant walk, not only feeling 
quite well, but decidedly better every day, — so now 
let us make an apology to Mr. Grey, for having 
kept him so long standinj." 

" Violet, you're an angel ! though I'm your un- 
cle, who says so ; — and perhaps, after all* as it 
wasn't a positive appointment, St. George is not 
so much to blame. And I v,'ill say this for him, 
that with all his faults, he is on the whole very 
respectful to me, and I sometimes try him hard 
I'm not in the habit of making hasty observations, 
but if ever I find myself doing so, I'm -always 
ready to own it. There's no excuse, however, for 
hia not fitching you, my dear ! — what business 
had he to be going about with that Baron von 
Konigstein — that foreign " 

" Friend of Mr. CJrey's, my dear uncle," said 
Lady Madeleine. 

" Humph !" 

As Mr. Sherborne mentioned the baron's name, 
the smiling face of Lady Madeleine Trevor be- 
came clouded, but the emotion was visible only for 
a moment, as the soft shadow steals over the sun- 
ny wood. ]\Iiss Fane led on her uncle, as if she 
were desirous to put an end to the conversation. 

" You would scarcely imagine, Mr. Grey, from 
my cousin's appearance, and high spirits, that we 
are travelling for her health ; nor do her physi- 
cians, indeed, give us any cause for serious uiieasi- 
ncss — yet I confess, that at times, I cannot help 
feeling very great anxiety. Her flushed cheek, and 
the alarming languor which constantly suwecds 
any exertion or excitement, make me fear that hei 
complaint is more deeplyseated than they are will- 
ing to acknowledge." 

" Let us hope that the extraordinary heat of the 
weather may account, in a great degree, for this 
distressing languor." 

" \Vc arc willing to adopt any reasoning that 
gives us hope, but I cannot help remembering that 
her mother died of consumption." 

" Oh ! Lady Madeleine," said Miss Fane, look- 
ing back, " do not you think I'm strong enough to 
walk as far as the New Spring? My uncle says, 
he is sure that I should be much better if I took 
more exercise, and I really want to see it. Can't 
we go to-morrow 1 I dare say, as Albert played 
truant to-day, he will condescend to escort us." 

"Condescend, indeed! when I was a young 
man -" 

" You a young man ! I don't believe you ever 
were a young man," said Miss Fane, putting her 
small hand before a large open mouth, which was 
about to deliver the usual discourse on the degene- 
racy of the " present day." 

The walk .was most agreeable; and,, with the 
exception of one argument upon the principles of 
the j)icturesque, which Mr. Slierborne insisted 
upon Vivian's entering into, and in which, of 
course, that gentleman soon had the pleasure of 
proving himself candid, by confessing himself con- 
futed, it passed over without any disturbance from 
that most worthy and etymological individual. 



VIVIAN GREY. 



93 



This was the first day for nearly a year and a half, 
that Vivian Grey had joined with beings whose 
talents and virtues he respected, in calm and ra- 
tional conversation ; this was nearly the first day 
in his life that Vivian Grey had conversed witli 
any individuals, with no sinister view of self-ad- 
vancement, and self-interest. He found his con- 
"versation, like his character, changed; — treating 
of tilings, rather than men ; of nature, rather than 
society. To-day there was no false brilliancy to 
entrap the unwaiy ; no splendid paradoxes to 
astound the weak ; no poignant scandal to amuse 
the vile. He conversed calmly, without eager- 
ness, and without passion ; and delivering with 
abiUty his conscientious opinion upon subjects 
which he had studied, and which he understood, 
he found that while he interested others, he had 
also been interested himself. 



^ CHAPTER Vlir. 

When the walking party returned home, they 
found a crowd of idle domestics assembled oppo- 
site the house, round a group of equipages, con- 
sisting of two enormous crimson carriages, a 
britchska, and a large caravan, on all which vehi- 
cles the same coat of arms was most ostentatiously 
blazoned. 

" Some great arrival !" said Miss Fane. 

" It must be the singular party that we watched 
this morning in the bazaar," said Lady Madeleine. 
" O ! Violet ! I've such a curious character to in- 
troduce you to, a particular friend of Mr. Grey's, 
who wishes very much to have the honour of your 
acquaintance, Mh. Esspeh Geohge." 

" What an odd name ! Is he an English- 
man 1" 

" His appearance is still more singular than his 
title. You shall see him to-morrow." 

" These carriages, then, belong to him 1" 

" Not exactly," said Vivian. 

In an hour's time, the party again met at dinner 
in the saloon. By the joint exertions of Ernstortf 
and Mr. St. George's servants, the baron, Vivian, 
and the Chevalier de BoefHeurs, were now seated 
next to the party of Lady Madeleine Trevor. 

" My horses fortunately arrived from Frankfort 
this morning," said the baron. " Mr. St. George 
and myself have been taking a ride very far up the 
valley. Has your ladyship yet been to the Castle 
of Nassau 1" 

" I am ashamed to say we have not. The ex- 
pedition has been one of those plans, often arrang- 
ed, and never executed." 

" O ! you should go by all means ; it was one 
of my favourite spots : I took Mr. St. George there 
this morning. The ruin is one of the finest in 
Germany, which, as your ladyship is well aware, 
is the land of ruins. An expedition to Nassau 
Castle would be a capital foundation for a pic-nic. 
Conceive, Miss Fane, a beautiful valley which was 
discovered by a knight, in the middle ages, follow- 
ing the track of a stag — how exquisitely romantic ! 
The very incident vouches for his sweet seclusion. 
Cannot you imagine the wooded mountains, the 
old gray ruin, the sound of the unseen river 1 
What more should we want, except agreeable 
company, fine music, and the best provisions, to 
fancy ourselves La Paradise 1" 



" You certainly give a most glowing descrip- 
tion," said Miss Fane. " Why, Mr. Grey, this 
lovely valley would be a model for the solitude we 
were planning this morning. I almost wish that 
your excellency's plan were practicable." 

" I take the whole arrangement upon myself; 
there is not a difficulty. The ladies shall go oa 
donkeys, or we might make a water excursion of 
it part of the way, and the donkeys can meet us 
at the pass near Stein, and then the gentlemen 
may walk ; and if you fear the water at night, 
which is, perhaps, dangerous, why then the car- 
riages may come round : and if your own be too 
heavy for mountain roads, my britchska is always 
at your command. You see there is not a diffi- 
culty." 

"Not a difficulty," said Mr. St. George: "Ma- 
deleine, we only wait for your consent." 

" Which will not be withheld a minute, Albert* 
but I think we had better put off the execution of 
our plan till June is a little more advanced. I 
must have a fine summer night for Violet." 

"Well, then, I hold the whole party present, 
engaged to follow my standard whenever I have 
permission from the high authority to unfold it," 
said the baron, bowing to Lady Madeleine : " and 
lest, on cool reflection, I shall not possess influence 
enough to procure the appointment, I shall, like a 
skilful orator, take advantage of your feelings, 
which gratitude for this excellent plan must have 
already enlisted in my favour, and propose my- 
self as master of the ceremonies." The baron's 
eye caught Lady Madeleine's as he uttered this, 
and something lilie a smile, rather of pity than 
derision, lighted up her face. 

Here Vivian turned round to give some direc- 
tions to an attendant, and, to his horror, found 
Essper George standing behind his chair, 

" Is there any thing your highness wants 1" 

Essper was always particularly neat in his ap- 
pearance, but to-day the display of clean linen was 
quite ostentatious ; and to make the exposure still 
more terrific, he had, for the purpose of varying 
his costume, turned his huzzar-jacket inside-out, 
and now appeared in a red coat, lined with green. 

" Who ordered you here, sir V 

" My duty." 

" In what capacity do you attend V 

" As your highness' servant." 

" I insist upon your leaving the room directly." 

Here Essper looked very suppliant, and began to 
pant like a hunted hare. 

" Ah ! my friend, Essper George," said Lady 
Madeleine, " are you there 1 What's the matter, 
is any one ill-treating you 1" 

" This then is Essper George !" said Violet 
Fane, " what kind of creature can he possibly be 1 
Why, Mr. Grey, what's the matter?" 

" I'm merely discharging a servant, at a mo- 
ment's warning. Miss Fane ; and if you wish to 
engage his constant attendance upon yourself, I 
have no objection to give him a character for the 
occasion." 

" What do you want, Essper 1" said Miss 
Fane. 

" I merely wanted to see whether your walk 
this morning had done your highness' appetite any 
good," answered Essper, looking very disconsolate , 
" and so I thought I might make myself useful at 
the same time ; and though I don't bring in the 
soup in a cocked hat, and carve the verdsoa with 



94 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



a coufeau-de-cJiasse,'' continued he, bowing very 
low to Ernstorff, who, standing stifT behind his 
master's chair, seemed utterly unaware that any 
person in the room could experience a necessity ; 
"still I can change a plate, or hand the wine, 
without cracking the first, or drinking the second." 

" And very good qualities too !" said Miss Faric. 
" Come, Essper, you shall put your accomplish- 
ments into practice immediately, so change my 
plate." 

This Essper did with the greatest dexterity and 
quiet, displaying at the same time a small white 
hand, on the back of which was marked a comet 
and three daggers. As he had the discretion not 
to open his mouth, and performed all his duties 
with great skill, his intrusion in a few minutes was 
not only pardoned but forgotten. 

" There has been a great addition to the visiters 
to-day, I sec," said Lady Madeleine : " pray, who 
are the new-comers V 

" English," said the chevalier, who, seated at a 
considerable distance from her ladyship, iiad not 
spoken a word during the whole dinner. 

" I'll tell you all about them," said the baron. 
" This family is one of those, whose existence 
astounds the Continent much more than any 
of your mighty dukes and earls, whose for- 
tunes, though colossal, can be conceived ; and 
whose rank is understood. Mr. Fitzloom is a 
very different personage ; for, thirty years ago he 
^vas a journeyman cotton-spinner : some miracu- 
lous invention in machinery entitled him to a 
patent, which has made him one of the most im- 
portant landed proprietors in Great Britain. He has 
lately been returned a member for a great manufac- 
turing city ; and he intends to get over the two first 
years of his parliamentary career, by successively 
monopolizing the accommodation of all the princi- 
pal cities of France, Germany, Switzerland, and 
Italy ; and by raising the prices of provisions and 
post-horses through a track of five thousand miles. 
My information is authentic, for I had a casual 
acquaintance with him in England. There was 
some talk of a contract for supplying our army 
from England, and I saw Fitzloom often on the 
subject; I have spoken to him to-day. This is by 
no means the first of the species that we have had 
in Germany. I can assure you, that the plain 
traveller feels seriously the inconvenience of fol- 
lowing such a caravan. Their money flows with 
such unwise prodigality, that real liberality ceases 
to be valued ; and many of your nobility have com- 
plained to me, that, in their travels, they are now 
often expostulated with, on account of their parsi- 
mony, and taunted with the mistaken extravagance 
of a stocking-maker, or a porter-brewer." 

" What pleasure can such people find in travel- 
ling !" wondered the honourable and aristocratic 
Mr. b't. George. 

" As much pleasure, and more profit, than half 
the young men of the present day. In my time, 
travelling was undertaken on a very diflerent sys- 
tem lo what it is nov.'. Tlie English youth then 
travflled to frequent what Lord Bacon says are 
' especially to be seen and observed — the courts of 
princes.' You all travel now, it appears, to look 
at mountains, and catch cold in spouting trash on 
lakes by moonlight. You all think you know 
every thing, none of you know any thing." 

" But, my dear sir !" said the baron, " although 
I willingly grant you, that one of the great advan- 



tages of travel is the opportunity which it afTords 
us of becoming acquainted with human nature in 
all its varieties, as developed by dift(3rent climates, 
different customs, different governments, and con- 
sequently of becoming enabled to form an opinion 
as to the general capabilities of men ; and which 
knowledge is, of course, chiefly gained where hu- 
man beings most congregate — great cities, and as 
you say, the courts of princes : still, sir, we must 
also not the less forget, that one of the great bene- 
fits of travel is, that it enlarges a man's experience 
not only of his fellow-creatures in particular, but 
of nature in general. And this not merely by 
enabling him to see a quantity and a variety of 
landscape, but by permitting him to watch nature 
at various times and seasons. Many men pass 
through life without seeing a sunrise : a traveller 
cannot. If human experience be gained by seeing 
men in their undress, not only when they are con- 
scious of the presence of others ; natural expe- 
rience is only to be acquired by studying nature 
at all periods, not merely when man is busy and 
beasts asleep." 

" But what's the use of this deep experience of 
nature ] Men are born to converse with men, not 
with stocks and stones. He who has studied Le 
Sage, will be more happy and more successful in 
this world, than the man who muses over Rous- 
seau." 

" There I agree with you, Mr. Sherborne, I have 
no wish to make man an anchorite. But as to 
the utility, the benefit of a thorough experience of 
nature, it ap])ears to me to be evident. It increases 
our stock of ideas — " 

" So does every thing." 

" But it does more than this, sir. It calls into 
being new emotions, it gives rise to new and 
beautiful associations ; it creates that salutary 
state of mental excitement which renders our ideas 
more lucid, our conceptions more vivid, and our 
conclusions more sound. Can we too much 
esteem a study which, at the same time, renders 
our imagination more active, and our judgment 
more correct 1" 

" Well, sir, there may bo sometliing in what 
you say, but not much." 

" But, my dear sir," said Lady Madeleine, " if 
his excellency will allow me to support an argu- 
ment, which in his hands can recjuire no assist- 
ance, do not you think that a full communion with 
nature is calculated to elevate our souls, and purify 
our passions, to " 

" So is reading your Bible, my dqar. A man's 
soul should always be elevated ; and his passions 
would then require little purification. If they are 
not, he might look at mountains forever, but I 
should not trust him a jot more." 

" But, sir," continued the baron, with unusual 
warmth ; " I am clear that there are cases in whicVi 
the influence of nature has worked what you pro- 
fess to treat as an impossibility, or a miracle. I 
am myself acquainted with an instance of a very 
peculiar character, A few years ago, a gentleman 
of high rank found himself exposed to the un 
happy suspicion of being connected with some 
disgraceful and dishonourable transactions, which 
took place in the highest circles of England. 
Unable to find any specific charge which he could 
meet, he added one to the numerous catalogue of 
those unfortunate beings who have sunk in so- 
1 ciety, the victims of a surmise. He quitted Engr 



VIVIAN GREY, 



95 



TwncI ; anJ disgusted with the world, became the 
{/lofligate which he had been falsely believed te be. 
At the house of Cardinal * * * ♦ *, at Naples, 
celebrated even in that city for its midnight orgies, 
aiid not only for its bacchanal revels, this gentle- 
man became a constant guest. He entered with 
a mad eagerness into every species of dissipation, 
although none gave him pleasure ; and his fortune, 
his health, and the powers of his mind, were all 
fast vanishing. One night, one horrible night of 
frantic dissipation, a mock election of master of the 
sports was proposed, and the hero of my tale had 
the splendid gratification of being chosen by una- 
nimous consent to his new office. About two 
o'clock of the same night, he left the palace of the 
cardinal, with an intention of returning. His way 
on his return led by the Chiaja, which you, Mr. 
Sherborne, who have been in Naples, perhaps re- 
member. It was one of those nights which we 
witness only in the South. The blue and brilliant 
sea was sleeping beneath a cloudless sky ; and the 
moon not only shed her light over the orange and 
lemon trees, which, springing from their green 
banks of myrtle, hung over the water, but added 
fresh lustre to the white dome^, and glittering 
towers of the city ; and flooded Vesuvius and the 
distant coast with light, as far even as Capua. The 
individual of whom I am speaking, had passed this 
spot on many nights when the moon was not less 
bright, the waves not less silent, and the orange 
trees not less sweet ; but to-night — to-night some- 
thing irresistible impelled him to stop. What a 
contrast to the artificial light, and heat, and splen- 
dour of the palace to which he v/as returning. He 
mused in silence. Would it not be wiser to forget 
the world's injustice, in gazing on a moonlit 
ocean, than in discovering in the illuminated halls 
of Naples, the baseness of the crowd which forms 
the world's power] To enjoy the refreshing 
luxury of a fanning breeze which now arose, he 
turned and gazed on the other side of the bay. 
Upon his right stretched out the promontory of 
Pausilippo ; there were the shores of Baia;. But 
it was not only the loveliness of the land which 
now overcame his spirit : he thought of those whose 
fame had made us forget even the beauty of these 
shores, in associations of a higher character, and a 
more exalted nature. He remembered the time 
when it was his only wish to be numbered among 
them. How had his early hopes been fulfilled ! 
What just account had he rendered to' himself and 
to his country — that country that had expected so 
much — that self that had aspired even to more ! 

" Day broke over the city, and found him still 
pacing down the Chiaja. He did not retm-n to 
tne cardinal's palace ; and in two days he had left 
Naples. I can myself, from personal experience, 
aver that this individual is now a useful and 
honourable member of society. The world speaks 
of him in more flattering tenns." 

The baron spoke with great energy and anima- 
tion. Violet Fane, who had been very silent, and 
w'no certainly had not encouraged, by any apparent 
interest, the previous conversation of the baron, 
listened to this anecdote with the most eager at- 
tention : but the effect it produced upon Lady 
Madeleine Trevor was most remarkable. At one 
moment Vivian thought that her ladyship would 
have fainted. 

" Well !" said Mr. Sherborne, who first broke 
silence, " I suppose you think I'm wrong : I should 



like to hear your opinion, Mr. Grey, of this busi- 
ness. "What do you think of the question 1" 

" Yes, pray give us your opinion, Mr. Grey," 
said Lady Madeleine with eagerness ; as if she 
thought that conversation would give her relief. 
The expression of her countenance did not escape 
Vivian. 

" I must side against you, Mr. Sherborne," said 
he ; " his excellency, has, I think, made out his 
point. It appears to me, however, that there is 
one great argument in favour of the study of na- 
ture, and, indeed, of travelling, which I think I 
have never seen used. It matures a man's mind, 
because it teaches him to distrust his judgment. 
He who finds that his preconceptions of natural 
appearances are erroneous, will in time suspect that 
his opinions of human nature may be equally in- 
correct : in short, that his moral conceptions may 
be as erroneous as his material ones." 

" Well, I suppose I must give up. It's verv 
odd, I never form a hasty opinion, and yet I'm 
sometimes wrong. Never above owning it, 
though — never above owning it — not like the 
young men of the present day, who are so con- 
foundedly addicted to every species of error, that, 
for my own part, whenever they seem to suspect 
that they're wrong, I am always sure that they're 
right." 

Here the party broke up. The promenade 
followed — the archduke — his compliments — and 
courtiers — then came the Redoute. ]\Ir. Hermann 
bowed low as the gentlemen walked up to the 
table. The baron whispered Vivian that it was 
" expected" that they should play, and give the 
tables a chance of winning back their money. 
Vivian staked with the carelessness of one who 
wishes to lose. As is generally the ca^-e under 
such circumstances, he again left the Redoute a 
most considerable winner. He parted with the 
baron at his excellency's door, and proceeded to 
the next, which was his own. Here he stumbled 
over something at the door-way, which appeared 
like a large bundle. He bent down with his light 
to examine it, and found Essper George, lying on 
his back, with his eyes half-open. It was some 
moments before Vivian perceived he was asleep ; 
stepping gently over him, he entered his apart- 
ment. 



CHAPTER IX. 

AVhes' Vivian rose in the morning, a gentle tip 
at his door announced the presence of an early 
visitor, who being desired to enter, appeared in tlie 
person of Essper George. 

"Does your highness want any thing 1" asked 
Essper, with a very submissive air. 

Vivian stared at him for a moment, and then 
ordered him to come in. 

" I had forgotten, Essper, until this moment, 
that on retupning to my room last night, I found 
you sleeping at my door. This also reminds me 
of your conduct in the saloon yesterday ; and as I 
wish to prevent the repetition of such improprie- 
ties, I shall take this opportunity of informing you 
once for all, that if you do not in future conduct 
yourself with more discretion, I must apply to the 
Maitro d'Hotel. Now, sir, what do you want V 

Essper was silent, and stood with his hands 



96 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



crossed on his breast, and his eyes fixed on the 
ground. 

" If you do not want any tiling, quit the room 
immediately." 

Here the singular being began to weep and sob 
most bitterly. 

" Poor fellow !" thought Vivian, " I fear with all 
thy wit, and pleasantly, and powers, thou art, after 
all, but one of those capricios, wliich nature some- 
times indulges in ; merely to show how superior is 
her accustomed order to eccentricities, even ac- 
companied with the rarest and most extraordinary 
powers." 

" What is your wish, Essper V continued 
Vivian, in a kinder tone. " If there be any ser- 
vice, any real service, that I can do you, you will 
not find me backward. Are you in trouble 1 you 
surely are not in want?" 

" No, no, no !" sobbed Essper ; " I wish to be — 
to be your higlmess's servant," here he hid his face 
in his hands. 

" My sei"vant ! why, surely, if, as I have reason 
to suppose, you can maintain yourself witli ease 
by your exertions, it is not very wise conduct, 
voluntarily to seek out a dependence on any man. 
I'm afraid that you've been keeping company too 
much with the set of lazy, indolent, and insolent 
lacqueys, that are always loitering about these 
bathiiig places. ErnstorfT's green livery and 
sword, have they not turned your brain, Essper 1 — 
how is it 1 tell me." 

" No, no, no ! but I want to be your highncss's 
servant, only your highncss's servant, I am tired of 
living alone." 

" But, Essper, remember, that to gain a situation 
as a servant, you must be a person of regular habits 
and certain reputation. I have myself a veiy good 
opinion of you, but I have myself seen very little 
of you, though more than any one here ; and I am 
a person of a peculiar turn of mind. Perhaps there 
is not another individual in this house, who would 
even allude to the possibiUty of engaging a servant 
without a character." 

" Does the ship ask the wind for a character, 
when he bears her over the sea without hire, and 
without reward 1 and shall your highness require 
a character from me, when I request to serve you 
Vi'ithout wages, and without pay 1" 

" Such an engagement, Essper, it would be impos- 
sable for me to enter into, even if I ha,d need of your 
services, which at present I have not. But I tell 
you, frankly, that I see no chance of your suiting 
me. I should require an attendant of steady habits 
and experience ; not one whose very appearance 
would attract attention when I wished to be unob- 
served, and acquire a notoriety for the master which 
he detests. There is little likelihood of my re- 
quiring any one's services, and with every desire to 
assist you, I warmly advise you to give up all idea 
of entering into a state of life, for which you are 
not the least suited. If, on consideration, you still 
retain your wish of becoming a servant, and remain 
at the Baths with the expectation of finding a mas- 
tei, I recommend you to assume, at least for the 
moment, a semblance of regularity of habits. I 
have spoken to a great many ladies here, about 
your chamois bracelets, for which I think you will 
find a great demand. Believe nie, your stall 
will be a better friend than your master. Now 
leave me." 

Essper remained one moment with his eyes still 



fixed on the ground ; then walking very rapidly up 
to Vivian, he dropped on his knee, kissed his hand, 
and disappeared. 

Mr. St. George breakfasted with the baron, and 
the gentlemen called on Lady Madeleine early in 
the morning to propose a drive to Stein Castle ; but 
her ladyship excused herself, and Vivian following 
her example, the baron and Mr. St. George " patron- 
ised" the Fitzlooms, because there was nothing 
else to do. Vivian again joined the ladies in their 
morning walk ; but Violet Fane was not in her 
usual high spirits — she complained more than once 
of her cousin's absence, and this, connected with 
some other circumstances, gave Vivian the first 
impression that her feelings towards Mr. St. George 
were not merely those of a relation; As to the 
Chevaherde BcefHeurs, Vivian soon found that it 
was utterly impossible to be on intimate terms with 
a being without an idea. The chevalier was cer- 
tainly not a very fit representative of the gay, gal- 
lant, mercurial Frenchman : he rose very late, and 
employed the whole of the morning in reading the 
French newspapers, and playing billiards alter- 
nately with Prince Salvinski, and Count von Alten- 
burgh. 

These gentlemen, as well as the baron, Vivian, 
and Mr. St. George, were to dine this day at the 
New House. 

They found assembled, at the appointed hour, a 
party of about tliirty individuals. The dinner was 
sumptuous, the wines superb. At the end of the 
banquet, the company adjourned to another room, 
where play was proposed, and ' immediately com- 
menced. His imperial highness did not join 
in the game ; but, seated in a corner of the 
apartment, was surrounded by five or six aid- 
de-camps, whose only business was to bring 
their master constant accounts of the fortunes of 
the table, and the fate of the bets. His highness 
did not stake. 

Vivian soon found that the game was played 
on a very dififerent scale at the New House to 
what it was at the Rcdoute. He spoke most de- 
cidedly to the baron of his detestation of gambling, 
and expressed his unwillingness to play ; but his 
excellency, although he agreed with him in his 
sentiments, advised him to conform for the evening 
to the universal custom. ' As he could afford to 
lose, he consented, and staked boldly. This night 
very considerable sums were lost and won ; but 
none returned home greater winners than Mr. St. 
George and Vivian Grey. 



CHAPTER X. 

The first few days of an acquaintance with a 
new scene of life, and with new characters, gene- 
rally appear to pass very slowly ; not certainly 
from the weariness which tliey induce, but rather 
from the keen attention which every little circum- 
stance commands. When the novelty has worn 
off, when we have discovered that the new charac- 
ters differ little from all others we have met before, 
and that the scene they inhabit is only another 
variety of the great order we have so often ob- 
served, we relapse into our ancient habits of inat- 
tention ; we think more of ourselves, and less of 
those we meet ; and musing our moments away 



VIVIAN GREY. 



97 



in rcvcry, or in a vain attempt to cheat the coming 
day of the monotony of the present one, we begui 
to find that the various-vested Iiours have bouiidcd, 
and arc bounding away in a course at once imper- 
ceptible, uninteresting, and unprofitable. Then it 
is, that terrified at our nearer approach to the 
great river, whose dark windings it seems the busi- 
ness of all to forget, we start from our stupor to 
mourn over the rapidity of that collective sum of 
past time, every individual hour of vi-hich we have 
in turn execrated for its sluggisliness. 

Vivian had now been three weeks at Ems, and 
the presence of Lady Madeleine Trevor and her 
cousin alone induced him to remain. Whatever 
was the mystery existing between her ladyship and 
the baron, and that there was some mystery Vivian 
could not for a moment doubt, his excellency's 
efforts to attach himself to her party had been 
successful. The great intimacy subsisting between 
the baron and her ladyship's brother materially 
assisted in bringing about this result. For the 
first fortnight, the baron was Lady Madeleine's 
constant attendant in the evening promenade, and 
often in the morning walk ; and though there 
were few persons whose companionship could be 
preferred to that of Baron von Konigstein, still 
Vivian sometimes regretted that his friend and 
Mr. St. George had not continued their morning 
rides. The presence of his excellency seemed 
always to have an unfavourable influence upon 
the spirits of Violet Fane, and the absurd and 
evident jealousy of Mr. St. George, prevented 
Vivian from finding, in her agreeable conversation, 
some consolation ff>r the loss of the sole enjoyment 
of Lady Madeleine's exhilarating presence. Mr. 
St. George had never met Vivian's advances with 
cordiality, and he now treated him with studied 
coldness. 

The visits of the gentlemen to the New House 
had been frequent. The saloon of the archduke 
was open every evening, and in spite of his great 
distaste for the fatal amusement which was there 
invariably pursued, Vivian found it utterly im- 
possible to decline frequently attending, without 
subjecting his motives to painfuf misconception. 
His fortune, his extraordinary fortune did not de- 
sert Mm, and rendered his attendance still more a 
duty. The baron was not so successful as on his 
first evening's venture at the Kedoute ; but Mr. St. 
George's star remained favourable. Of Essper 
George, Vivian had seen little. In passing through 
the bazaar one morning, which he seldom did, he 
found to his surprise that the former conjuror had 
doftcd his quaint costume, and was now attired in 
the usual garb of men of his condition of life. As 
Essper was busily employed at the moment, 
A'ivian did not stop to speak to him ; but he re- 
ceived a most respectful bow. Once or twice, also, 
he had met Essper in the baron's apartments; and 
he seemed to have become a very great favourite 
with the servants of his excellency and the Che- 
valier de Ba?tfleurs, particularly with his former 
butt, Ernstorlf, to whom he now behaved with the 
greatest deference. 

I said, that for the first fortnight, the baron's at- 
tendance on Lady Madeleine was constant. It was 
after this time that his excellency began to slacken 
in his attentions. He first disappeared from the 
morning walks, and yet he did not ride ; he then 
ceased from joining the party at Lady Madeleine's 
apartments in the evening, and neveir omitted 
13 



increasing the circle at the New House for a single 
night. The whole of the fourth week the baron 
dined with his imperial highness. Although the 
invitation had been extended to all the gentlemen 
from the first, it had been agreed that it was m.t :o 
be accepted, in order that the ladies should not find 
their party in the mbn less numerous or less 
agreeable. The baron was the first to break through 
a rule which he had himself proposed ; and, Mr. 
St. George and the Chevaher de Boeffleurs soon 
followed his example. 

" Mr. Grey," said liady Madeleine one evening, 
as she was about to leave the gardens, " we shall 
be happy to see you to-night, if you are not en- 
gaged. — Mr. Sherborne only will be with us." 

" I thank your ladyship, but I feai- that I am 
engaged," said Vivian; for the receipt of some 
letters from England made him little inchued to 
enter into society. 

" O, no ! you can't be engaged," said Violet 
Fane ; " pray come ! pray come ! I know you 
only want to go to that terrible New House ; I 
wonder what St. George can find to amuse him 
there so keenly ^ I fear no good : men never con 
gregate together for any beneficial purpose. I am 
sure, with all his gastronomical affectations, he 
would not, if all were right, prefer the most exquis 
dinner in the world to our society. As it is, we 
scarcely see him a moment. I think, Mr. Grey, 
that you are the only one who has not deserted 
the salon. For once, give up the New House — 
I'm sure you are not in your usual spirits ; you 
will be more amused, more innocently amused at 
least, even if you go to sleep like Mr. Sherborne, 
than you will with playing at that disgusting 
rouge-et-noir, with a crowd of suspicious-looking 
men in mustachios." 

Vivian smiled at Miss Fane's warmth, and was 
too flattered by the interest which she seemed to 
take in his welfare, to persist in his refusal, although 
she did dilate most provokingly on the absence of 
her cousin. Vivian soon joined them. 

" Lady Madeleine is assisting me in a most 
important work, Mr. Grey. I am making draw- 
ings of the whole valley of the Ehine ; I know 
that you are very accurately acquainted with the 
scenery; you can, perhaps, assist me with your 
advice about this view of Old Hatto's Castle ; I 
am sure I'm not quite right." 

Vivian was so completely master of every spot in 
the Rhine-land, that he had no difKculty in sug- 
gesting the necessary alterations. The drawings, 
unlike m.ost young ladies' sketches, were vivid re- 
presentations of the sceneiy which they professed 
to depict ; and Vivian forgot his melancholy as he 
attracted the attention of the fair artist to points of 
interest, imknown or unnoticed by the Guide- 
books and the Diaries. 

" You must look forward to Italy with great in- 
terest. Miss Fane 1" 

" The gi-eatest ! I shall not, however, forget the 
Rhine, even among the Apennines." 

" Our intended fellow-travellers. Lord Mounte- 
ncy and his family, are already at Milan," said 
Lady Madeleine to Vivian ; " we were to have 
joined their party. — Lady Mounteney is a Tre- 
vor." 

" I have had the pleasure of meeting Lord 
Mounteney in England, at Sir BerdmoreScrope's- 
do you know him ! " 

" Very slightly. The Mounteneys pass tlifl 



98 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



winter at Rome, where I hope we shall join them. 
Do you know the family intimately 1" 

" Mr. Ernest Clay, a nephew of his lordship's, I 
have seen a great deal of; I suppose, according to 
the adopted phraseology, I ought to describe him 
as my friend, altliough I am utterly ignorant 
where he is at present ; and, although, unless he is 
himself extremely altered, there scarcely can be 
two persons who now more differ in their pursuits 
and tempers than ourselves." 

" Ernest Clay ! is he a friend of yours 1 — He's 
somewhere on the Continent now; I forget where; 
with some diplomatic appointment, I think. In- 
deed, I'm sure of the fact, although I'm perfectly 
ignorant of the place, for it was through Mr. 
Trevor's interest that he obtained it. I see you 
smile at the idea of Ernest Clay drawing up a 
protocol !" 

" Lady Madeleine, you have never read me 
Caroline Mounteney's letter, as you promised," 
said Miss Fane ; " I suppose full of raptures — 
' tlie Alps, and Apennines, the Pyrensean, and the 
river Po.' " 

" By no means : the whole letter of four sides, 
double crossed, is filled with an account of the 
ballet at La Scala •- which, according to Caroline, 
is a thousand times more interesting than Mont 
Blanc, or the Simplon." 

" One of the immortal works of Vigano, I sup- 
pose," said Vivian ; " he has raised the ballet of 
action to an equality with tragedy. I have heard 
my father mention the splendid effect of his 
Vestale andhis Othello." 

" And yet," said Violet Fane, " I do not like 
Othello to be profaned. It is not for operas and 
ballets. W^e require the thrilling words." 

" It is very true; yet Pasta's acting in the opera, 
and in an opera acting is only a secondary point, 
was a grand performance ; and I have myself sel- 
dom witnessed a more masterly cflect produced by 
any actor in the world, than I did a fortnight ago, 
at the opera at Darmstadt, by Wild in Othello." 

" I think the history of Desdemona is the most 
affecting of all talcs," said Miss Fane. 

" The violent death of a woman, young, lovely, 
and innocent, is assuredly the most terrible of tra- 
gedies," observed Vivian ; " and yet, I know not 
why, I agree with you that Desderaona's is the moft 
affecting of fates — more affecting than those of 
Cordelia, or Juliet, or Ophelia." 

" It is," said Lady Madeleine, "because we al- 
ways contrast her misery with her previous hap- 
piness. The young daughter of Lear is the child 
of misfortune : Juliet has the anticipation, not the 
possession of happiness ; and the characters in 
Hamlet seem so completely the sport of a myste- 
rious but inexorable destiny, that human interest 
ceases for those whose conduct docs not appear to 
be influenced by human passions. The exquisite 
poetry — the miraculous philosophy of Hamlet, 
will alv»-ays make us read it with delight, study it 
with advantage ; but for Ophelia we do not mourn. 
We are interested in the fortunes of a fictitious 
character, because in witnessing a representation of 
a scene of hiunan life, we form our opinion of the 
proper course to be pursued by the imaginary agents; 
and our attention is excited, in order to ascertain 
whether their conduct and our opinions agi'ee. But 
where the decree of fate is visibly being fulfilled, 
or the interference of a supernatural power is re- 
vealed, we know that human faculties can no 



longer be of avail ; that prudence can no longer 
protect — courage no longer defend. We witness 
the tragedy with fear, but not with .sympathy." 

" I have often asked myself," said Miss Fane, 
" which is the most terrible destiny for a young 
woman to endure : — to meet death after a life of 
trouble, anxiety, and suffering; or suddenly to be 
cut off in the enjoyment of all things that make 
life delightful ; with a heart too pure to be tainted 
by their possession, and a mind too much cultivated 
to over-appreciate their value 1" 

" For my part," said Vivian, " in the last in- 
stance, I think that death can scarcely be considered 
an evil. The pure spirit would only have to sleep 
until the Great Da}'^ ; and then — as Dryden has 
magnificently said, 'wake an angel still.' How 
infinitely is such a destim' to be preferred to that 
long apprenticeship of sorrow and suffering, at the 
end of which men are generally as unwilling to 
die as at the commencement !" 

'■ And yet," said Miss Fane, "there is something 
fearful in the idea of sudden death." 

" Very fearful !" muttered Vivian : " very fear- 
ful in some cases ;" for he thought of one whom 
he had sent to his great account before his time. 

" Violet, my dear !" said Lady Madeleine, in a 
very agitated voice ; " have you finished your 
drawing of the Bingenloch V But Miss Fane 
would not leave the subject. 

" Very fearful in all cases, Mr. Grey. How few 
of us are prepared to leave this world without 
warning ! And if from youth, or sex, or natural 
disposition, or from the fortunate union of the in- 
fluence of all these three, a few may chance to be 
better fitted for the great change than their compa- 
nions, still, I always think that in those cases in 
which we view our fellow-creatures suddenly de- 
parting from this world, apparently without a bodily 
or mental pang, there must be a moment of suffer- 
ing which none of us can understand ; sufi'ering 
occasioned by a consciousness of immediately 
meeting death in the verj' flush of life and earthly 
thoughts — a moment of suffering, which, from its 
intense and novel character, may appear an eternity 
of anguish. I shall, perhaps, not succeed in con- 
veying my peculiar feelings on this subject to 
you. I have always looked upon such an end as 
the most terrible of dispensations." 

" I enter into your feelings," answered Vivian ; 
" although the lisht in which you view this su'ojcct 
is new to me. Terrible, however, as we may uni- 
versally consider the event of a sudden death, I 
still do not believe that a long and painful illness 
ever exempts man from the suffering which you 
mention ; but that he always quits life with the 
same unwillingness to die." 

" I cannot agree with you, Mr. Grey, in this 
opinion, which you seem to entertain of the inefB- 
cacy of ' a long apprenticeship of sorrow and suf- 
fering.' From my own experience, I should say 
that it robbed death of all its terrors. Death is 
most dreadful at a distance — illness weakens the 
mind in a wise proportion with the body ; and 
therefore, at a certain period the feelings are too 
enervated by debility, or too blunted by personal 
suffering, to experience that which in health ap- 
pears the greatest trial in our dissolution — the 
parting with our friends. In the enjoyment of 
every pleasure which health and affluence can 
aflbrd, I confess that it appears most dreadful to 
encounter the agonies of disease ; and parting 



VIVIAN GREY. 



v99 



with all we love here, to sink into the grave and 
he forgotten by those of whose every thought, 
when living, we seemed to be the centre. But 
when we are worn out with pain, the selfishness 
of our nature makes us look upon those around 
us widi little more interest than as ministers of 
our wants. We forget all but the present suffer- 
ing, and only look forward to the future as a re- 
lease from it. If ever you have experienced a long 
and dangerous illness, Mr. Grey, I am confident 
that on reflection, you will agree with me." 

"My dear Violet," said Lady Madeleine; "I 
thought that Mr. Grey came here to-niglit to forget 
his melancholy. These surely are subjects which 
do not make men gay." 

" I assure you. Lady Madeleine," said Vivian, 
"that I take great — the greatest interest in this 
subject. I have endured a most dangerous illness, 
Miss Fane, but it was not one of the kind you al- 
lude to. It was a violent fever, and I was not sen- 
sible of my disease till its danger was past. I 
have no very clear conception of my state of mind 
when I recovered ; but I think, if I remember right, 
that I dreaded life as much as I feared death." 

"That was a peculiar case," said Miss Fane; 
" a case in whicli death, from the state of mind, 
could have had no terrors. Of course my argu- 
ment refers to the generalit}' of long and danger- 
ous illnesses, when the patient is only too sensible 
of the daily increasing debility. For myself, I 
distinctly remember being reduced to such fearful 
weakness, that the physicians and nurses round 
my bed believed me. dying, if not dead ; and from 
my~ complete inanition, entirely past a knowledge 
of what was going on around me. They were 
deceived, however, in this. I heard them say that 
I was dying ; more than once they thought that all 
was over; but it produced no emotion in my mind, 
— neither fear, nor sorrow, nor hope. I felt my 
breath fluttering fainter and fainter. I could not 
move even my finger; nnd I thought, indeed, that 
all would soon be over ; but it brought no pang for 
the sufferers v/ho surrounded my bed, no anxiety 
or desire for myself. At last I sunk into a deep 
sleep ; and after a length of time I awoke with 
quickened feelings. My natural affections return- 
ed, and then I had a strong longing for life. Here 
[ am now, enjoying excellent health, in spite of 
my dear physician's grave looks," said Miss Fane, 
putting her arm round Lady Madeleine's neck ; 
" and not only health, but every blessing which 
youth can give me. Nevertheless, dreading death, 
as I do now, with the feehngs of health and a 
happy life, I sometimes almost regret that I ever 
awoke from that perfect calm of every earthly 
passion." 

As Vivian was thinking that Violet Fane was 
the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. 
Lady Madeleine Trevor bent down, and kissed her 
forehead. Her ladyship's large blue eyes were 
full of tears. A woman's eye never seems more 
bright than when it glances through a tear — as the 
light of a star seems more brilliant when sparkling 
on a wave. 

" Violet, mj' dear," said her ladyship, " let us 
alk no more of death." 

"Who ivas talking of death 1" said Mr. Sher- 
borne, waking from a refreshing nap ; " I'm sure I 
wasn't. Let me see — I forget what my last obser- 



vation was ; I think I was raying, Lady Madeleine, 
that a little music would refresh us all. Violet, 
my dear, will you play me one of my favourites ?" 

" What shall it be, dear sir ? I really think I 
may sing to-night. What think you, Lady Made- 
leine ? I have been silent a fortnight." So say- 
ing. Miss Fane sat down to the piano. 

Mr. Sherborne's favourite ensued. It was a 
lively air, calculated to drive away all melancholy 
feelings, and cherishing those bright sunny views 
of human life which the excellent old man had in- 
variably professed. But Rosina's muse did not 
smile to-night upon her who invoked its gay spirit ; 
and ere Lady Madeleine could interfere, Violet 
Fane had found more congenial emotions in one 
of Weber's prophetic symphonies. 

! Music I miraculous art, that makes the 
poet's skill a jest; revealing to the soul inexpressi- 
ble feelings, by the aid of inexplicable sounds ! A 
blast of thy trumpet, and millions rush forward to 
die ; a peal of thy organ, and uncounted nations 
sink down to pray. Mighty is thy three-fold 
power ! 

First, thou canst call up all elemental sounds, 
and scenes, and subjects, with the definiteness of 
reality. Strike the lyre! Lo ! the voice of the 
winds — the flash of the lightning — the swell of the 
wave — the solitude of the valley ! 

Then thou canst speak to the secrets of a man's 
heart as if by inspiration. Strike the lyre ! Lo ! 
— our early Jovc — our treasured hate — our wither- 
ed joy — our flattering hope ! 

And, lastly, by thy mj'sterious melodies, thou 
canst recall man from all thought of this world 
and of himself — bringing back to his soul's me- 
mory, dark but delightful recollections of the glo« 
rious heritage which he has lost, but which he may 
win again. Strike the lyre ! Lo ! paradise, with 
its palaces of inconceivable splendour, and its 
gates of unimaginable glory ! 

When Vivian left the apartment of Lady Made- 
leine, he felt no inclination to sleep ; and instead 
of retiring to rest, he bent his steps towards the 
gardens. It was a rich summer night ; the air, re- 
covered from the sun's scorching rays, was coo! — 
not chilling. The moon was still behind the 
mountains; but the dark L'ue heavens were stud- 
ded with innumeral'le stars, whose tremulous light 
quivered on the face of the river. All human 
sounds had ceased to agitate ; and the note of the 
nightingale, and the rush of the waters, banished 
monotony without disturbing reflection. But not 
for reflection had Vivian Grey deserted his cham- 
ber: his heart was full — but of indefinable sensa- 
tions; and forgetting the world in the intenseness 
of his emotions, he felt too nnich to think. 

How long he had been pacing by the side of the 
river he knew not, when he was awakened from 
his revery by the sound of voices. He looked up, 
and saw lights moving at a distance. The party 
at the New House had just broke up. He stopped 
beneath a branching elm-tree for a moment, that 
the sound of his steps might not attract their at- 
tention; and at this very instant the garden gate 
opened, and closed with great violence. The 
figure of a man approached. As he passed Vivian, 
the moon rose up from above the brow of tho 
mountain, and lit up the coimtenance of the baron. 
Despair was stamped on liis distracted features. 



100 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



CHAPTER XL 

Whex Vi\dan awoke in the morning, he found 
that the intensoncss of his emotions had subsided ; 
and that his sensations were not quite so indefinite 
as on the preceding night : — he found himself in 
]ovc — with whom, however, was perhaps still 
doubtful. The image of Violet Fane had made 
his dreams delicious ; but it must be confessed, that 
t!ie eidolon sometimes smiled with the features of 
Lady Madeleine Trevor : — but that he looked on 
the world with new feelings, and a changed spirit, 
• — with hope, and almost with joy, — was certain. 
The sweet summer morning had succeeded to the 
soft summer night. The sun illumined as yet only 
the tops of the western movmtains ; and the morn- 
ing breeze, unheated by his beams, told that it was 
June by the odours which it wafted around. At 
such a moment the sense of existence alone is 
happiness ; but to Vivian it seemed that the sun 
was about to light up a happier world, and that the 
sweet wind blew from Paradise. 

Young love ! young love, "thy birth was of the 
womb of morning dew, and thy conception of the 
■"ovous prime !" — so Spenser sings ; and there are 
few, perhaps, who, on this subject, have not scrib- 
bled some stray stanzas in their time, if not as 
sweet, it may be more sincere. They will under- 
stand feelings which none can describe. How mira- 
culous is that power, which, in an instant, can give 
hope to the desperate, and joy to the forlorn ; 
which, without an argument, can vanquish all phi- 
losophy ; and without a gibe silence all wit ; which 
turns the lighthearted serious, while it makes the 
sorrowful smile ; which is braver than courage and 
j'ct more cautious than fear; which can make the 
fool outwit wLdom, and wisdom envy the fool ! 

It was in one of those sweet bowers, with which, 
as we have before mentioned, the gardens of Ems 
wisely abound, that Vivian Grey had spent more 
than three hours, unconscious of the passing of a 
moment. A rustling among the trees first attracted 
liis attention ; and on looking quickly up the wind- 
ing walk, he thought he saw Essper George vanish 
in the shrubbery. Was he watched 1 — But he 
soon forgot his slight anger in another fit of abstrac- 
tion, from which he v^'a^ awakened, as he imagined 
by the same sound. " This time, I'll catch you," 
thought Vivian. He jumped suddenly up, and 
nearly knocked down Lady Madeleine Trevor, who 
had entered the arbour. 

" I hope I've not disturbed you, Mr. Grey," said 
hor ladyship, who saw that he was confused ; " I 
am in want of an escort, and I have come to reclaim 
a truant knight. You forget that I had your 
pledge yesterday, to accompany me to the New 
8pring." 

Vivian made a violent struggle to recover him- 
self, and began to talk a quantity of nonsense to her 
ladyship, by way of apology for his negligence, and 
tlianks for her kindness ; Lady Madeleine listened, 
with her usual gentle smile, to a long and muttered 
discourse, in which the words " Essper George, 
Miss Fane, and fine morning," were alone intelligible. 

" Shall we have the pleasure of Miss Fane and 
Mr. Sherborne's company in our walk to-day 1" 
asked Vivian. 

" No ! they are not going with us," said Lady 
Madeleine. " You will join our party at the arch- 
duke's to-night, I hope, Mr. Grey," continued her 
ladyship. 



" Yes — I don't know : — that is, are you going, 
Lady Madeleine 1" 

" Why, my dear sir, isn't this the fete night V 
" Ah ! ah ! I understand — I remember — it wil/ 
give me the greatest pleasure to join the party al 
your ladyship's rooms." 

Lady Madeleine looked very earnestly at hel 
companion, and then talked about the weather, and 
the beauty of summer, and the singing of birds, 
and a thousand other little topics, by wliich she 
soon restored him to his usual state of mind. In 
a quarter of an hour Vivian had quite recovered his 
senses, and only regretted the part which he neces- 
sarily took in the conversation, because it prevented 
him from listening to the soft tones of her lady- 
ship's voice, who, he thought, to-day looked a thou- 
sand times more beautiful than ever. He began 
also to think, that he should like to walk to the 
New Spring alone with her every morning of his 
life. 

Vivian had been so occupied by his own feelings, 
that he and his companion had completed nearly 
half their walk, before it struck him that something 
was dwelling on the mmd of Lady Madeleine. In 
the midst of the gayest conversation, her features 
more than once appeared to be in little accordance 
with the subject of discussion ; and her voice often 
broke off abruptly at the commencement of a sen- 
tence — some sentence which it seemed she had not 
courage to finish. 

" Mr. Grey," said her ladyship, suddenly ; " I 
cannot conceal any longer, that I am thinking of a 
very different subject to the archduke's, ball. As 
you form part of my thoughts at this moment, I 
shall not hesitate to disburthen my mind to you : 
although, perhaps, I run the risk of being consi- 
dered at the same time both impertinent and offi- 
cious. Understand me, however, distinctly, that 
whatever I may say, you are not, for a moment, to 
believe that I am ostentatiously presuming to give 
you advice. There are many points, however, to 
which the hint or intimation of a friend may attract 
our attention with advantage ; and although our 
conversation to-day may not be productive of any 
to you, believe me that I should very much grieve, 
if my gentle suggestion were construed into an 
imwarrantable interference." 

" Any thing that Lady Madeleine Trevor can 
do, surely cannot be construed by any one as un- 
warrantable — any thing that Lady Madeleine 
Trevor can be kind enough to address to me, must 
always be received with the most respectful, the 
most grateful attention." 

" I wish not to keep you m suspense, Mr. Grey. 
It is of the mode of life which I sec my brother, 
which I see you pursuing here, that I wish to 
speak," said her ladyship, with an agitated voice. 
" May I — may I really speak with freedom 1" 

" Any thing — every thing, with the most perfect 
unreserve and confidence," answered Vivian. 

" You are aware, Mr. Grey, that Ems is not the 
first place at which I have met Baron von Konig- 
stcin." 

" I am not ignorant that his excellency has been 
in England." 

" It cannot have escaped you, Mr. Grey, that I 
acknowledge his acquaintance with reluctance." 

" I should judge, with tlie grealest reluctance, 
Lady Madeleine." 

" And yet it was with still more reluctance, Mr. 
Grey, that I prevailed upon myself to believe you 



VIVIAN GREY 



lOI 



w ;re his friend. I experienced the greatest de- 
hght, when you told me how short and accidental 
had been your acquaintance. I have experienced 
the greatest pain in witnessing to what that ac- 
quaintance has led ; and it is with extreme sorrow, 
I'or my own weakness, in not having had courage 
to speak to you before, and with a hope of yet be- 
nefiting you, that I' have been induced to speak to 
you now." 

" Lady ]\Iadelcine, I trust there is no cause 
either for your sorrow or your fear ; but much, much 
cause for my gratitude. Do not fear to be explicit." 

"Now that I have prevailed upon myself to 
speak, Mr. Grej% and have experienced from you 
the reception tliat I gave you credit for ; do not 
fear that there will be any want of openness on 
my part. I have observed the constant attendance 
of yourself, and my brother, at the Xew Houso, 
with the greatest anxiety. I have seen too much 
of the world, not to be perfectly aware of the danger 
— the terrific danger, which young men and young 
men of honour must always experience at such 
places. Alas ! I have seen too much of Baron von 
Konigstein, not to know that at such places especial- 
ly, his acquaintance is fatal. The evident depression 
of your spirits yesterday, determined me on a step 
which I have for the last few days been consider- 
ing. Your abstraction this morning frightened me. 
I can learn nothing from my brother. I fear that I 
am even now too late ; but I trust that whatever 
may be your situation, you will remember, ^.-Tr. 
Grey, that you have friends ; that you will decide 
on nothing rash." 

"Lady Madeleine," said Vivian, "I have too 
much respect for your feelings to stop even one mo- 
ment to express the gratitude — the pride — the 
honourable pride, which your generous conduct al- 
lows me to feel. This moment repays me for a 
year of agony. I afiect not to misunderstand one 
syllable of your meaning. My opinion, my detes- 
tation of the gaming-table has always, and must 
always be the same. I do assure you this, and all 
tilings, upon my honour. Far from being involved, 
my cheek burns while I confess, that I am master 
of a considerable sum — a most considerable sum, 
acquired by this unhallowed practice. But for 
this I am scarcely to be blamed. You are yourself 
aware of the singular fortune which awaited my 
first evening at Ems ; that fortime was continued 
at the New House, the very first day I dined with 
his highness, and when, unexpected!}', I was forced 
to play ; that fatal fortune has rendered my attend- 
ance at the New House absolutely necessary. I 
found that it was impossible to keep away, without 
subjecting myself to the most painful observations. 
I need scarcely say now, that my depression of 
yesterday was occasioned by the receipt of letters 
from England ; and as to my abstraction this morn- 
ing, believe me, Lady Madeleine, it was not a state 
of mind which grew out of any disgust to the 
woi'ld, or its inhabitants. I am ashamed of having 
H]>okcn so much about myself, and so little about 
those for whom you are more interested. As far 
as I can judge, you have no cause, at present, for 
nny serious uneasiness with regard to Mr. St. 
George. You may, perhaps, have obser^'ed that 
we are not very intimate, and therefore I cannot 
Epeak with any precision as to the state of his for- 
iTmes ; but I have reason to believe that thej' are 
by no means unfavourable. And now for the baron. 
Lady Madeleine." 



" Yes, yes !" 

" I hardly know what I am to infer from your 
observations respecting him. I certainly should 
infer something extremely bad, were not I con- 
scious, that, after the experience of five weeks, J, 
for one, ha^e nothing to complain of him, Tb.e 
baron, certainly, is fond of play — plays high, in- 
deed. He has not had equal fortune at the New 
House as at the Redoute ; at least I imagine so, fur 
he has given me no cause to believe, in any Vi'ay, 
that he is a loser; and I need not tell Lady Made- 
leine Trevor, that at the table of an archdu'.vc, 
losses are instantly paid." 

" Now that I know the tvutli — tlie joyful truth, 
Mr. Grey," said her ladyship, with great earnest- 
ness and animation ; '• I feel quite ashamed of my 
boldness ; must I say my suspicions 1 But if you 
could only understand the relief, the ease, the hap- 
piness, that I feel at this moment, I am sure you 
would not wonder that I prevaded upon myself to 
speak to you. It may still be in my power, how- 
ever, to prevent evil." 

" Yes^yes, certainly ! After what has passed, 
I would, without any fear of my motives being 
misinterpreted, submit to your liulyship, that the 
wisest course now, would be to speak to me franltly 
respecting Von Konigstein ; and if you are aware 
of any thing which has passed in the circles in 
England, of a nature wliich may render it more 
prudent for " 

" ! stop, stop !" said Lady Madeleine, in the 
greatest agitation. Vivian v/as silent, and many 
minutes elapsed before his companion again spoke. 
When she did, her eyes were fixed on the ground, 
and her tones were lov/ ; but her voice was calm, 
and steady. It was evident that she had mastered 
her emotion. 

" I am going to accept, ATr. Grey, the confidence 
which you have proiiered me. I feel, I am con- 
vinced, that it is due to you now, that I should sav 
all ; but I do not aft'ect to conceal that I speak, even 
now, with reluctance — an effort, and it will soon be 
over. It is for the best." Lady Madeleine paused 
one moment, and then resumed with a firm 
voice : — 

" U^pvcards of six years, Mr. Grey, have now 
passed since Baron von Konigstein was appointed 

minister to London, from the court of . 

Although apparently young for such an important 
mission, he had already eminently distinguished 
himself as a diplomatist ; and with all the advan- 
tages of brilliant talents, various accomplishments, 
rank, reputation, person, and a fascinating address, 
I need not tell you, that he immediately became of 
consideration, even in the highest circles. Mr. 
Trevor — I was then just married — was at this 
period high in office, and was constantly in per- 
sonal communication v.ith the baron. They be- 
came intimate, and his excellency our constant 
guest. The baron had the reputation of being a 
man of pleasure. Few men ever existed, fur 
whose indiscretions there could be greater excuse ; 
nor had any thing ever transpired wliich could in- 
duce us to believe, that Baron von Konigstein 
could be guilty of any thing, but an indiscretion. 
At this period a relation, and former ward of Mi. 
Trevor's, a 3'oung man of considerable fortune, and 
one whom we all most fondly loved, resided in our 
family. Trevor and myself considered him as 
our brother. With this individual. Baron von 
Koi.igstein formed a strong friendship ; they were 
I 2 



102 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



seldom apart. Onr relation was not exempted 
from the failings of all young men. He led a very 
dissipated, an alarmingly dissipated life ; but he 
was very young ; and as, unhke most relations, we 
never allowed any conduct on his part for an 
instant to haniwli him from our society ; we trusted 
that the contrast which his own family aflbrdcd to 
his usual companions, would in time render his 
ti^stes more refined, and his habits less irregular. 
We had now known Baron Konigstcin for upwards 
of a year and a half, most intimately. Nothing had 
transpired during this period to induce Mr. Trevor 
to alter the opinion which he had entertained of 
him from the first ; he believed him to be a man 
of the purest honour, and, in spite of a few impru- 
dences, of the coiTectest principles. Whatever 
might have been my own opinion of his excellency 
at this period, I had no reason to doulit the natural 
goodness of his disposition ; and though I could 
not hope that he was one who would assist us in 
our plans for the refomiation of Augustus, I still 
rejoiced to observe, that in the baron he would at 
least find a companion very diflerent from the un- 
pirincipled and selfish beings hy whom he was too 
('ftcn sun-ounded. Something occurred at this 
lime, Mr. Grey, which it is neccssai-y for me only 
to allude to ; but which placed Baron von Konig- 
stein, according to his own declaration, under the 
most lasting oliligations to myself. In the warmth 
of his heart he asked if there was any real, and 
important service which he could do me. I took 
advantage of the moment to speak to him about 
our young friend ; I detailed to him all our anxie- 
ties ; he anticipated all my wishes, and promised to 
watch over him ; to be his guardian ; his friend — 
his real friend. Mr. Grey," continued her ladyship, 
'■ I struggle to restrain my feelings ; but the recol- 
lections of this period of my life are so painful, 
tliat ibr a moment I must stop to recover myself." 

For a few minutes they walked on in silence ; 
Vivian did not speak, his heart was too fall ; and 
when her ladyship resumed her tale, he, uncon- 
sciously, pressed her arm. 

" Mr. Gre}', I study to be brief. About three 
months after the baron had given me the pledge 
which 1 mentioned, Mr. Trevor was called up at 
an early hour one morning with the alarming in- 
telligpnce, that his late ward was supposed to be 
at the pouit of death at a neighbouring hotel. He in- 
.'•tanlly accompanied the messenger, and on the way 
the fatal truth was broken to him — our young friend 
had committed suicide ! He had been playing all 
night with one whom I cannot now name." Here 
Lady Madeleine's voice died away, but with a 
struggle she again spoke firmly. 

" I mean, Mr. Grey — with the baron — some 
f ircisincrs also, and an Englishman — all intimate 
friends of Ven Konigstcin, and scarcely known to 

< "aptain , I mean tlie deceased. Our friend 

had been the only sufferer; he had lost his 
whole fortune, and more than his fortune : and 
V. ith a heart full of despair and remorse, had, 
with his own hand terminated his u-nhappy 
life. The whole circumstances were so suspi- 
cious, that public attention was keenly attracted, 
and Mr. Trevor spared no exertion to bring the 
offenders to punishment. The baron had the 
hardihood to call upon us the next day ; admit- 
tance was, of course, refused. He wrote the most 
.violent letters, protesting by all that was sacred that 
ue was imioccnt ; that he was asleep during most 



of the night, and accusing the others who were 
present of a conspiracy. The unhappy business 
now attracted universal attention. Its consequence 
on me was an alarming illness of a most unfortu- 
nate kind ; I was therefore prevented from inter- 
fering, or, indeed, knowing any thing that took 
place ; but Trevor informed me that the harcn was 
involved m a correspondence in the public prints ; 
tliat the accused parties recriminated, and that 
finally he was convinced that Von Konigstcin, if 
there were any difference, was, if possible, the most 
guilty. However this might be, ho soon obtained 
his recall from his own government. He wrote to 
myself and to Trevor before he left England ; but 1 
was too ill to hear of his letters, until Mr. Trevor in- 
formed me that he had returned them unopeneil. 
And now, Mr. Grey, I am determined to give utter- 
ance to that which as yet has always died up)on my 
lips — the victim — the unhappy victim, was the 
brother of Miss Fane !" 

" 0, God !" 

" And, Mr. Bt. George," continued Vivian, " Mr 
St. George knowing all this, which surely lie must 
have done ; how came he to tolerate for an instant 
the advances of such a manT' 

" My brother," said Lady Madeleine, " is a very 
good, and a very excellent young man, with a kind 
heart and warm feelings ; but my brother has not 
much knowledge of the world, and he is too 
honourable himself ever to believe that what he 
calls a gentleman can be dishonest. My brother 
was not in England when the unhappy event took 
place, and of course the various circumstances have 
not made the same impression upon him as upon 
us. He has heard of the affair only from me ; and 
young men, Mr. Grey, young men too often 
imagine that women are apt to exaggerate in mat- 
ters of this nature, which, of course, few of u? 
can understand. Von Konigstcin had not the 
good feeling, or perhaps had not the power, con 
nected as he was with the archduke, to aflbct igno 
ranee of our former acquaintance, or to avoid a 
second one. I was obliged formally to introduce 
him to my brother. I was quite perplexed how to 
act. I thought of writing to Von Konigstcin the 
next morning, a letter — a calm letter ; impressing 
upon him, without the expression of any hostile 
feeling, the utter impossibility of the acquaintance 
being renewed : but this proceeding involved a 
thousand difficulties. How was a man of his dis- 
tinction — a man, who not only from his rank, but 
from his disposition, is always a remarkalile, and a 
remarked character, wherever he may be, — how 
could he account to the archduke, and to his nu- 
merous friends, for his not associating with a pai'ty 
with whom he was pei-petually in contact. Ex- 
planations — painful explanations, and worse, much 
worse than these must have been the consequence. 
I could hardly expect him to leave Ems ,• it was, 
perhaps, out of his power : and for Miss Fane to 
leave Ems at this moment, was most strenuously 
prohibited by our physician. While I was doubt 
ful and deliberating, the conduct of Von Konig- 
stcin himself prevented me from taking any step 
whatever. Feeling all the awkwardness of his 
situation, he seized with eagerness the oj-portunity 
of becoming intimate with a member of tlie family 
whom he had not before known. His amusing 
conversation and insinuating address immediately 
enlisted the feelings of my brother in his favour. 
Vou know yourself that the very morning aft<^' 



VIVIAN GREY. 



103 



their introduction they were riding to2:cther. As 
they became more intimate, the baron boldly spoke 
to St. Georofe, in confidence, of his acquaintance 
with us in England, and of the unhappv circum- 
stances which led to its termination. St. George 
was deceived liy this seeming courage and candour. 
He has become the baron's friend, and has adopted 
his version of the unhappy story : and as the baron 
has had too much delicacy to allude to the affiiir in 
defence of himself to me, he calculated that the 
representations of St. George, who, he was con- 
scious, would not preserve the confidence which 
Von Konigstein has always intended him to be- 
tray, would assist in producing in my mind an im- 
pression in his favour. The Neapolitan story 
which he told the other day at dinner, was of him- 
self; relating it, as he might with truth, of a gen- 
tleman of rank, who was obliged to leave England, 
he bhnded all present except Miss Fane and my- 
self. I confess to you, Mr. Grey, that though I 
have not for a moment doubted the guilt of the 
baron, still I was weak enough to consider that 
his desire to become reconciled to me was at least 
an evidence of a repentant heart ; and the Neapo- 
litan story deceived me. Women are so easily 
to be deceived. We always hail with such credu- 
lous pleasure the prospect of the amendment of a 
fellow-creature. Actuated by these feelings, and 
acting as I thought wisest under existing circum- 
stances, I ceased to discourage the attentions of 
the bsu-on to myself and my friends. Your ac- 
quaintance, which we all desired to cultivate, was 
another reason for enduring his presence. His 
subsequent conduct has vrndeceived me : I am con- 
vinced now, not only of his former guilt, but also 
that he is not changed, and that with his accustomed 
talent, he has been acting a part which for some 
reason or other he has no longer any object in 
maintaining. Both Mr. Sherborne and myself 
nave remonstrated with my brother ; but the only 
consequence of our interference has been, that he 
tias quan'elled wilh his imclc, and treated both my 
own and Miss Fane's interposition with indifler- 
ence or irritability." 

" And Miss Fane," said Vivian, " she must 
know all V 

" She knows nothing in detail ; she was so 
young at the time, that we had no difficulty in 
keeping the particular circumstances of her bro- 
ther's death, and the sensation .which it excited, a 
secret from her. As she grew up, I have thought 
it proper that the mode of his death should no 
longer be concealed fi'om her ; and she has learned 
from some incautious observations of St. George's, 
enough to make her look upon the baron with hor- 
ror. It is for Violet," continued Lady Madeleine, 
" that I have the severest apprehensions. For the 
last fortnight her anxiety for her cousin has pro- 
duced an excitation of mind, which I look upon 
with more dread than any thing that can happen 
to her. She has entreated both Mr. Sherborne and 
myself, to speak to St. George, and also to you, 
Mr. Grey ; and since our unsuccessful interference 
with my brother, we have been obliged to have re- 
course to deceit to calm her mind, and banish her 
apprehensions. Mr. Sherborne has persuaded her, 
that, at the New House play is seldom pursued ; 
and when pursued, that the limit is very moderate. 
The last few days she has become more easy and 
serene. She accompanies us to-night ; the wea- 
ther is so beautiful that the night air is scarcely to 



be feared : and a gay scene well I am convinced, 
have a favourable influence upon her spirits. Your 
depression last night did not however escape her 
notice. Once more let me say how I rejoice at 
hearing what you have told me. I have such con- 
fidence in your honour, Mr. Grey, that I unhesita- 
tingly believe all that 3fOu have said. I have such 
confidence in your sense and courage, Mr. Grey, 
that I have now no apprehensions for the future. 
For God's sake, watch St. George. I have no 
fear for yourself" 

Here they had reached home : Vivian parted 
with her ladyship at the door of her apartments, 
and pressed her hand as he refused to come in. 
He hastened to the solitude of his own chamber. 
His whole frame was in a tumult ; he paced up 
and down his room with wild steps ; he pressed 
his hand to his eyes to banish the disturbing light; 
and tried to call up the image of her who was 
lately speaking — of her, for whom alone he now 
felt that he must live. But what chance had he of 
ever gaining this glorious creature ? what right 1 
what claims T His brow alternately burnt with 
maddening despair, and exciting hope. How he 
cursed himself for his foul sacrifice of his talents ! 
those talents, the proper exercise, the wise adminis- 
tration of which might have placed happiness in 
his power, — the enjoyment of a state of feeling, 
whose existence he had once ridiculed, because his 
imperfect moral sense was incapable of compre- 
hending it, — once, and once only, it darted across 
his mind, that feelings of mere friendship could 
not have dictated this confidence, and occasioned 
this anxiety on her part; but the soft thought 
dwelt on his soul only for an instant — as the sha- 
dow of a nightingale flits over the moonlit moss. 



CHAPTER Xir. 

The company at the archduke's fete was most 
select ; that is to say, it consisted of every single 
person who was then at the Baths : those who had 
been presented to his highness having the privilege 
of introducing any number of their friends ; and 
those who had no friend to introduce them, pur- 
chasing tickets at an enormous price from Cra- 
cowsky — the wily Polish intendant. The enter- 
tainment was most imperial ; no expense and no 
exertion were spared to make the hired lodging- 
house look like an hereditary palace ; and for a 
week previous to the great evening, the whole of 
the neighbouring town of Wisbadcn, the little 
capital of the dutchy, had been put under contribu- 
tion. What a harvest for Cracowsky ! — What a 
commission from the resfauraieur for supplying 
the refreshments I — What a per centage on hired 
mirrors and dingy hangings ! 

The archduke, covered with orders, received 
every one with the greatest condescension, and 
made to each of his guests a most flattering speech. 
His suit, in new uniforms, simultaneously IjoweJ 
directly the flattering speech was finished. 

" Madame von Furstenburg, I feel the greatest 
pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to 
be surreunded by my friends. Madame von Furs- 
tenburg, I trust that your amiable and delightful 
family are quite well. [The party passed on.] 
Cravatischeff !" coutinued his highness, incliningf 



104 



D'lSRAELPS NOVELS. 



his head round to one of his aid-de-camps, " Crava- 
tischefl"! a very fine woman is Madame von 
Furstenburg. There are few women whom I 
more admire than Madame von Furstenburg." 

" Prince Salvinski, I feel the greatest pleasure in 
seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be sur- 
rounded by my friends. Poland honours no one 
more than Prince Salvinski. Cravatischeif ! a 
remarkable bore is Prince Salvinski. There are 
few men of whom I have a greater terror than 
Prince Salvinski." 

" Baron von Konigftein, I feel the -greatest plea- 
sure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be 
surrounded by my friends. Baron von Konigstein, 
I have not yet forgotten the story of the fair Ve- 
netian. Cravatischetf ! an uncommonly pleasant 
fellow is Baron von Konigstein. There are few 
men whose company I more enjoy than Baron von 
Konigstein's." 

" Count von Altenburgh, I feel the greatest 
pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to 
be surrounded by my friends. You will not forget 
to give mo your opinion of my Austrian troop. 
Cravatischeif ! a very good billiard player is Count 
von Altenburgli. There are few men whose play 
Fd sooner bet upon than Count von Alten- 
burgh's." 

" Lady Ttiadeleine Trevor, I feel the greatest 
pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasui-e is to 
be surrounded by iny friends. Miss Fane, your 
servant — Mr. Sherborne — Mr. St. George — Mr. 
Grey. Cravatischeti'! a most splendid woman is 
Lady Madeleine Trevor. There is no woman 
whom I more admire than Lady Madeleine Tre- 
vor; and Cravatischeff! Miss Fane, too! a re- 
markably fine girl is Miss Fane." 

The great saloon of the New House afforded 
excellent accommodation for the dancers. It 
opened on the gardens, which, though not very 
large, were tastefully laid out ; and were this even- 
ing brilliantly illuminated with coloured lamps. 
In the smaller saloon, the Austrian troop amused 
those who were not fascinated by waltz or qua- 
drille, with acting proverbes : the regular dramatic 
performance was thought too heavy a busmess for 
the evening. There was suflicient amusement 
for all ; and those who did not dance, and to whom 
proverbes were no novelty, walked and talked, 
stared at others, and were themselves stared at ; 
and this perhaps was the greatest amu.scment of 
all. Baron von Konigstein did certainly to-night 
look neither like an unsuccessful gamester, nor a 
designing villain. Among many who were really 
amusing, he was the most so; and, apparently 
without the least consciousness of it, attracted the 
admiration of all. To the Trevor party he had 
attached himself immediately, and was constantly 
at her ladyship's side, introducing to her, in the 
course of the evening, his own and Mr. St. George's 
particular friends — Mr. and Mrs. Fitzloom. Among 
many smiling faces, Vivian Grey's was clouded; 
the presence of the baron annoyed him. When 
they first met, he was conscious that he was stiff 
and cool — extraordinarily cool. One moment's 
reflection convinced him of the folly of his con- 
duct, and he made a smuggle to be very civil — ex- 
traordinarily civil. In five minutes' time he had 
involuntarily insulted the baron, who stared at his 
friend, and evidently did not comprehend him. 

" Grey," said his excellency, very quietly, 
" you're not m a good hiunour to night. What's 



the matter 1 This is not at all a temper to come 
to a fete in. Wliat ! won't Miss Fane dance with 
you ]" asked the baron, with an arch smile. 

" I wonder what can induce your excellency to 
talk such nonsense !" 

" Your excellency ! — by Jove ! that's good. 
Excellency ! vvhy, what the deusc is the matter 
with the man ? It is Miss Fane, then — ehl" 

" Baron von Konigstein, I wish you to under- 
stand — " 

" My dear fellow, I never could understand any 
thing. I think you have insulted me in a most 
disgraceful manner, and I positively must call you 
out, unless you promise to dine at my rooms with 
me to-morrow, to meet De BcefHeurs." 

" I cannot." 

" Why not"! you've no engagement with Lady 
Madeleine I know, for St. George has agreed to 
come." 

" Yes V 

" Do Boefi!leurs leaves Ems next week. It is 
sooner than he expected, and I wish to have a 
quiet evening together before he goes. I should 
be very vexed if you were not there. We've 
scarcely been enough together lately. What with 
the New Hou.se in the evening, and riding parties 
in the morning, and those Fitzloom girls, with 
whom St. George is playing a most foolish game 
— he'll be taken in now, if he's not on his guard 
— we really never meet, at least not in a quiet 
friendly way; and so novv, will you come !" 

" Si. George is positively coming 1" 

" O yes! positively ; don't be afraid of his gain- 
ing ground on the little Violet in your absence." 

" Well, then, my dear \'on Konigstein, I will 
come." 

" Well, that's yourself again. It made me 
quite unhappy to see you look so sour and me- 
lancholy ; one would have thought that I was 
some troublesome bore, Prince Salvinski at least, 
by the way you spoke to me. Well, mind you 
come — it's a promise : — good. I must go and say 
just one word to the lovely little Saxon, and, hy- 
the-by, Grey, one word before I'm ofl'. List to a 
friend, you're on the wrong scent about Miss Fane ; 
St. George, I tliink, has no chance there, and now 
no wish to succeed. The game's your own, if you 
like; trust my word, she's an angel. The good 
powers prosper you !" so saying the baron ran off. 

Mr. St. George had danced with Miss Fane the 
only quadrille in which Lady Madeleine allowed 
her to join. He was now waltzing with Aurelia 
Fitzloom, and was at the head of a band of ad- 
venturous votaries of Tei-psichore ; who, wearied 
with the commonplace convenience of a saloon, 
had ventured to invoke the muse on the lawn. 

" A most interesting sight. Lady Madeleine 
Trevor !" said Mr. Fitzloom, as he offered his arm 
to her ladyship, and advised her instant presence 
as patrons of the " Fcfe du village," for such Ba- 
ron von Konigstein had most hapjiily termed it. 
" A delightful man that Baron von Konigstein, and 
says such delightful things ! Fele du village ! 
how very good !" 

" That is Miss Fitzloom, then, whom my brother 
is waltzing with !" asked Lady Madeleine, in her 
usual kind tone. 

" Not exactly, my Lady Madeleine," said Mi 
Fitzloom, "not exactly ilL'.ss Fitzloom, rather Miss 
Aurelia Fitzloom, my third daughter; our ihird 
eldest, as Mrs. Fitzloom sonretimes says ; for re 



\^IVIAN GREY. 



105 



ally it is necessary to distinguish, with such a 
family as ours, you know, my Lady Madeleine!" 

" But don't you think, Mr. Fitzloom, that your 
third daughter is a sufficiently delinite description !" 
asked her ladyship. 

" Why, you know, my liady Madeleine, there 
migJit be a mistake. There's the third youngest! 
and if one say the third merely, why, as Mrs. 
Fitzloom sometimes says, the question is, which is 
which .?" 

" That view of the case, I confess, did not strike 
me before." 

" Mr. Grey," said Miss Fane, for she was now 
leaning upon his arm ; " have you any objection 
to walk up and down the terrace 1 the evening is 
deliciously soft, but even with the protection of a 
cachemere I scarcely dare venture to stand still. 
Lady Madeleine seems very much engaged at pre- 
sent. What amusing people these Fitzlooms 
are !" 

" Mrs. Fitzloom ; I've not heard her voice yet." 
" No ; Mrs. Fitzloom docs not talk. St. George 
says she makes it a rule never to speak in the pre- 
sence of a stranger. She deals plenteously, how- 
ever, at home, in domestic apothegms. If you 
could but hear him imitating them all ! When- 
ever she does speak, she finishes all her sentences 
by confessing that she is conscious of her own 
deficiencies ; but that she has taken care to give 
her daughters the very best education. They are 
what St. George calls fine dashing girls, and I'm 
very glad he's made friends with them ; for, after 
all, he must find it rather dull here. By-the-by, 
Mr. Grey, I'm afraid that you can't find this even- 
ing very amusing ; the absence of a favourite pur- 
suit always makes a sensible void ; and these walls 
must remind you of more piquant pleasures than 
waltzing with fine London ladies, or promenading 
up a dull terrace with an invalid." 

" Miss Fane, I fear that you are a bitter satirist; 
but I assure you that you are quite misinformed as 
to the mode in which I generally pass my even- 
ings." 

" I hope, I am, Mr. Grey !" said Miss Fane, in 
rather a serious tone ; " I wish I could also be 
mistaken in my suspicions of the mode in which 
St. George spends his time. He's sadly changed. 
For the first month that we were here, he seemed 
to prefer nothing in the world to our society, and 
now — I was nearly saying that we had not seen 
him for one single evening these three weeks. I 
cannot understand what you find at this house of 
such absorbing interest. Although I know you 
think I am much mistaken in my suspicions, still 
I feel very anxious, very anxious indeed. I spoke 
to St. George to-day, but he scarcely answered me; 
or said that which it was a pleasure for me to 
forget." 

" Mr. St. George should feel highly gratified in 
having excited such an interest in the — mind of 
Miss Fane." 

" He cannot — he should not feel more gratified 
than all who are my friends ; for all who are such, 
I must ever experience the liveliest interest." 

" How happy must those he who feel that they 
have a right to count Miss Fane among their 
friends !" 

" I have the pleasure then, I assure you, of mak- 
ing many happy, and among them, Mr. Grey." 

Vivian was surprised that he did not utter some 
usual complimentary answer ; but he knew not 
14 



why the words stuck in his throat ; and, instead 
of speaking, he was thinking of what had been 
spoken. In a second he had mentally repeated 
Miss Fane's answer a thousand times — it rang in 
his ears — it thrilled his blood. In another moment 
he was ashamed of being such a fool. 

" How brilliant are these gardens !" said Vi- 
vian, looking at the sky. 

" Very brilliant !" said Violet Fane, looking on 
the ground. Conversation seemed nearly extinct, 
and yet neither oflered to turn back. 

" Good heavens ! you are ill. Miss Fane," sud- 
denly exclaimed Vivian, when, on accidentally 
turning to his companion, he found she was in 
tears. " Shall we go back, or will you wait here ? 
— Can I fetch any thing 1 — I fear you are very 
ill!" 

" No. no ! not veiy ill, but very foolish ; let us 
walk on, Mr. Grey, walk on — walk on." Here 
Vivian thought that she was going into hysterics; 
but heaving a deep sigh, she seemed suddenly to 
recover. 

" I am ashamed, Mr. Grey, of myself — this 
trouble, this foolishness — what can you think] but 
I am so agitated, so nervous — I hope you'll forget 
— I hope — ." 

" Perhaps the air has suddenly affected you — 
had we not better go in 1 — Pray, pray, compose 
yourself. I trust that nothing I have said — that 
nothing has happened — that no one has dared to 
sav, or do, any thing to ofiend you — to annoy you 1 
Speak, pray, speak, Miss Fane — dear Miss Fane, 

the — the — " the words died on Vivian's lips, 

yet a power he could not withstand urged him to 
speak — " the — the — the baron 1" 

" !" almost shrieked Miss Fane — " No, no, 
stop one second — let me compose myself — an 
eflbrt, and I must be well — nothing, nothing has 
happened, and no one has done or said any thing; 
but it is of somethitvg that should be said — of 
something that should be done, that I was think- 
ing, and it overcame me." 

" Miss Fane," said Vivian, " if there be any 
service which I can do — any advice which I can 
give — any possible way that lean exert myself for 
you, 0, speak ! — 0, speak — speak with the most 
perfect confidence — with firnmess — with courage ; 
do not fear that your motives will be misconceived 
— that your purpose will be misinterpreted — that 
your confidence will be misunderstood. You are 
addressing one who would lay down his own life 
lor you — who is willing to perform all your com- 
mands, and forget them when performed. I be- 
seech you to trust me — believe me that you shall 
not repent." 

She answered not, but holding down her head, 
covered her face with her small white hand; her 
lovely face which was crimsoned with her fiashing 
blood. They were now at the end of the terrace 
— to return was impossible. If they remained 
stationary, they must be perceived and joined. 
What was to be done ? moment of agony ! — 
He led her down a solitary walk still further from 
the house. As they jjroceeded in silence, the bursts 
of the music, and the loud laughter of the joyous 
guests became fainter and fainter, till at last the 
sounds died away into echo — and echo into silence. 
A thousand thoughts dashed through Vivian's 
mind in rapid succession ; but a painful one to 
him, to any man, — always rpmained the last. Hia 
companion would not speak ; yet to allow her to 



106 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



return home withotit freeing her mind of the bur- 
then, the fearful burthen, which evidently over- 
whelmed it, was impossible. At length he broke a 
silence which seemed to have lasted an age. 

" Miss Fane, do not believe for an instant that I 
am taking advantage of an agitated moment, to 
extract from you a confidence which you may 
repent. I feel assured that I am right in supposing 
that you have contemplated in a calmer moment 
the possibility of my being of service to you; that, 
in short, there is something in which you require 
my assistance, my co-operation — an assistance. 
Miss Fane, a co-operation, which, if it produce 
any benefit to you, will make me at length feel that 
I have not lived in vain. I cannot, I cannot allow 
any feelings of false delicacy to prevent me from 
assisting you in giving utterance to thoughts, which 
you have owned it is absolutely necessary should 
be expressed. Remember, remember that you have 
allowed me to believe that we are friends : do not, 
do not prove by your silence, that we are friends 
only in name." 

" I am overwhelmed — I cannot speak — my face 
burns with shame ; I have miscalculated my 
strength of mind — perhaps my physical strength ; 
what, what must j'ou think of me"!" She spoke 
in a low and smothered voice. 

" Think of you. Miss Fane ! every thing which 
the most devoted respect dare think of an object 
which it reverences. O ! understand me ; do not 
l)elieve that I am one who would presume an in- 
stant on my situation — because I have accidentally 
vi'itnessed a young and lovely woman betrayed into 
a display of feeling which the artificial forms of 
cold .society cannot contemplate, and dare to ridi- 
cule. You are speaking to one who also has felt ; 
who, though a man, has wept ; who can compre- 
hend sorrow ; who can understand the most secret 
sensations of an agitated spirit. Dare to trust me. 
Be convinced that hereafter, neither by word, nor 
look, hint, nor sign on my part, shall you feel, save 
liy your own wish, that you have appeared to Vi- 
vian Grey in any other light than as the accom- 
plished Miss Fane, the idol of an admiring circle." 

" You are too, too good — generous, generous 
man, I dare trust any thing to yon that I dare trust 
to human being ; but — " here her voice died away. 

" Miss Fane, it is a painful, a most painful thing 
for me to attempt to guess your thoughts, to anti- 
cipate your confidence ; but, if — if — it he of Mr. 
St. George that you are thinking, have no fear 
respecting him — have no fear about his present 
situation — tiaist to me that there shall be no anxiety 
for his future one. I will be his unknown guardian, 
his unseen friend ; the promoter of your wishes, 
the protector of your " 

" No, no, Mr. Grey," said Miss Fane, with firm- 
ness, and looking quickly up, as if her mind were 
relieved by discovering that all this time Vivian 
had never imagined she was thinking of him. 
" No, no, Mr. Grey, you are mistaken ; it is not of 
Mr. St. George, of Mr. St. George only, that I am 
thinking. I — I — I am much better now ; I shall 
be able in an instant to speak — be able, I trust, to 
forget how foolish — how very foolish I have been. 

" Let us walk on," continued Miss Fane ; " let 
us walk on ; we can easily account for our absence 
if it be remarked ; and it is better, much better, 
>.hat it should be all over : I feel quite well, quite, 
quite well ; and shall be able to speak quite firmly 
now." 



" Do not hurry ; compose yourself, I beseech 
you ; there is no fear of our absejice being remark- 
ed, Lady Madeleine is so surrounded." 

" After what has passed, Mr. Grey, it seems 
ridiculous in me to apologize, as I had intended, foi 
speaking to you on a graver subject than what has 
generally formed a point of conversation betweea 
us. I feared that you might misunderstand the 
motives which have dictated my conduct: I have 
attemjjted not to appear agitated, and I have been 
overcome. I trust that you will not be offended if 
I recur to the subject of the New Hovise. Do not 
believe that I ever would have allowed my fears, 
my girlish fears, so to have overcome my discretion, 
— so to have overcome, indeed, all propriety of con- 
duct on my part, — as to have induced me to have 
sought an interview with you, to moralize to you 
about your mode of life. No, no, it is not of this 
that I wish to speak, or rather that I will speak. I 
will hope, I will pray, that St. George and yourself 
have never found in that which you have followed 
as an amusement, the source, the origin, the cause 
of a single unhappy, or even anxious moment ; 
Mr. Grey, I will believe all this." 

" Dearest Miss Fane, believe it, believe it with 
confidence. Of St. George, I can with sincerity 
aver, that it is my iirm opinion, that far from being 
involved, his fortune is not in the slightest degree 
injured. Believe me, I will not attempt to quiet 
you now, as I would have done at any other time, 
by telling you that you magnify your fears, and 
allow your feelings to exaggerate the danger which 
exists. There has been danger — there is danger ; 
— play, very high, tremendously high play, has 
been, and is pursued at this New House, but Mr. 
St. George has never been a loser ; and, believe me, 
if the exertions of man can avail, never shall — 
never shall, at least, xinfairly. Of the other indi- 
vidual. Miss Fane, whom you have honoured by 
the interest which you have kindly professed in his 
welfare, allow me to say one word : no one can de- 
test, more thoroughly detest, any practice which 
exists in this world — Miss Fane cannot detest im- 
purity with a more perfect antipathy — than he does 
the gaming-table. You laiovv tlie miserable, but 
miraculous fortune, which made my first night here 
notorious. My luck has stuck by me like a curse, 
and from the customs of society, from which it is 
impossible to emancipate ourselves; a man in my 
situation cannot cease to play without incurring a 
slur upon his reputation. You will smile at the 
reputation which depends almost upon the commis- 
sion of a vile folly ; we have not time to argue 
these subtile points at present. It is sufficient for 
me to say, that I cannot resist this custom without 
being prepared to chastise the insolence of those 
who will consequently insult me. In that case, my 
reputation, already tarnished by the non-commis- 
sion of a foll)'^, will, according to the customs of 
society, be utterly ruined, unless it be re-burnished 
by the commission of a crime. I have no pistol 
now. Miss Fane, for ray fellow-creatures, — my 
right hand is still red with the blood of my friend. 
To play, therefore, with me has been a duty : J 
still win — the duty continues — but, believe me. 
that I shall never lose ; and I look forward, with 
eagerness to the moment when this tliialdom shall 
cease." 

" O ! you've made me so happy ! I feel so per- 
suaded that you have not deceived me — the tor)<?s 
of your voice, your manner, your expression, con- 



VIVIAN GREY. 



107 



vince me that you nave been sincere, and that I am I the party broke up, ami Vivian accompanied them 



happy — liappy at least for the present." 
'■'- " For ever I trust, Miss Fane." 

*' Let me, let me now prevent all future misery — 
let me speak about that which has long dwelt on 
my mind like a nightmare — about that which I did 
fear it was almost too late to speak. Not of your 
pursuit, Mr. Grey — not even of that fatal and hor- 
rid pursuit, do I now think, but of your companion 
in this amusement, in all amusements — it is he, he 
that I dread, that I look upon with horror, even to 
him, I cannot say, with hatred !" 

" The baron !" said Vivian, calmly. 

" I cannot name him — O ! dread him, fear him, 
avoid him ! it is he that I mean, he of whom I 
thought that you were the victim. Possessing, as 
he does, all the qualifications which apparently 
would render a man's society desirable — you must 
have been surprised, you must have wondered at 
our conduct towards him. ! Mr. Grey, when 
Lady Madeleine turned from him with coolness, 
when she answered him in tones whicli to you 
might have appeared harsh ; she behaved to liim, 
in comparison to what is his due, and what we 
sometimes feel to be our duty, with all'ection — ac- 
tually with alfection and regard. ! no human 
being can know what horror is, until he looks upon 
a fellow-creature with the eyes that I look upon 
that man.'' She leaned upon Vivian's arm with 
her whole weight, and even then he thought she 
must have sunk — neither spoke. How solemn is 
the silence of sorrow ! 

" I am overcome," continued Miss Fane ; " the 
remembrance of what he has done over-whelms me 
— I cannot sj)cak it — the recollection is death — yet 
you must know it. That you might know it, I 
have before attempted. I wished to have spared 
myself the torture which I now endure. It would 
perhaps have been more consistent with my dig- 
nity, it would perhaps have been more correct, to 
have been silent — but I felt it — I felt it a duty 
which I owed to a fellow-creature — and your con- 
duct, your kind, your generous conduct to me this 
evening, repays me even for all this pain. You 
must know it, you must know it. I will write — 
ay ! that will do. I will write — I cannot speak I a fine girl ; but I should think that Lady Madeleine 



and Mr. Sherborne. He did not return to the gay 
saloon, but found himself walking in the same 
gardens, by the side of the same river, lighted by 
the same moon, and listening to the same night- 
ingale, as on the preceding night. How much had 
happened to him in the course of one day's circle ' 
How changed were his feelings ; not merely fron 
yesternight, but even from a few hours since. Sh 
loved him ! — yes, she must love him. All wa? 
forgotten : he felt as if his dilated soul despised its 
frail and impure tenement. Now, indeed, he was 
in love. The interview with Violet Fane came, 
after his conversation with Lady Madeleine, like 
incense after music. Think not that he was fickle, 
inconstant, capricious : his love for the first had 
insensibly grown out of his admiration of the 
other ; as a man gazing on a magnificent sunset, 
remains, when the heavens have ceased to glow, 
with his eyes fixed on the evening star. 

It was iats when he retired. As he opened his 
door he was surprised to find lights in his chamber. 
The figure of a maa appeared seated at the table. 
It moved — it was Essper George, 



CHAPTER XIII. 

The reader will remember that Vivian had 
agreed to dine, on the day after the fete, with the 
baron, in his private apartments. This was an 
arrangement which, in fact, the custom of the 
house did not permit; but the irregularities of 
great men who are attended by chasseurs, are oc- 
casionally winked at by a supple maitve d'hotel. 
Vivian had various reasons for regretting his ac- 
ceptance of the invitation; and he never shook 
hands with the Chevalier de Brefileurs, apparently 
with greater cordiality, than on the day on which 
he met him at dinner at the Baron von Konig- 
stein's. Mr. St. George had not arrived. 

'• Past five !" said his excellency ; " riding out, I 
suppose, with the Fitzlooms. Aurelia is certainly 



now, it is impossible, but beware of him ; you, you 
are so young I" 

'• I have no words now to thank you, Miss Fane, 
for tliis. Had I been the victim of Von Konig- 
stein, I should have been repaid for all my misery 
by feeling that you regret its infliction ; but I trust 
that I am in no danger ; — though young, though 
very young, I fear that I am one who must not 
count my time by calendars. I may truly say of 
myself, ' an aged interpreter, though young in 
days.' Would that I could be deceived I Fear 
not for your cousin. Trust to one whom you 
have made think belter of this world, and of his 
fellow-creatures." 

The sound of approaching footsteps, and the 
light laugh of pleasure, told of some who were 
wandering like themselves. 

" We had better return," said Miss Fane ; " I 
fear that Lady Madeleine will obser"ve tiiat I look 
unwell. Some one approaches. — No ! — they pass 
only the top of the walk." It was St. George and 
Aurelia Fitzloom. 

Quick flew the brilliant hours ; and soon the 
dunce v\'as over, and the music mute. Jjady Ma- 
deleine Trevor and Miss Fane retired long before 



would hardly approve the connexion. The St. 
Georges have blood in their veins ; and would, I 
suppose, as soon think of marrying a Fitzloom, as 
we Germans should of mam'ing a woman without 
a von before her name. We're quite alone. Grey, 
only the chevalier and St. George. I had an idea 
of asking Salvinski ; but he is such a regular steam 
engine, and began such a long story last night 
about his interview with the king of Ashantee, that 
the bare possibility of his taking it into his head to 
finish it to-day, frightened me. You were away 
early from the archduke's last night. The busi- 
ness went off well." 

" Very well, indeed !" said the Chevalier de 
BoefHeurs; completing by this speech the first 
dozen ot' words which he had uttered since his stay 
at Ems. 

" I think that last night Lady Madeleine Trevor 
looked perfectly magnificent; and a certain lady 
too. Grey, eh 1— Here's St. George. My dear fel- 
low, how are you ] Has the fair Aurelia recovered 
from the last night's fatigues 1 All in that quarter 
goes on quite well, I hope. Now, Ernstorlf, — dui- 
ner, soon as possible." 

The baron made up to-day, certainly, for the 



108 



D ' I S R A E L I ' S NOVELS. 



silence of his friend, the chevalier. Stoiy after 
story, adventure after adventure, follovvfed each 
other with the most excitin-j haste. In fact, the 
baron never ceased talking the whole dinner, except 
when he refreshed himself with wine, which lie 
drank copiously. A nice observer would perhaps 
Iiave considered the baron's high spirit .artificial, 
and his conversation an effort. Yet his excellen- 
cy's temper, though lively, was generally equable ; 
and his ideas, which always appeared to occur 
easily, were usually thrown out in fluent phrase- 
ology. The dinner was long, and a great deal 
of wine was drunk ; more, much more, than most 
of the parties present for a long time had been ac- 
customi'd to. About eight o'clock the chevalier 
proposed going to the Redoute, but the baron 
objected. 

" Let's have an evening altogether : surnl\r we've 
had enough of the Redoute. In my opinion one 
of the advantages of tlic fete is, that there is no 
New House to-night. Conversation is a novelty. 
On a moderate calculation, I must have told you 
to-day at least two thousand original anecdotes. 
I've done my duty. It's the chevalier's turn now. 
Come, De Bojffleurs — a choice one." 

" I remember a story Prince Salvinski once told 
mc." 

" No, no — that's too bad — none of that Polish 
bear's romance ; if we have his stories, we may as 
well have his company." 

" But it's a very curious story," continued the 
chevalier, with a little animation. 

" O ! so is every story according to the storier." 
" I think, Von Konigstein, you imagine no one 
can tell a .story but yourself," said De Boeffleurs, 
actually indignant. \'ivian had never heard him 
speak so much before, and really began to believe 
that he was not quite an automaton. 
" Let's have it !" said 8t. George. 
" It's a story told of a Polish nobleman — a count 
somebody : — I never can remember their crack-jaw 
names ! V/ell ! the point is this,'' said the silent 
little chevalier, who apparently already repented 
of the boldness of his offer, and, misdoubting his 
powers, wished to begin with the end of his tale : 
"the point is this — he was playing one day at 
ecurle with the Governor of Wihia— the stake was 
trifling; hut he had a bet, you see with the gover- 
nor, of a thousand rubles ; a bet with the governor's 
secretary — ^never mind the amount, say two hun- 
dred and fifty, you see; then, he Vv'cnt on the turn- 
up with the commandant's wife ; and took the piys 
on the trumps with the Archbishop of Warsaw. 
To understand the point of the story, you see, you 
must have a distinct conception how the game 
stood. You see, tSt. George, there was the bet 
with the governor, one thousand ruMes; the gover- 
nors secretary, — never mind the amour.t. say two 
hundred and fifty ; the turn-up with the cnminand- 
ant's lady, and the pips with the Archbishop of 
W^arsaw. Proposed three times — one fir the king 
—the governor drew ace — the governor was already 
three and the ten. When the governor scored 
V-ing, the archliishop gave the odds — drew knave 
queea one hand — the count otlijred to propose 
fourth time — governor refused. King to six, ace 
fell to knave — queen cleared on — governor lost, 
besides bets with the whole etat-major ; the secre- 
tary gave his bill ; tlie connnandanl's lady pawned 
her jewels ; and the archbishop was done on the 
pips!" 



" By Jove, what a Salvinski !" 
" How many trumps had the governor ]" asked 
St. George. 

" Three," said the chevalier. 
" Then it's impossible : I don't believe the story ; 
it couldn't be." 

" I beg your pardon," said the chevalier ; " you 
see the governor had — " 

" For heaven's sake, don't let us have it all over 
again !" said the baron. " Well ! if this be your 
model for an after-dinner anectlote, which ought to 
be as piquant as an anchovy toast, I'll never com- 
plain of your silence in future. Fm sure you never 
learned this in the Palais-Royal !" 

"The story's a true story," said the chevalier, 
" have you got a pack of cards, Von Konigstein ] 
I'll show it you." 

" There is not such a thing in the room," said 
the baron. 

"Well, I never heard of a room without a pack 
of cards before," said the chevalier ; " I'll send for 
one to my own apartments." 

" ! by-tlie-by, perhaps Ernstorff has got a pack. 
Here, Ernstorff, have you got a pack of cards] 
That's good ; bring it immediately." 

The cards were brought, and the chevalier began 
to fight his battle .over again ; but could not satisfy 
Mr. St. George. " You see there was the bet vvitli 
the governor, and the pips, as I said before, with 
the Archbishop of Warsaw." 

" My dear De Bixfileurs, let's no more of this. 
If you like to have a game oicciirtc with St. George, 
well and good ; but as for quarrelling the whole 
evening about some blundering lie of Salvinski's, it 
really is too much. You two can play, and I can 
talk to Don Vivian, who, by-the-by, is rather of the 
rueful countenance to-night. Why, my dear fellow, 
I haven't heard your voice this evetiing; — fright- 
ened by the fate of the Archbishop of Warsaw, I 
suppo.se 1" 

'■'■Kcurte is so devilish dull," said St. George; 
"and it's such a trouble to deal." 

" I'll deal for both, if you like," said De Boef- 
fleurs ; " I'm used to dealing." 

" ! no — I won't play can-fr. ,- let's have some- 
thing in which we can all join." 

" Rouge-et-noir,"' suggested the chevalier, in a 
careless tone, as if he had no taste for the amuse- 
mcnt. 

"There isn't enough — is there?" asked St. 
George. 

"O! two are enough, you know — one deals, — 
much more four." 

" Well, I don't care — rouge-et-noir then — let's 
have rouge-et-noir: — Von Konigstein, what say 
you to rouge-et-noir 7 De Bosllieurs says we can 
play it here very well. Come, (irey !" 

" ! rouge-ct-noir, rouge-ct-noir," said the baron ; 
" haven't you both had rouge-ct-noir enough '! A'n't 
I to be allowed one holiday 1 Well, any thing to 
please you ; so rouge-ct-noir, if it must be so," 
" If all wish it, I have no objection," said Vivian. 
" Well, then, let's sit down; Ernstorff has, I dare 
say, another pack of cards, and St. George will be 
dealer, I know he likes that ceremony." 
" No, no, I appoint the chevalier." 
"Very well," said De Birliieurs; "the plan will 
be for two to bank against the table ; the table to 
play on the same colour by joint agreement. You 
can join me. Von Konigstein, and pay or receive. 
with me, froin Mr. St. George and (jrev.' 



VIVIAN GREY. 



109 



"I'll bank with you, if you like, chevalier," said 
Vivian, very quietly. 

" ! certainly, Mr. Grey — certainly. Grey — 
most certainly ; that is, if you like : — but perhaps 
the baron is more used to banking ; you perhaps 
don't understand it." 

" Perfectly ; it appears to me to be very simple." 

" No — don't you bank, Grey," said St. George ; 
" I want you to play with me against the chevalier 
and the baron — I like your luck." 

" Luck is veiy capricious, remember, Mr. St. 
George." 

" O, no ! I like your luck ; I like your luck — 
don't bank." 

" Be it so." 

Playing commenced : an hour elapsed, and the 
situation of none of the parties was materially dif- 
ferent to what it had been when they began the 
game. Vivian proposed leaving ofl'; but Mr. St. 
George avowed that he felt very fortunate, and that 
he had a presentiment that he should win. An- 
other hour elapsed, and he had lost considerably. — 
Eleven o'clock. — Vivian's luck had also deserted 
him. Mr. St. George was losing despcrateh'. — 
Midnight — Vivian had lost back half his gains on 
the season. St. George still more desperate ; all his 
coolness had deserted him. He had persisted ob- 
•.stinately against the run on the red ; then floun- 
dered, and got entangled in a see-saw, which alone 
cost him a thousand. 

Ernstorff now brought in refreshments ; and for 
a moment they ceased playing. The baron opened 
a bottle of champagne ; and St. George and the 
chevalier were stretching tlieir legs and composing 
their minds in very different ways — the first in 
walking rapidly up and down the room, and 
the other by lying very quietly at his full length 
on the sofa. Vivian was employed in building 
houses with the cards. 

" Grey," said the Chevalier de Bceffleurs, " I 
can't imagine why you don't for a moment try to 
forget the cards ; that's the only way to win. 
Never sit musing over the table." 

But Grey was not to be persuaded to give up 
building his pagoda; which, now many stories 
high, like a more celebrated, but scarcely more 
substantial structure, fell with a crash. Vivian 
collected the scattered cards into two divisions. 

" Now !" said the baron, seating himself, " for 
St. George's revenge." 

The chevalier and the g^-eatest sufferer took their 
places. 

"Is ErnstorfT coming in again, baron 1" asked 
Vivian, very calmly. 

" No ! I think not." 

" Let us be sure : it's disagreeable to be disturb- 
ed at this time of night, and so interested as we 
are." 

" Lock the door, then ;" said St. George. 

" A very good plan," said Vivian ; and he locked 
it accordingly. 

" Now, gentlemen," said Vivian, rising from the 
table, and putting both packs of cards into his 
pocket — " Now, gentlemen, I have another game to 
play." The chevalier started on his chair — the 
baron turned quite pale, but both were silent. " Mr. 
St. George," continued Vivian, "I think that you 
are in debt to the Chevalier de Boeffleurs upwards 
of two thousand pounds ; and to Baron von Ko- 
nigstein, something more than half that sum. I 
have to inform you, sir, that it is utterly unneces- 



sary for you to satisfy the claims of either of these 
gentlemen, wdiich are founded neither in law, nor 
in honour." 

" Mr. Grey, what am I to understand 1" ssked 
the quiet Chevalier de Boeffleurs, with the air of a 
wolf, and the voice of a lion. 

" Understand, sir !" answered Vivian, sternly ; 
" that I am not one who will be bullied by a black- 
leg." 

" Grey ! good God ! Grey ! what do you mean 1" 
asked the baron. 

" That which it is my duty, not my pleasure, to 
explain, Baron von Konigstein." 

" If you mean to insinuate," burst forth the che- 
valier, " if you mean to insinuate — " 

" I mean to insinuate nothing, sir ; I leave insinu- 
ations and innuendoes to shutHing chevaliers d'in- 
dusfrie. I niean to prove every thing." 

Mr. St. George did not speak, but seemed as ut- 
terly astounded and overwhelmed as Baron von 
Konigstein himself; who, with his arm leaning on 
the table, his hands clasped, and the forefinger of 
his right hand playing convulsively on his left, was 
pale as death, and did not even breathe. 

" Gentlemen," said Vivian, " I shall not detain 
you long, though I have much to. say that is to the 
pur()ose. I am perfectly cool, and believe me, per- 
fectly resolute. Let me recommend to you all the 
same temperament — it may be better for you. Eest 
assured, that if you flatter yourselves that I am one 
to be pigeoned, and then bullied, you are mista- 
ken. In one word, I am aware of every thing that 
has been arranged for the reception of Mr. St. 
George and myself this evening. Your marked 
cards are in my pocket, and can only be obtained 
by you with my life. Here arc two of us against 
two ; we are equally matched in number, and I, 
gentlemen, am armed. If I were not, you would 
not dare to go to extremities. Is it not, then, the 
wisest course to be temperate, my friends ]" 

" This is some vile conspiracy of your owm, fel- 
low," said De BcefMcurs; '-marked cards indeed! 
a pretty tale, forsooth ! The ministers of a first-rate 
power playing with marked cards ! The story will 
gain credit, and on the faith of -whom ! An adven- 
turer that no one knows ; who, having failed this 
night in his usual tricks, and lost money which he 
cannot pay, takes advantage of the marked cards, 
which he has not succeeded in introducing, and 
pretends, forsooth, that they are those which ho has 
stolen from our table ; our own cards being, previ- 
ously to his accusation, concealed in a secret pocket." 

The impudence of the fellow staggered even 
Vivian. As for Mr. St. George, he stared like a 
wild man. Before Vivian could answer him, the 
baron had broke silence. It was with the greatest 
effort that he seemed to dig his w^ords out of his 
breast. 

" No — no — this is too much ! it is all over ! I am 
lost; but I will not add crime to crime. Your cou- 
rage and your fortune have saved you, Mr. Grey, 
and your friend, from the designs of villains. And 
you! wretch, said he, turning to De BcefHeurs, 
sleep now in peace ; at length you have undone 
me." He leaned on the table, and buried his face 
in his hands. 

" Chicken-hearted fool !" said the chevalier, " is 
this the end of all your promises, and all your 
pledges'? But remember, sir! remember. I hava 
no taste for scenes. Good night, gentlemen. Baron, 
I expect to hear from you." 



110 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS 



" Stop, sir !" said Vivian ; " no one leaves this 
room without m}' permission.'' 

"I am at your service, sir, when you please," 
said the chevalier, throwing down his card. 

" It is not my intention to detain you long, sir ; 
far from it; I have every inclination to assist you 
in your last exit from this room, had I time, it should 
not be by the door ; as it is, go ! in the devil's name." 
So saying, he hurled the adventurous Frenchman 
half down the corridor. 

" Baron von Konigstein," said Vivian, turning 
10 the baron ; " you have proved yourself, by your 
conduct this evening, to be a b.etter man than I 
imagined you. I confess that I thought you had 
been too nuich accustomed to scenes, to be sensible 
of the horror of detection." 

" Never !" said the baron, with emphasis, with 
energy. The tirm voice and manner in whicli he 
pronounced this single word, wonderfully contrast- 
ed with his delivery when he had last spoken, but 
his voice immediately died away. 

" 'Tis all over ! 'tis all over ! I have no wish to 
excite your pity, gentlemen, or gain your silence, 
by practising upon your feelings. Be silent ; I am 
not the less ruined ; not the less disgraced ; not the 
less utterly undone. Be silent; my honour, all the 
same in four and twenty hours, has gone for ever : 
I have no motive then to deceive you. You must 
believe what I speak ; even what / speak, the most 
degraded, the vilest of men. I say again, never, 
never, never, never, never was my honour before 
suUied, tliough guilty of a thousand lollies. You 
see before you, gentlemen, the unhappy victim of 
circumstances; of circumstances which he has in 
vain struggled to control ; to which he has at length 
fallen a victim. I am not pretending, for a moment, 
that my crimes are to be accounted for by an in- 
exorable fate, and not to be expiated by my ever- 
lasting misery : No, no ! I have been too weak to lie 
virtuous; but I have been tried; tried most bitter- 
ly, lam the most unfortunate of men ; I was not 
born to be a villain. Four years have passed since 
I was banished from the country in which I was 
honoured; my prospects in life blasted; my peace 
of mind destroyed ; and all because a crime was 
committed, of any participation in which I am as 
innocent as yourselves. Driven in despair to wan- 
der, I tried, in the wild dissipation of Naples, to for- 
get my existence and my misery. I found my 
fate in the person of this vile Frenchman, who 
never since has quitted me. Even after two years 
of madness in that fatal place, my natural disposi- 
tion rallied ; I struggled to save myself; I quitted 
it. I was already involved to Dc Ba-ffleurs; I be- 
came still more so, in gaining from him the means 
of satisfying all claims against me. Alas ! I found 
I had sold myself to a scoundrel; a most unadulte- 
rated villain; a devil, a very devil; with a heart 
like an adder's. Incapable of a stray generous sen- 
sation, he has looked upon mankind during his 
whole life, willi the eyes of a bully of a ganiing- 
hous,'. I still struggled to free myself from this 
man ; and I indemnihed him for his advances, by 
pro< uring him a place in the mission to which, with 
the greatest diiliculty and perseverance, I had at 
Icnglli proeured my api)ointii:cnt. In public life I 
yet hoped to t'orget my private misery. At Frank- 
fort [ felt, that though not happy, 1 might be calm. 
I determined never again even to run the risk of 
enduring the slavery of debt. I forswore, with the 
most solemn oaths, the gaming-table ; and had it 



not been for the perpetual sight of De Bccffleurs, I 
might, perhaps, have felt at ease ; though the re- 
membrance of my blighted prospects, the eternal 
feeling that I experienced of being born for noble 
ends, was quite sufficient perpetually to embitter 
my existence. The second year of my Frankfort 
appointment, I was tempted to this unhappy place. 
1'he unexpected sight of faces v/hich I had known 
in England, though they called up the most pain- 
ful associations, strengthened me, nevertheless, in 
my resolution to be virtuous. My unexpected,'my 
extraordinary fortune at the Redoute, the first night, 
made me forget all my resolves, and has led to all 
this misery. I make my sad tale brief I got in- 
volved at the New House: De Bafileurs once more 
assisted me ; though his terms were most severe. 
Yet, yet again, I was mad enough, vile enough, to 
risk what I did not possess. I lost to Prince Sal- 
vinf ki and a Russian gentleman, a considerable sum 
on the night before x\vi fete. It is often the custom 
of the New House, as you know, among men who 
are acquainted, to pay and receive all losses which 
arc considerable on the next night of meeting. The 
fete gave me breathing time : It was not necessary 
to redeem my pledge till the fourth night. I rush- 
ed to De BcefHeurs ; he refused to assist me ; alleg- 
ing his own losses, and his previous advance. What 
was to be done 1 No possibility of making any ar- 
rangement with Salvin.ski. Had he won of me as 
others have done, an arrangement, though painful, 
would perhaps have been possible ; but, by a sin- 
gular fate, whenever I have chanced to be success- 
ful, it is of this man that I have won. De Bojffleurs 
then was the only chance. He was inexorable. I 
prayed to him ; 1 promised him every thing : I of- 
fered hiin any terms ; I besought him on my knees ; 
— in vain ! in vain ! At length, when he had work- 
ed me up to the point of lasi despair, he whispered 
hope. I listened, — let me be quick ! — why finish — 
why finish; you know I fell!" The baron again 
covered his face, and appeared perfectly overwhelm 
ed. 

" By God I it's too horrible," said St. George 
"Grey, let's do something for him'?" 

" My dear St. George," said Vivian, " be calm — 
you are taken by surprise : I was prepared lor all 
this. Believe me, it is Ijetter for you to leave us. If, 
on consideration, we think that any thing, — any real 
benefit can be done to this unhappy gentleman, I 
am sure that we shall not be backward. But I caji- 
not permit your generous feelings to bo taken ad- 
vantage of by a gamester — a madman, who, if freed 
from his present difficulties this moment, will com- 
mit the same follies and the same crimes to-mor- 
row. I recommend you to retire, and meet me in 
the morning : breakfast with me at eight, we can 
then arrange every thing." 

Vivian's conduct had been so decisive, and evi- 
dently so well matured, that St. George felt, that in 
the present case it was for him only to oliey ; and 
squeezing Vivian's hand very warmly, he retired, 
with wonder still expressed on his countenaiice ; 
for he had not yet, in the slightest degree, recovered 
from die first surprise. 

" Baron von Konigstein," said Vivian to the un- 
happy man, " we arc alone. Mr. St. George has 
left tiie room ; you are freed frou) the painful pre- 
sence of the cousin of Captain Fane." 

" You know all, then !" exclaimed the baron, 
quickly looking up ; " or you have read my secret 
thoughts. How wonderfid ! at that very moment 



VIVIAN GREY. 



Ill 



T was thinking; of my friend. Would T had died 
with him ! You know all, then ; and now — now 
you must believe me guilty. Yet, Mr. Grey, at 
this moment — at this moment of deepest affliction, 
of annihilating sorrow ; when I can gain nothing 
by deceit ; when, whatever may have been my 
loose expressions in a lighter hour, I am thinking 
of another vi'orld : I swear — and if I swear falsely, 
may I fall down a livid corpse at your feet, — I 
swear that I was guiltless of the crime for which 
I suffered, guiltless as yourself. Dare I ask if you 
beheve me V 

He awaited Vivian's answer with the most eager 
anxiety ; his mouth was open ; his eyes half 
started from their sockets ; had his life or reputa- 
tion depended upon the answer, he could not 
have gasped with more convulsive agony. 
" I do believe you." 

" Then God be thanked ! I owe you the greatest 
favour that I yet owe human being. What may 
be my fate — my end — I know not. Probably a 
few hours, and all will be over. Yet, before we 
part, sir, it would be a relief; you would be doing 
a kind and Christian service to a dying man, to 
bear a message from me to one with whom you are 
acquainted — to one whom I cannot now luime." 
" Lady Madeleine Trevor, sir V 
" Again j-ou have read my thoughts ! Lady 
Madeleine I — is it she who told you of my early 
history 1 Answer me, I beseech you." 

" I cannot answer. All that I know is known 
to many." 

" I must speak ! if you have time, Mr. Grey, if 
you can listen for half an hour to a miserable being, 
it would be a consolation to me. I should die with 
ease, if I thought that Lady Madeleine coiild be- 
lieve me innocent of that iirst great offence." 

" Your excellency may address any thing to me, 
if it be your wish, even at this hour of the night. 
It may be better ; after what; has passed, we nei- 
ther of us can sleep, and this business must be 
nrranged at once." 

" My object, Mr. Grey, is, that Lady Madeleine 
shall receive from me at this moment, at a time 
when I can have no interest to deceive, an account 
of the particulars of her cousin's, and my friend's 
death. I sent it written after the horrid event, but 
.she was ill ; and Trevor, who was very bitter 
against me, returned the letters unopened. For 
four years, I have never travelled without these re- 
jected letters; this year I have them not. But 
you could convey to Lady Madeleine my story as 
now given to you ; to you at this horrid moment. 
For God's sake do, sir, I beseech you !" 
" Speak on, speak on !" 

" I must say one word of my connexion with 
the family, to enable you fullj to understand the 
horrid event, of which, if, as I believe, you only 
know what all know, you can form but a most im- 
perfect conception. When 1 was minister at the 
court of London, I became acquainted — became, 
indeed, intimate with ]\tr. Trevor, then in ofhce, 
the husband of Lady Madeleine. Her ladyship 
was just married. Trevor was an aljle and ho- 
nourable man, but advanced in years ; had he been 
younger, he was not the man to have riveted the 
affections of any woman. As it was, his marriage 
was a mere political match. I will not stop now 
to moralize on these unhappy connections, in 
which the affections on xieither side are consulted ; 
but assuredly, in the present instance, Trevor had 



been more cautious in seruring the boroughs of the 
earl, than the heart of the earl's daughter. I sa\V 
all this, Mr. Grey ; I, still young, and with such 
blood flowing in my veins, that the youth of com- 
mon men was actually old age in comparison with 
my sensations : I saw all this in the possession of 
all those accomplishments and qualities, vv'hich, ac- 
cording to the world, work such marvels with 
women. I saw all this, Mr. Grey : I. a libertine by 
principle. Of Lady Madeleine's beauty, of her 
soul, I need not speak. You have the happiness 
of being the friend of that matchless creature. Of 
myself, at that time, I may say, that though de- 
praved, I was not heartless ; and that there were 
moments when I panted to be excellent. Lady 
Madeleine and myself became friends : she found 
in me a companion, who not only respected her 
talents, and dehghted in her conversation, but one 
who in return was capable of instructing, and was 
overjoyed to amuse her. I loved her; but when I 
loved her, sir, I ceased to be a libertine. At first 
I thouaht that nothing in the world could have 
tempted me to have allowed her for an instant to 
imagine that I dared to look upon her in any other 
light than as a friend ; but the negligence, the 
coldness of Trevor, the overpowering mastery of 
my own passions, drove me one day past the line, 
and I wrote that which I dared not utter. But 
understand me, sir; it was no common, no usual 
letter that I wrote. It never entered into my mind 
for an instant to insult such a woman with the 
commonplace sojdiistry — the disguised sentiments 
of a ribald. No ! no ! I loved Lady Madeleine 
with all my spirit's strength. I would have sacri- 
ficed all my views in life — my ambition — my fa- 
mily — my fortune — my countiy, to have gained 
her ; and I told her this in terms of the most 
respectful admiration. I worshipped the divinity, 
even while I attempted to profime the altar. Sir, 
when I had sent this letter, I was in despair. Con- 
viction of the perfect insanity of my conduct 
flashed across my mind. I expected never to see 
her again. There came an answer ; I opened it 
with the greatest agitation ; to my surprise — an 
appointment. Wliy, why trouble you with a de- 
tail of my feelings at this moment — my mad hope 
— my dark despair 1 The moment for the interview 
arrived. I was received neither with affection, nor 
anger. In sorrov^', in sorrov/ she spoke. I listen- 
ed in despair. I was more madly in love with her 
than ever. That very love made me give her such 
evidences of a contrite spirit, that I was pardoned. 
I rose with a resolution to be virtuous — with a 
determination to be her friend ; then, then I made 
the fatal promise which you know of — to be doubly 
the friend of a man, whose friend I already was; it 
was then that I pledged myself to Lady Madeleine 
to be the guardian spirit of her cousin." — Here the 
baron was so overpowered by his emotions that ho 
leaned back in his chair, and ceased to speak. In 
a few minutes he resumed. 

" Mr. Grey, I did my duty ; by all that's sacred 
I did my duty ! night, and day, I was with young 
Fane. A thousand times he was on the bi'ink ol 
ruin — a thousand times I saved him. . One day — 
one never to be forgotten day, — one most dark and 
damnable day, I called on him, and found him od 
the point of joining a coterie of the most desperate 
character. I remonstrated with him ; — I entreated ; 
— I supplicated him not to go — in vain. At last, 
he agreed to forego his engagement, on condition 



112 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS, 



that I dined with him. There were reasons that 
day of importance for my not staying with him ; 
j'et every consideration vanished, when I thought 
of her for whom I was exerting myself. I stayed 
witli him. Fane was frantic this day ; and, 
imagining, of course, that there was no cliance of 
his leaving his home, I did not refuse to drink 
freely — to drink deeply I My doing so was tlie 
only chance of keeping him at home. On a sud- 
den he started up, and would quit the house. Mv 
utmost exertions could not prevent him. At last I 
prevailed upon him to call upon the 1'revors, as I 
thought that there, at least, he would he safe. He 
agreed. As we were passing down Pall Mall, we 
met two foreigners of distinction, and a noble of 
5-our country ; they were men of wliom we both 
knew little. I had myself introduced Fane to the 
foreigners a few days before, being aware that they 
were men of high rank. After some conversation, 
they asked us to join them at supper, at the house 
of their English friend. I declined ; but nothing 
could induce Fane to refuse them ; and I linally 
accompanied him. Play was introduced after 
supper ; I made an ineffectual struggle to get Fane 
home ; but I was too full of wine to be energetic. 
After losing a small sum, I got up from the table, 
and staggering to a sofa, fell fast asleep. Even as 
I passed Fane's chair in this condition, my master- 
thought was evident, and I pulled him by the 
shoulder ; all was useless, — I woke to madness !" 
— It was terrible to witness the anguish of Von 
Konigstein. 

" Could you not clear yourself?" asked Vivian, 
for he felt it necessary to speak. 

" Clear myself! Every tiling told against me. 
The villains were my friends, not the sufferer's ; I 
was not injured ; my dining with him was part of 
the conspiracy ; he was intoxicated previous to his 
ruin. Conscious of my innocence, quite desperate, 
but confiding in my character, I accused the guilty 
irio, publicly accused them ; they recriminated, 
and answered ; and without clearing themselves, 
convinced the public that I was their dissatisfied 
and disappointed tool. I can speak no more." 
Here the head of the unhappy man sunk down 
upon his breast. His sad talc was told; the ex- 
citement was over ; he now only felt his despair. 

It is awful to witness sudden death ; but, ! 
how much more awful is it to witness in a moment 
the moral fall of a fellow-creature I How tre- 
mendous is the quick succession of mastering pas- 
sions ! The firm, the terrifically firm, the madly 
resolute denial of guilt ; that eagerness of pro- 
testation, which is a sure sign of crime ; then the 
agonizing suspense before the threatened ])roof is 
produced — the hell of detection ! — the audible an- 
guish of sorrow — the curses of remorse — the silence 
of despair ■ Few of us, unfortvmately, have passed 
through life without having beheld some instance 
of this instantaneous degradation of human nature. 
But O ! how terrible is it when the confessed cri- 
minal has been but a moment before our friend. 
What a contrast to the laugh of joyous companion- 
ship is the quivering tear of an agonized frame ! 
hov^' terrible to be prayed to by those whose wishes 
a moment before we lived only fo anticipate ! 

And bitter as might have been the feelings, and 
racked as might have been the heart of Von Ko- 
nigstein, he could not have felt more at this mo- 
ment — more exijuisite anguish — deeper remorse — 
tlian did Vivian Grey. Openly to have disgraced 



this man ! How he had been deceived ! His 
iirst crime — the first crime of such a being ; of one 
who had suffered so much — so unj.ustly ! Could 
he but have guessed the truth, he would have ac- 
cused the baron in private — have awakened him 
to the enormity of his contemplated crime — have 
saved him from its perpetration — have saved him 
from the perpetration of any other. But he had 
imagined him to be a systematic, a heartless villain 
— and he looked forward to this night to avenge the 
memory of the brother of her that he loved. 

" Von Konigstein," said Vivian, after a long 
silence ; " I feel for you. Had I known this, be- 
lieve me, that I would have spared both you and 
myself this night of miseiy. 1 would have pre- 
vented you from looking back to this day with re- 
morse. I am not one who delights in witnessing 
the misery or degradation of my species. Do not 
despair; you have suffered for that of which you 
were not guilty ; you must not suffer now for what 
has passed. Much, much would I give to see you 
freed from that wretched knave, whose vile career 
I was very nearly tempted this evening to have 
terminated forever. To Lady Madeleine I shall 
make the communication you desire, and I will 
answer for lier ladyship that your communication 
will be credited. Let this give you hope. As to 
the transactions of this evening, the knowledge of 
them can never transpire to the world. It is the 
interest of De Bceffleurs to be silent : if he speak, 
no one will credit the tale of such a creature, who, 
if he speak the truth, must proclaim his own infamy. 
For the perfect silence of the Trevor party, I 
pledge m.yself. They have done you too much in- 
justice not to hail with pleasure the opportunity of 
making you some atonement. And now for the 
immediate calls upon your honour : — in what sum 
are you indebted to Prince Salvmsld and his 
friend 1" 

" Thousands I — two — three thousand !" 

" I shall then have an opportunity of ridding 
myself of that, the acquisition of which to me has 
been matter of the greatest sorrow. Baron von 
Konigstein, j'our honour is saved ; — I pledge myself 
to discharge the claims of Salvinski and his friend." 

" Impossible ! I cannot allow — " 

" Stop, sir ! — in this business I must command. 
I wish not to recur to what has passed — you make 
me. Surely, there can be no feelings of delicacy 
between us two now. If I gave you the treasures of 
the Indies you would not be under so great an obli- 
gation to me as you are already : — I say this with 
pain. I recommend you to leave Ems to-morrow. 
Public business will easily account for your sudflen 
departure. Let us not meet again. And now, Von 
Konigstein, your character is yet safe ; — you are 
yet in the prime of life ; — you have vindicated 
yourself from that which has preyed upon your 
mind for years. Cease to accuse your fate ; find 
the causes of your past misery in your unbridled 
passions. Restrain them, and be happy !" Vivian 
was about to leave the room, when the baron started 
from his seat, and seized his hand ; he would have 
spoken, but the words died upon his lips ; and be- 
fore he could recover himself, Vivian had retired. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Thk sudden departure of Baron von Konigstein 
from the Baths excited great surprise and sorrow 



VIVIAN GREY. 



113 



All woiiflcrcd at the cause, and all regretted the 
eflect. The archduke missed liis good stories ; the 
rouge-et-noir table, his constant presence ; and 
Monsieur le Restaurateur gave up, in consequence, 
an embryo idea of a fete and fire-works for his 
own benefit ; which agreeable plan he had trust- 
ed, with his excellency's generous co-operation 
as steward or patron, he should have had no diffi- 
culty in carrying into execution. But no one was 
more suq~.riscd, and more regretted the absence of 
his excellency, than his fHend, Mr. Fitzloom. 
What could be the reason ? — Public business, of 
course. Indeed he had learned as much, confiden- 
tially, from Cracowsky. He tried Mr. Grey, but 
could elicit nothing satisfactorily ; he pumped Mr. 
St. George, but produced only the waters of obli- 
vion : Mr. St. George was gifted, when it suited his 
purpose, with a most convenient want of memory. 
There must be something in the wind — perhaps a 
war. Was the independence of Greece about to 
be acknowledged, or the dependence of Spain 
about to be terminated 1 What first-rate power 
had marched a miUion of soldiers into the land of 
a weak neighbour, on the mere pretence of exer- 
cismg the military 1 What patriots had had the 
proud satisfaction of establishing a constitutional 
government without bloodshed — to be set aside in 
the course of the next month in the same manner ] 
Had a conspiracy for establishing a republic in 
Russia been frustrated by the timely information of 
the intended first consul] Were the janissaries 
learning mathematics 1 — or had Lord Cochrane 
taken Constantinople in the James Watt steam- 
packet? One of these many events must have 
happened — but which? At length Fitzloom de- 
cided on a general war. England must interfere 
cither to defeat the ambition of France — or to curb 
the rapacity of Russia — or to check the aiTogance 
of Austria — or to regenerate Spain — or to redeem 
Greece — or to protect Portugal — or to shield the 
Brazils — or to uphold the Bible Societies — or to 
consolidate the Greek Church — or to monopolize 
the commerce of Mexico — or to disseminate the 
principles of free trade — or to keep up her high 
character — or to keep up the price of corn. Eng- 
land must interfere. In spite of his conviction, 
however, Fitzloom did not alter the arrangements of 
his tour — he still intended to travel for two years. 
All he did, was to send immediate orders to his 
broker in England to sell two millions of consols. 
The sale was of course eflected — the example fol- 
lowed — stocks fell ten per cent. The exchange 
turned — money became scarce. The public funds 
of all Europe experienced a great decline — smash 
went the country banks — consequent runs on the 
London — a dozen baronets failed in one moniing — 
Portland-place deserted — the cause of infont liberty 
at a terrific discount — the Greek loan disappeared 
like a vapour in a storm — all the new American 
states refused to pay their dividends — manufacto- 
ries deserted — the revenue ui a dechne — the coun- 
try in despair — orders in council — meetings of par- 
liament — change of ministry — and a new loan ! 
Such were the terrific consequences of a diploma- 
tist turning black-leg ! This secret history of the 
late distress is a lesson to all modern statesmen. 
Rest assured, that in politics, however tremendous 
the effects, the causes are often as trilling, and 
sometimes still more despicable. 

Vivian found his reception by the Trevor party, 
the morning after the memorable night, a sufficient 
15 



reward for all his anxiety and exertion. St. George, 
a generous, open-hearted yoimg man. Mil of grati- 
tude to Vivian, and regretting his previous want of 
cordiality towards him, now delighted in doing full 
justice to his coolness, courage, and ability. Lady 
Madeleine said a great deal m the most graceful 
and impressive manner ; but Violet Fane scarcely 
spoke. Vivian, however, read in her eyes her ap- 
probation and her gratitude. Mr. Sherborne received 
our hero with a set speech, in the middle of which 
he broke down ; for the old gentleman's stout heart 
was full; and shaking Vivian warmly by the 
hand, he gave him, in a manner which affected all 
present, his blessing — " I knew I was right in my 
opinion of you ; I saw directly you were not a 
mere young man of the present day — you all see 
I was right in my opinion ; if I hadn't been, I 
should have owned it — I should have had the can- 
dour to acknowledge I was wrong — never ashamed 
to confess I'm mistaken." 

" Arid now, how came you to discover the 
whole plot, Mr. Grey]" asked Lady Madeleme, 
"for we have not yet heard. Was it at the 
table 1" 

" They would hardly have had recourse to such 
clumsy instruments as would have given us the 
chance of detecting the conspiracy by casual 
observation. No, no, we owe our preservation 
and our gratitude to one, vdiom we must hereafter 
count among our friends. I was prepared, as I 
told you, for eveiy thing ; and though I had seen 
similar cards to those with which they played only 
a few hours before, it was with difficulty that 1 
satisfied myself at the table, that the cards we lost 
by were prepared; so wonderful is the contriv 
ance !" 

" But who is the unknown friend 1" said Violet 
Fane, with eagerness. 

" I must have the pleasure of keeping you all in 
suspense," said Vivian: "cannot any of you 
guess]" 

"None — none — none !" 

" What say you then to — Essper George 1" 

"Impossible!" 

" It is the fact, that he, and he alone, is our pre- 
server. Soon after my arrival at this place, this 
singular being was seized with the unaccountable 
fancy of becoming my servant. Vou all remember 
his unexpected appearance one day in the saloon. 
In the evening of the same day, I found him 
sleeping at the door of my room ; and thinking it 
high time that he should be taught more discretion, 
I spoke to him very seriously the next morning 
respecting his troublesome and eccentric conduct. 
It was then that I learned his wish. I objected, of 
course, to engaging a servant of whose previous 
character I was ignorant, and of which I could not 
be informed ; and one whose pecuUar habits would 
render both himself and his master notorious. 
While I decUned his services, I also advised him 
most warmly to give up all idea of deserting his 
present mode of life, for which I thought him ex- 
tremely well suited. The consequence of my lec- 
ture was, what you all perceived with surprise, a 
great change in Essper's character. He became 
serious, reserved, and retiring ; and commenced his 
career as a respectable character, by throwing off his 
quaint costume. In a short time, by dint of mak- 
ing a few bad bargains, he ingratiated himself with 
Ernstorff, Von Konigstein's pompous chasseur. 
His object in forming this connexion, was to gain 



114 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the 
duties of a gentleman's servant, and in this he has 
succeeded. About a week since, he purchased 
from Emstorti' a large quantity of cast-otf apparel 
of the baron's, and other perquisites of the great 
man's valet ; among these were some playing cards 
which had been borrowed one evening in great 
haste from the servant of that rascal, De Bceffleurs, 
and never returned. On accidentally examining 
these cards, Essper, to his horror and surjnise, de- 
tected they were marked. The system on which 
the marks are formed and understood, is so simple 
and novel, that it was long before I could bring 
myself to believe that his suspicions were founded 
even on a probability. At length, however, he 
convinced me. It is at Vienna, he tells me, that 
he has met with these cards before ; or with some 
marked, if not on the same, certainly on a similar 
principle. The marks are all on the rim of the 
cards ; and an experienced dealer, that is to say, a 
black-leg, can with these marks produce any re- 
sults and combinations which may suit his pur- 
pose. Essper tells me that De Bceffleurs is even 
more skilled in slight of hand than himself. From 
Ernstorft" Essper learned on the day of the fete, that 
Mr. St. George was to dine with the chevalier at 
the baron's apartments on the morrow, and that 
there was a chance that I should join them. He 
suspected that villany was in the wind, and when 
I retired to my room, at a late hour on the night of 
the fete, I there met him, and it was then that he 
revealed to me every thing which I have told you. 
Am I not right, then, in calling him our pre- 
server 1" 

" What can be done for him 1" said Lady Ma- 
deleine. 

" His only wish is already granted ; he is my 
servant. That he will serve me diligently, and 
faithfully, I have no doubt. I only wish that he 
would accept, or could appreciate a more worthy 
reward." 

" Can man be more amply rewarded," said Miss 
Fane, " than by choosing his own remuneration 1 
I think he has shown in his request, his accus- 
tomed talent. I must go and see him this mo- 
ment." 

" Say nothing of what has passed, he is pre- 
pared for silence from all parties." 

A week, a happy week passed over, and few 
minutes of the day found Vivian absent from the 
side of Violet Fane ; and now he thought again 
of England, of his return to that country under 
very different circumstances to what he had ever 
contemplated. Soon, very soon, he trusted to 
write to his father, to announce to him the revo- 
lution in his wishes, the consummation of his 
hopes. Soon, very soon, he trusted that he should 
Flail his native cliffs, a reclaimed wanderer, with a 
matured mind, and a contented spirit ; his sorrows 
forgotten, his misanthropy laid aside. 



CHAPTER XV. 

It was anout a week after the departure of the 
baron, that two young Englishmen, who had been 
college friends of Mr. St. George, anived at the 
baths. These were Mr. Anthony St. Leger, and 
Mr. Adolphus St. John. In the academic shades 



of Christ Church, these three gentlemen had, when 
youths, succeeded, to the admiring envy of all un- 
der graduates, and to the heav}' cost both of their 
purses and their constitutions, in a faint imitation 
of the second-rate debauchery of a metropolis. At 
Oxford, that venerable nurse of wit and humour, 
— where fun, like their sermons, though orthodox, 
is rather dull, — a really facetious fellow of New 
College had dubbed these infant libertines " All 
Saints." Among their youthful companions they 
bore the more martial style of " The Three Com- 
panions," St. "George, St. John, and St. Anthony. 

St. John and St. Anthony had just completed 
the grand tour ; and after passing *he Easter at 
Rome, had returned through the Tyrol from Italy. 
Since then they had travelled over most parts of 
Germany ; and now, in the beginning of Julv, 
found themselves at the Baths of Ems. Two 
years' travel had not produced any very beneficial 
efl'ect on either of these sainted personages. They 
left the university ^vith empty heads and vitiated 
minds. A season in London introduced them to 
the life of which they had previously only read 
and heard in the accounts of lying noveLs and the 
boastings of worn-out roues ; and they felt a dis- 
gust at their college career, only because they could 
now compare their former crude dissipation with 
the resources of the most miraculous of modern 
cities. Travelling, as they had done, with minds 
utterly incapable either of observation or reflection, 
they had gained by visiting the capitals of all 
Europe, only a due acquaintance with the vices of 
each ; and the only diti'erence that could be ob- 
served in their conduct on their return, was, that 
their affectation was rather more disgusting, be- 
cause it was more obtrusive. What capital com- 
panions for old Sherborne ! 

" Corpo di Bacco ! my champion, who ever 
thought of meeting thee, thou holy saint ! By 
the eyebrow of Venus, my spirit rejoiceth !" ex- 
claimed St. Anthony, whose peculiar affectation 
was an adoption in English of the Italian oaths. 

" This is the sweetest spot, St. Anthony, that 
we have found since we left Paradiso ; that is, St. 
George, in the vulgar tongue, since we quitted Ita- 
lia. ' Italia ! 0, Italia !' — I forget the rest, proba- 
bly you remember it. Certainly a most sweet spot 
tliis, quite a Caspar." 

Art was the peculiar affectation of St. John ; his 
was, indeed, quite a patron of the belle Arti — had 
scattered his orders through the studios of the most 
celebrated sculptors of Italy, and spoke on all sub- 
jects and all things, only with a view to their 
capability of forming materiel for the painter. 
According to the school of which Mr. St. John 
was an humble disciple, the only use of the human 
passions is, that they produce situations for the 
historical painter ; and nature, according to these 
votaries of the to x-.i.kcv, is only to be valued as 
affording hints for the more perfect conceptions of 
a Claude or a Salvator. 

" By the girdle of Venus, a devilish fine wo- 
man !" exclaimed St. Anthony. 

" A splendid bit !" ejaculated St. John : " touch- 
ed in with freedom — a grand totirnure — great gout 
in the swell of the neck. What a study for 
Retsch !" 

"In the nameof the graces, who is it, mio Santo?' 

" Ay ! name, name la belissima signora."- 

" The ' fine bit,' St. John, is my sister," 

" The devil !" 



VIVIAN GREY. 



115 



« Diavoh .'" 

" Will you introduce us, most holy man 1" 
-, This request from both, simultaneously arrang- 
ing their mustachios. 

The two saints were accordingly, in due time, 
introduced ; but finding the attention of Violet 
Fane always engrossed, and recpiving some not 
very encouraging responses from Lady Madeleine, 
they voted her ladyship cursedly satirical ; and 
passing a general censure on the annoying cold- 
ness of English women, they were in four-and- 
twenty hours attached to the suite of the Miss 
Fitzlooms, to whom they were introduced by St. 
George as his most particular friends, and were 
received with the most flattering consideration. 

" By the aspect of Diana ! fine girls, and some 
blood in them !" swore St. Anthony. 

" Truly, most gorgeous colouring ! quite Vene- 
tian ! Aurelia is a perfect Giorgionc!" said St. 
John. 

" Madeleine," said St. George, one morning to 
his sister ; " have you any objection to make up a 
party with the Fitzlooms to pass a day at Nassau 1 
— You know we have often talked of it; and as 
Violet is so well now, and the weather so delight- 
ful, there surely can be no objection. The Fitz- 
looms arc very agreeable people ; and though you 
don't admire the Santi, still, upon my word, when 
you know them a little more, you'll find them very 
pleasant fellows ; and they're extremely good-na- 
tured ; and just the fellows for such a party ; and 
I'll take care that they don't slang Mr. Sherborne, 
whom, by-the-by, Mr. St. John very much admires. 
He says he'd make a grand head for Ludovico 
Caracci — something very Bolognese in the gray 
tints of his forehead. Do not give me a refusal ! 
I've set my mind upon your joining the party. 
Pray nod assent — thank you — thank you. Now 
I must go and arrange every thing. Let's see — 
there are seven Fitzlooms; for we can't count on 
less than two horrid boys ; yourself, Mr. Sherborne, 
Grey, Violet, and myself, five — the Santi — quite 
enough — quite enough — a most delightful party. 
Half a dozen servants, and as many donkeys, ysfill 
manage the provisions. Then three light carriages 
will take us all. By the wand of Mercury, as St. 
Anthony would vow, most admirably planned." 

" By the breath of Zephyr ! a most lovely day, 
Miss Fane," said St. Anthony, on the morning of 
the intended excursion. 

"Quite a Claude !" said St. John. 
" Almost as beautiful as an Italian winter's day, 
Mr. St. Leger ]"- 'asked Miss Fane. 

" Hardly ! hardly !" said St. Anthony, with a 
■serious air; for he imagined the question to be 
juite genuine. 

" Lady Madeleine, I cannot take my eyes off" 
'hat venerable countenance !" said St. John, spealc- 
/ng of Mr. Sherborne. " There are some flesh- 
•ints on the higher cheek, which almost make mc 
fancy myself in the gallery at Bologna. He 
doesn't rouge now, does he 1 You may speak 
perfectly in confidence. I assure your ladyship 
that nothing shall transpire ; only I'm very curious 
to know ; such tints I never saw before !" 

" Really, Mr. St. John," said her ladyship, smil- 
ing ; " I regret very much that I am not initiated 
in the mysteries of Mr. Sherborne's toilet ; but my 
uncle is a very candid man, and I have no doubt 
he will confess in a minute if he's guilty of mak- 
ing up ; suppose you ask him." 



" Why, no ; at his age, people of his country 
have odd prejudices. He may not make up ; and 
he might feel a Httle olfendcd. To say the truth, 
I think it is au natiirel. There is a gray tint un- 
der the eye, which I don't think that any modern 
colours could have produced — perfectly Ludovico, 
perfectly. If he do make up, I should like very 
much to know where he gets his colour : that's a 
secret, Lady Madeleine, which seems to be lost for- 
ever. I was talking the other day to Benvenuti, 
the great Florentine painter, about that very point : 
— 'Benvenuti,' said I — a very gentlemanly man 
is Benvenuti. It has often struck me, I don't know 
whether it has your ladyship — probably it may 
have ; that all men of genius are very gentlemanly. 
For instance, take all the artists of ancient and 
modern times. We know very little of Apelles ; 
yet we do know that he was the intimate friend 
of Alexander the Great : and all painters who are 
intimate friends of crowned heads, and who are in' 
the habit of going to court, are, I have remarked, 
very gentlemanly. Now, for instance, can you 
possibly meet with a more gentlemanly man than 
Sir Thomas Lawrence '! and Benvenuti, too, as I 
said before, Benvenuti is a very gentlemanly man. 
I was saying to him one day, as I mentioned — 
'Cavaliero /' — for I need not tell your ladyship 
that the great artist has the honour of being a 
Knight of — " 

" Thrice holy man !" hallooed out St. Anthony to 
St. John ; — " thrice holy man ! the champion wish- 
es to know whether you have arranged about the 
malvoisie. Miss Fane has decided for the mal- 
voisie. By the body of Bacchus, a right good 
liquor !" 

" Lady Madeleine, will you excuse the anecdote 
of Benvenuti at present 1 — the truth is, I am but- 
ler, and your charming conversation is making me, 
I fear, neglect my duties." So saying, ran off the 
saint. 

The carriages are at the door; into the first 
ascended Mrs. Fitzloom, two daughters, and the 
travelling saints. The second bore Lady Made- 
leine, Mr. Fitzloom, and his two sons ; the third 
division was commanded by Mr. Sherborne, and 
was formed of St. George and Aurelia Fitzloom, 
Miss Fane, and Vivian. 

Away, away rolled the carriages, the day was 
beautiful, the sky was without a cloud, and a mild 
breeze prevented the heat of the sun from being 
overpowering. All were in high spirits ; for St. 
George had made a capital master of the ceremo- 
nies, and had arranged the company in the car- 
riages to their mutual satisfirction. St. Anthony 
swore, by the soul of Psyche ! that Augustus Fitz- 
loom was an angel ; and St. John was in equal 
raptures with Araminta, who had an expression 
about the eyes which reminded him of Titian's 
Flora. Mrs. Fitzloom's natural silence did not 
disturb the uninterrupted jargon of the Santi, 
whose affectation, slang, and foppeiy, elicited loud 
and continued approbation from the fair sisters. 
The mother sat admiring these sprigs of noble 
trees. The young Fitzlooms, in crimson cravats, 
conversed with Lady Madeleine with a delightful 
military air ; and their happy parent, as he gazed 
upon them with satisfied affection, internally pro 
niLsed them both a commission in a crack regiment. 
Each of the boys already imagined that Lady 
Madeleine was in love with him ; and her ladyship 
being convinced that all were happy, did not regret 



116 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



ihe absence of those she really did love, but was 
amused; even Mr. Sherborne was contented, and 
did not complain. Had he been put in the same 
carriage with those fools, he really did not tliink 
that he should have been able to get on. It showed 
St. George's sense, making a diflerent arrangement; 
and he must say, that though they did sometimes 
disagree, he had no right to complain of the general 
behaviour of St. George towards him. This was 
said with a bow to Miss Aurelia Fitzloom ; — need 
I say that Violet and Vivian were satisfied with the 
arrangement 1 

The road from Ems to Nassau winds along the 
banks of the Lahn, through two leagues of most 
delightful scenery ; at the end of which, springing 
up from the peak of a bold and richly wooded 
mountain, the lofty tower of the ancient castle of 
Nassau meets your view. Winding walks round 
the sides of the mountain, lead through all the 
varieties of sylvan scenery, and command in all 
points the most magnificent views of the surround- 
ing country. These finally bring you to the old 
castle, whose spacious chambers, though now 
choked up with masses of gray ruin, or covered 
with underwood, still bear witness to the might of 
tlieir former lord ; the powerful baron whose sword 
gained for his posterity a throne. Here it was, by 
the massy keep, " all tenantless, save to the cran- 
nying wind," that Mr. Sherborne delivered to a 
youthful auditory, who, seated on the fragments 
of the ancient walls, rested after the toils of the 
ascent, the following lecture on Gothic architec- 
ture. 

On second thoughts, I shall keep it for Mr. Col- 
bourn's magazine. The Misses Fitzloom, with 
that vivid genius for which young unmarried ladies 
are celebrated, entered with the most delightful 
enthusiasm into all the interest of Mr. Sherborne's 
discourse. In a few minutes they perfectly under- 
stood all the agitated questions which had puzzled 
the architects of all ages, and each had her separate 
solution of mysteries which never can be solved. 
How delightful is this elegant and enraptured ig- 
norance ! How decisive is the opinion of a young 
lady who has studied architecture in the eleva- 
tions of the Regent's Park, on the controversy of 
the round arch, and the pointed style I How ex- 
quisite their animated tattle about mullions, span- 
drils, and trefoils ! 

But Mr. Sherborne was delighted with his pu- 
pils, and all seemed happy; none happier than 
Violet Fane. Never did she look so beautiful as 
to-day — never were her spirits so animated — never 
had she boasted that her pulse beat more melodious 
music, nor her lively blood danced a more healthful 
measure. After examining all the antique cham- 
bers of the castle, and discovering, as they flattered 
themselves, secret passages, and dark dungeons, 
and hidden doors, they left this interesting relic 
of the middle ages ; and soon, by a gradual descent 
through the most delightful shrubberies, they again 
found themselves at the bottom of the valley. 
Here they visited the modern chateau of Baron 
von Stein, one of the most enlightened and able 
pohticians that Germany has ever produced. As 
Minister of Prussia, he commenced those reforms 
which the illustrious Hardenberg perfected. For 
upwards of five centuries the family of Stein have 
retained their territorial possessions in the valley 
of the Lahn. Their family castle, at present a ruin, 
and formerly a fief of the house of Nassau, is now 



only a picturesque object in the pleasure-grounds 
of the present lord. 

The noon had passed some hours, before tlie 
delighted wanderers complained of fatigue, and by 
that time they found themselves in a pleasant green 
glade on the skuts of the forest of Nassau. It was 
nearly environed by mountains, covered with hang- 
ing woods, which shaded the beautiful valley, and 
gave it the appearance of a sylvan amphitheatre. 
From a rocky cleft in these green mountains, a 
torrent, dashing down with impetuous force, and 
whose fall was almost concealed by the cloud of 
spray which it excited, gave birth to a small and 
gentle river ; whose banks were fringed with the 
most beautiful trees, which prevented the sun's 
darts from piercing its coldness, by bowing their 
fair heads over its waters. From their extending 
branches. Nature's choristers sent forth many a 
lovely lay, 

" Of God's high praise, and of their loves' sweet teen." 

Near the banks of this river, the servants, under 
the direction of Essper George, had prepared some 
refreshments for the party. The cloth had been 
laid with great neatness on a raised work of wood 
and turf; and rustic seats of the same material 
surrounded the rude table. All kinds of cold meats, 
and all kinds of pasties, venison, pheasants, plovers, 
rabbits, pickled fish, prawns, and craw fish, greeted 
the ravished eyes of the wearied band of foresters. 
July is not a month for eating ; but, nevertheless, 
in Germany, we are somewhat consoled for the 
want of the curious varieties of cookery, by the 
exhilarating presence of white young partridges, 
delicious ducklings, and most tender leverets. 
Then there were all sorts of forced meats, and 
stuffed birds. You commenced with a pompous 
display of ininecessary science, to extract for a 
famished fair one the wing and merry-thought of a 
fairer chicken — when lo, and behold ! the facile 
knife sunk without an effort into the plump breast, 
and the unresisting bird discharged a cargo of rich 
stufl[cd balls, of the most fascinating flavour. Then 
July, above all, is the season for fruits ; and though 
few of the Rhenish grapes were yet ripe, still 
money had procured some plates of the red and 
rich Asmanhausens ; and the refreshing strawbeiTy, 
the luscious peach, the grateful apricot, the thrilling 
nectarine, and above all, the peerless pine-apple 
were not wanting. Shall I forget the piquant cur- 
rant, and the mellow gooseberry 1 Pomona forbid ! 
Humble fruits, I love you, and once loved you 
more ! 

" Well !" said Violet Fane, " I never will be a 
member of an adventurous party lil<e the present, 
of which St, George is not manager : this is admi- 
rable !" 

" I must not take the whole credit upon myself, 
Violet ; St, John is butler, and St, Leger my vice- 
chamberlain," 

"Well, I can't praise Mr. St. John, till I've 
tasted the malvoisie which he has promised ; but 
as for the other part of the entertainment, Mr. St. 
Leger, I'm sure this is a temptation which it would 
be a sin even in St. Anthony to withstand." 

" By the body of Bacchus, very good !" swore 
Mr. St. Leger. 

" These mountains," said Mr. St. John, "remind 
mc of one of Nicolo Poussin's cool valleys. The 
party, indeed, give it a different character — quite a 
Wattcau !" 



VIVIAN GREY. 



117 



" Xow, Mrs. Fitzloom," said St. George, who 
w«s quite in his element, " ict me recnnnnend a 
little of this pike 1 Lady Madeleine, I've sent you 
some lamb. Miss Fitzloom, I hope St. Anthony 
is taking care of you. Wvightson ! plates to Mr. 
St. Legcr. Holy man, and much beloved I send 
that beef to Mr. Sherborne. Araminta, some pou- 
jet 1 Grey has helped you, Violet ? Aurelia, my 
dear, some partridge 1 William Pitt Fitzloom, I 
leave you to yourself. George Canning Fitzloom, 
take care of the ladies near you. Essper George! 
— where's Essper George "! St. John, who is your 
deputy in the wine department 1 — Wrightson ! 
bring those long green bottles out of the river, and 
put the champagne underneath the willow. Will 
your ladyship take some light claret ] Mrs. Fitz- 
loom, you must use your tumbler; nothing but 
tumblers allowed, by Miss Fane's particular re- 
quest !" 

" St. George ! thou holy man !" said Miss Fane, 
" methinks yon are very impertinent. You shall 
not be my patron saint, if you go on so." 

For the next hour there was nothing heard save 
the calling of servants ; the rattling of knives and 
forks ; the drawing of corks ; and continued bursts 
of laughter, which were not occasioned by any 
brilliant obser\'ations, either of the saints, or any 
other persons; but merely the result of an exube- 
rance of spirits on the part of every one present. 
At last the voice of St. Anthony was heard. 

"Mr. Sherborjie, will you winel" 

" Sir ! I don't understand you," answered the 
old gentleman. A cloud was on his brow. 

" O ! save my uncle from exploding, Mr. Grey ! 
for heaven's sake, put out his passion. If he do 
not take some liquid immediately, I'm sure he must 
go ofi' in a rage. Holy St. Anthony has been 
talking ' slang.' Uncle ! Mr. Sherborne ! Mr. St. 
Leger wi^hes to know whether he may have the 
honour of taking wine with you. You don't seem 
to understand him." 

'' No ; nor anybody else." 
■•,, " Old (^hrononhotonthologos seems as crusty as 
a bottle of his own undrinkable port," whispered 
St. Anthony to Miss Fitzloom, who was delighted 
with this brilliant sally. " I wonder what's the 
use of these boring old uncles !" Miss Fitzloom 
laughed still more at a remark which was still 
more brilliant. 

■" A magnificent study, that old uncle of St. 
George's !" whispered St. John to Araminta. " I 
wish I could get him to sit. I dare say there's 
some poor devil of an artist at the baths, who'd 
touch him in very prettily with lilack chalk. I 
must ask the old man. Let me give you a little 
more pheasant." 

" Well, Aurelia !" said Lady Madeleine, " do 
you prefer our present mode of life to feasting in 
an old hall, covered with banners and battered 
shields, and surrounded by mysterious corridors 
and dark dungeons 1" Aurelia was so flattered by 
the notice of Lady Madeleine, that she made her 
no answer : probably because she was intent on a 
plover's egg. 

" I think we might all retire to this valley," said 
Miss Fane, " and revive the old feudal times with 
great success. St. George might talce us to Nassau 
Castle, and you, Mr. Fitzloom, might refortify the 
old tower of Stein. With two sons, however, who 
are about to enter the Guards, I'm afraid we must 
be your vassals. Then what should we do 1 We 



couldn't have w'ood parties every day ; I suppose 
we should get tired of each other. No ! that does 
seem impossible ; don't you all think so V' 

Or/nies — " Impossible, hnpossible I" 

" We must, however, have some regular pursuit, 
some cause of constant excitement, some perpetual 
source of new emotions. New ideas, of course, 
we must give up; there would be no going to 
London for the season for new opinions to astound 
country cousins on our return. Some pursuit 
must be invented ; we all must have something to 
do. I have it, I have it ! St. George shall be a 
tyrant !" 

" I'm very much obliged to you, Violet." 

" Yes ! a bloody, unprincipled, vindictive, re- 
morseless tyrant, with a long black beard ; I can't 
tell how long ! about twenty thousand times longer 
than Mr. St. Leger's mustachios." 

" By the beard of Jove !" swore St. Anthony, as 
he started from his seat, and arranged with his 
thumb and forefinger the delicate Albanian tuft of 
his upper lip ; " By the beard of Jove, Miss Fane, 
I'm obliged to you I'' 

" Well then," continued Violet, " St. George 
being a tyrant. Lady Madeleine must be an un- 
happy, ill-used, persecuted woman !" 

" Now, Violet, my dear ! do be calm, do restrain 
yourself!" 

" An unhappy, ill-used, persecuted woman, 
livijig oir black bread and green water, in an im- 
knovvn dungeon. My part shall be to discover her 
imprisonment. Sounds of strange music attract 
my attention to a part of the castle which I have 
not before frequented. There I shall distinctly 
hear a female voice chanting the ' Bridesmaid's 
Chorus,' with Erard's double pedal accompaniment. 
By the aid of the confessors of the two families — 
two drinking, rattling, impertinent, most corrupt, 
and most amusing friars : to wit — our sauited 
friends — " 

Here both Mr. St. Leger and Mr. St. John 
bowed low to Miss Fane. 

" A most lively personage is Miss Fane," whis- 
pered St. Anthony to his neighbour Miss Fitzloom, 
— " great style !" 

" Most amusing, delightful girl — great style — 
rather a display to-day, I think." 

" 0, decidedly ! and devilish personal too — 
devilish ; some people wouldn't like it. I've no 
doubt she'll say something about you next." 

" ! I shall be very surprised, indeed, if she 
does, very surprised indeed ! It may be very well 
to you, but Miss Fane must be aware " 

Before this pompous sentence could be finished, 
an incident occurred which prevented Miss Fane 
from proceeding with her allotment of characters, 
and rendered uiniecessary the threatened indigna- 
tion of Miss Fitzloom. 

Miss Fane, as we mentioned, suddenly ceased 
speaking ; the eyes of all were turned in the di- 
rection in which she was gazing — gazing as if she 
had seen a ghost. 

" W'hat are you looking up at, Violet]" asked 
St. George. 

" Didn't you see any thing 1 didn't any of you 
see any thing ?" 

" None — none — none !" 

" Mr. Grey, surely you must have seen it !' 

" No ; I saw nothing." 

" It could Jiot be fancy — impossible ! 1 saw it 
distinctly. I cannot be in a dream. See tnere ! 



118 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



there again, on that topmost branch. See ! see ! 
it moves !" 

Some odd shrill sounds, uttered in the voice of a 
Pulcinello, attracted the notice of them all, and lo I 
high in the air, behind a lofty chestnut tree, the 
figure of a Pulcinello did appear, hopping and 
vaulting in the unsubstantial air. Now it sent 
Ibrth another shrill piercing sound, and now, with 
both its hands, it patted and complacently stroked 
its ample paunch ; dancing all the time, with un- 
remitting activity, and wagging its queer head at 
the astounded guests. 

" Who, what can it be"!" cried all. The Misses 
Fitzloom shrieked, and the Santi seemed quite 
puzzled. 

" Who, what can it be ?" 

Ere time could be given for any one to hazard a 
conjecture, the figure had advanced from behind 
the trees, and had spanned in an instant the festal 
board, with two enormous stilts, on vi'hich they 
now perceived it was mounted. The Misses Fitz- 
loom shrieked again. The figure imitated their 
cries in his queer voice, and gradually raising one 
enormous stilt up into the air, stood only on one 
support, which was planted behind the lovely 
Araminta. 

" O ! inimitable Essper George !" exclaimed 
Violet Fane. 

Here Signor Punch commenced a chanson, 
which he executed in the tone peculiar to his cha- 
racter, and in a style which drew applauses from 
all ; and then, with a hop, step, and a jump, he 
was again b.ehind the chestnut tree. In a moment 
he advanced without his stilts, towards the table. 
Here, on the turf, he again commenced his antics ; 
kicking his nose with his right foot, and his hump 
with his left one ; executing the most splendid 
somersets, and cutting all species of capers : and 
never ceasing for a moment from performing all 
his movements to the inspiring music of his own 
melodious voice. At last, jumping up immensely 
high in the air, he fell as if all his joints were 
loosened, and the Misses Fitzloom, imagining that 
his bones were really broken, shrieked again. But 
now Essper began the wonderful performance of a 
dead body possessed by a devil ; and in a minute 
his shattered corpse, apparently without the assist- 
ance of any of its members, began to jump, and 
move about the ground' with the most miraculous 
rapidity. At length it disappeared behind the 
chestnut tree. 

" Grey !" said St. George ; " we owe all this 
timely entertainment to you. I really think it is 
the most agreeable day I ever passed in all my 
life." 

''• O, decidedly I" said St. Anthony. " St. John, 
you remember our party to Pfpstum with Lady 
Calabria M'Crater, and the Marquis of Agrigen- 
tum. It wip nothing to this ! Nothing ! nothing ! 
Bo you knc/w I thought that rather dull." 

" Yes, dull, dull ; too elaborate ; too highly 
finished ; nothing of the pitlore improvisnture. A 
party of this kind should be more sketchy in its 
style; the outline more free, and less detail." 

" This is all very well for you, young folks," 
said Mr. Sherborne, " and Essper is certainly a 
'Jever knave ; but my dear young friends, if you 
iiad had the good fortune of living fifty years ago, 
when the iirst Scaramouch that I remember ap- 
peared in London, then you might have laughed. 
Ab it is, this is all very well of Essper; but — " 



Here Mr. Sherborne jumped on his chair, and sud- 
denly stopped. A great green monkey was seated 
opposite to him, imitating with ludicrous fidelity 
his energetic action. The laugh was universal. 
The monkey, with one bound, jumped over Mr. 
Sherborne's head, and disappeared. 

" Essper is coming out to-day," said Vivian to 
Miss Fane, " after a long, and I venture to say, 
painful forbearance. However, I hope you'll ex- 
cuse him. It seems to amuse us." 

" Amuse us ! I think it's delightful. Sec I here 
he comes again." 

He now ajipeared in his original costume ; the 
one in which Vivian first met him at the fair. 
Bowing very respectfully to the company, he 
threw his hand carelessly over his mandolin, and 
having tried the melody of its strings, sang with 
great taste, and a sweet voice — sweeter, from its 
contrast with its previous shrill tones, — a very 
pretty romance. All applauded him very warmly, 
and no one more so than Violet Fane. 

'• Ah ! inimitable Essper George, how can we 
sufficiently thank you ! How admirably he plays! 
and his voice is quite beautiful. ! couldn't we 
dance ? wouldn't it be delightful ; and he could 
play on his guitar. Think of the delicious turf !" 

Omnes—'-' Delightful ! delightful ! delightful !" 
they rose from table. 

" Violet, my dear," asked Lad)'^ Madeleine. 
" what are you going to do ?" 

" By the toe of Terpsichore ! as Mr. St. Lcgei 
would say, I am going to dance." 

" But remember, dearest, to-day you have done 
so much ! — let us be wise — let us be moderate ; 
though you feel so much better, still think what a 
change to-day has been from your usual habits !" 

" But, dearest Lady Madeleine, think of dancing 
on the turf, and I feel so well — so '' 

" O ! let the dear creature dance if she likes," 
said Mr. Sherborne : " my opinion is, that dancing 
never does a young woman any harm. Who 
you'll get to dance with you, though," turning to 
the Misses Fitzloom, '• I can't tell ; as to what the 
young men of the present day call dancing — " 

" By the Graces ! I am for the waltz," said St 
Anthony. 

" It certainly has a very free touch to recom- 
mend it," said St. John. 

" No, no," said Violet ; " let us all join in a 
country dance. Mr. Sherborne, shall I introdhce 
you to a partner 1" 

" Ah ! you little angel," said the delighted old 
man; "you look just like your dear mother, that 
you do !" 

" We staid old personages do not dance," said 
Lady Madeleine ; " and therefore, I recommend you 
a quadrille." 

The quadrille was soon formed : Violet made up 
for not dancing with Vivian at the archduke's. 
She was in the most animated spirits, and kept up 
a successful rivalry with Mr. St. Leger, who evi- 
dently prided himself, as Mr. Fitzloom obsei-ved, 
" on his light fantastic toe." Now he pirouetted 
like Paul, and now he attitudinized like Albert; 
and now Violet Fane eclipsed all his exertions by 
her inimitable imitations of Ronzi Vcstris's rushing 
and arrowy manner. St. Anthony, in despair, but 
quite delighted, revealed a secret which had been 
taught him by a Spanish dancer at Milan ; but then 
Violet Fane v;mquished him forever, with the pai 
de Zephyr of the exquisite Fanny Bias. 



VIVIAN GREY, 



119 



The day was fast declining when the carriages 
arrived ; the young people were in no humour to 
return ; and as, when they had once entered the 
carriage, the day seemed finished forever, they pro- 
posed walking part of the way home. Lady Made- 
leine made little objection to Violet joining the 
party, as she feared after the exertion that Miss 
Fane had been making, a drive in an open car- 
riage would be dangerous ; and yet the walk was 
too long, but all agreed that it would be impv>ssible 
to shorten it ; and, as Violet declared that she was not 
the least fatigued, the lesser evil was therefore chosen. 
The carriages rolled oti"; at about half-way from 
Ems, the two empty ones were to v^-ait for the 
walking party. Lady Madeleine smiled with fond 
atVection, as she waved her hand to Violet the mo- 
ment before she was out of sight. 

•'And now," said St. George; "good people all, 
instead of returning by the same road, it strikes 
me, that there must be a way through this little 
wood — you see there is an excellent path. Before 
the sun has set, we shall have got through it, and 
it will bring us out, I have no doubt, by the old 
cottage which you observed, Grey, when we came 
along ; I saw a gate and path there — just where we 
first got sight of Nassau castle — there can be no 
doubt about it. You see it's a regular right-angle, 
and besides varying the walk, we shall at least gain 
a quarter of an hour, which, after all, as we have 
10 walk near three miles, is an object. It's quite 
clear — quite clear : If I've a head for any thing, it's 
for finding my way." ■• 

" I think you've a head for every thing," said 

Aureha Fitzloom, in a soft sentimental whisper ; 

" I'm sure we owe all our happiness to-day to you." 

" If I have a head for every thing, I have a 

heart only for one person !" 

As every one wished to be convinced, no one 
flffered any argument in opposition to St. George's 
view of the case; and some were already in the wood. 
" St. George. St. George," said Violet Fane, " I 
don't like walking in the wood so late ; pray come 
back." 

" 0, nonsense, Violet ! — come, come. If you 
don't like to come you can walk by the road — 
you'll meet us round by the gate — it's only five 
minutes walk." Ere he had finished speaking, the 
rest were in the wood, and some had advanced. 
Vivian strongly recommended Violet not to join 
them ; he was sure that Lady Madeleine would not 
approve it — he was sure that it was very danger- 
ous ; and, by-the-by, while he was talking, which 
way had they gone ] he didn't see them. He hal- 
looed — all answered — and fifty thousand echoes 
besides. " W^e certainly had better go by the road 
— we shall lose our way if wc try to follow them ; 
nothing is so puzzling as walking in woods — we 
had much better keep to the road." So by the road 
tliey went. 

The sun had ah eady sunk behind the mountains, 
whose undulating forms were thrown into dark 
shadow against the crimson sky. The thin cres- 
cent of the new moon floated over the eastern 
hills, whose deep woods glowed with the rosy glo- 
ries of twilight. Over the peak of a purple moun- 
tain, glittered the solitary star of evening. As the 
sun dropped, universal silence seemed to pervade 
the whole face of nature. The voice of the birds 
was stilled ; the breeze, which had refreshed them 
during the day, died away, as if its office were now 
completed; and none of the dark sounds and 



sights of hideous night yet dared to triumph over 
the death of day. Unseen were the circling wings 
of the fell bat ; unheard the screech of the waking 
owl ; silent the drowsy hum of the shade-born 
beetle! What heart has not acknowledged the 
influence of this hour — the sweet and soothing 
hour of twilight ; — the hour of love, the hour of 
adoration, the hour of rest ! — when we think o. 
those we love, only to regret that we have no 
loved more dearly ; when we remember our ene- 
mies only to forgive them ! 

And Vivian and his beautiful companion owned 
the magic of this hour, as all must do — ^by silence. 
No word was spoken, yet is silence sometimes a 
language. They gazed, and gazed again, and their 
full spirits held due communion with the star-lit sky, 
and the mountains, and the woods, and the soft 
shadows of the increasing moon. ! who can 
describe what the o'crcharged spirit feels at this 
sacred hour, when we almost lose the consciousness 
of existence, and our souls seem to struggle to 
]iierce futurity ! In the forest of the mysterious 
Odenwald, in the solitudes of the Bcrgstrasse, had 
Vivian at this hour often found consolation for a 
bruised spirit- — often in adoring nature had forgot- 
ten man. But now, when he had never felt na- 
ture's influence more powerful ; when he had never 
forgotten man, and man's world more thoroughly • 
when he was experiencing emotions, which, though 
undefinablc, he felt to be new ; he started when he 
remembered that all tliis was in the presence of a 
human being ! Was it Hesperus he gazed upon, 
or something else that glanced brighter than an even- 
ing star 1 Even as he thought that liis gaze was 
fixed on the countenance of nature, he found that 
hife eyes rested on the face of nature's loveliest 
daughter ! 

"Violet! dearest Violet!" 

As in some delicious dream, the sleeper is 
awaliened from his bliss by the sound of his own 
rapturous voice; so was Vivisn roused by these 
words from his revery, and called back to the world 
wliich he had forgotten. Bat ere a moment had 
passed, he was poiuing forth in a rapid voice, and 
incoherent manner, such words as men speak only 
once; He spoke of his early follies — his misfor- 
tunes — his misery — of his matured views — his set- 
tled principles — his plans — his prospects — his hopes 
— his happiness — his bliss: and when he had 
ceased, he listened in his turn, to some small still 
words, which made him the happiest of human 
beings. He bent down — he kissed the soft silken 
cheek which now he could call his own. Her hand 
was in his ; her head sank upon his breast. Sud- 
denly she clung to him with a strong grasp. 
"Violet! my own, my dearest; you are overcome. 
I have been rash, I have been imprudent. Speak, 
speak, my beloved ! say you are not ill!" 

She spoke not, but clung to him with a fearful 
strength — her head still upon his breast — her full 
eyes closed. In the greatest alarm he raised her 
off the groiuid, and bore her to the river-side. 
Water might revive her. But when he tried to lay 
her a moment on the bank, she clung to him, gasp- 
ing, as a sinking person clings to a stout swimmer. 
He leaned over her ; he did not attempt to disen- 
gage his arms ; and, by degrees, by very slow de- 
grees, her grasp loosened. At last her arms gave 
way and fell by her side, and her eyes partly opened. 
" Thank God ! thank God ! Violet, my own, my 
beloved, say you are better I" 



120 



D'lSRAELI'S NOYELS. 



She answered not — evidently she did not know 
liim — evidently she did not see him. A film was 
on her sight and her eye was glassy. He rushed 
to the water-side, and v:i a moment he had sprink- 
led her temples, now covered with a cold dew. 
Her pulse beat not — her circulation seemed sus- 
pended. He rubhed the palms of her hands — he 
covered her delicate feet with his coat ; and then 
rushing up the bank into the road, he shouted with 
frantic cries on all sides. No one came, no one 
was near. Again, with a cry of fearful anguish, 
he shouted as if a hyrena were feeding on his vitals. 
2Vo sound : — no answer. The nearest cottage he 
remembered was above a mile off'. He dared not 
leave her. Again he rushed down to the water- 
side. Her eyes were still open, still fixed. Her 
mouth also was no longer closed. Her hand was 
stiff — her heart had ceased to beat. He tried with 
the warmth of his own body to revive her. He 
shouted — he wept. — he prayed. All, all in vain. 
Again he was in the road — again shouting hke an 
insane being. There was a soimd. Hark I — It 
was but the screech of an owl ! 

Once more at the river-side — once more bending 
over her with starting eyes — once more the atten- 
tive ear listening for the soundless breath. No 
sound ! not even a sigh ! ! what would he have 
given for her shriek of anguish ! — No change had oc- 
curred in her position, but the lower part of her face 
had fallen ; and there was a general appearance which 
struck him with awe. Her body was quite cold : 
— her limbs stiffened. He gazed, and gazed, and 
gazed. He bent over her with stupor, rather than 
grief, stamped on his features. It was very slowly 
th9t the dark thought came over his mind — very 
slowly that the horrible truth seized upon his soul. 
He gave a loud shriek, and fell on the lifeless body 
of Violet Faxe ! 



BOOK THE SIXTH. 



CH.A.PTER XVI. 

The green Rnd bowery summer had passed away. 
It was midnight, when two horsemen pulled up 
their steeds beneath a wide oak ; which, with other 
lofty trees, skirted the side of a winding road in an 
extensive forest in the south of Germany. 

" By heavens !" said one, who apparently was 
the master — " we must even lay our cloaks, I tliink, 
under this oak; for the road wmds again, and 
assuredly cannot lead now to our village." 

" A star-lit sk}^ in autumn, can scarcely be the 
fittest curtain for one so weak as your highness. I 
should recommend travelhng on, if we keep on our 
horses' backs till dawn." 

"But if we are travelling in a directly contrary 
vvay to our voiturier — honest as we may suppose 
him to be, if he find in the morning no paymaster 
for his job, he may with justice make free with our 
baggage. And I shall be unusually mistaken if 
the road we are now pursuing docs not lead back 
to the city.'' 

" City, town, or village, your highness must 
sleep under no forest tree. Let us ride on. It will 
be hard if we do not find some huntsman's or 
ranger's cottage ; and for aught we know a neat 
enug village — or some comfortable old manor- 1 



house, which has been in the family for two cen- 
turies ; and where, with God's blessing, they may 
chance to have wine as old as the bricks. I know 
not how your highness may feel, but a ten hours' 
ride when I was only prepared for half the time, 
and that too in an autumn night, makes me some- 
what desirous of renewing my acquaintance with 
the kitchen-fire." 

" I could join you in a glass of hock and a slice 
of venison, I confess, my good fellow ; but in a 
nocturnal ride lam no longer your match. How- 
ever, if you think it best, we'll prick on our steeds 
for another hour. If it be only for them, I'm sure 
we must soon stop." 

" Ay ! ilo, sir ; and put your cloak well round 
you — all is for the best. Your highness, I guess, 
is no Sabbath-born child?" 

" That am I not — but how would that make our 
plight worse than it is 1 Should we be further off 
supper 1" 

" Nearer — nearer perhaps than you imagine ; 
for we should then have a chance of sharing the 
spoils of the Spirit Hunter." 
" Ah ! Essper, is it so ?" 

" Truly, yes, sir ; and were either of us a Sab- 
bath-born child, by holy cross ! I would not give 
much for our chance of a down bed this night." 
Here a great horned owl flew across the road. 
" Were I in the North," said Essper, " I would 
sing an Ave Mary against the Stut Ozel." 
" What call you that ?" asked Vivian. 
" 'Tis th^great bird, sir ; the great horned owl, 
that always flies before the Wild Hunter. And 
truly, sir, I have passed through many forests in 
my time, but never yet saw I one where I should 
sooner expect to hear a midnight bugle. If you'll 
allow me, sir, I'll ride by your side. Thank God, 
at least, it's not the Wal[>urgis night !" 

" I wish to heaven it were !" said Vivian, " and 
that we were at the Brocken. It must be highly 
amusing !" 

" Hush ! hush ! hush ! it's lucky we're not in 
the Hartz — but we know not where we are, nor 
what at this moment may be behind us." 

And here Essper began pouring forth a liturgy 
of his own — half CathoHc, and half Calvinistic, 
quite in character with the creed of the country 
which they were travelling. 

" My horse has stumbled," continued Essper 
" and yours, sir, is he not shying 1 There's a 
confounded cloud over the moon — but I've no 
sight in the dark if that mass before you be not a 
devil's-st07ie. The Lord have mercy upon our 
sinful souls !" 

" Peace ! peace ! Essper," said Vivian, who was 
surprised to find him really alarmed ; " peace I 
peace ! I see nothing but a block of granite, no 
uncommon sight in a German forest." 

" It is a devil-stone, I tell you, sir — there has 
been some church here, which he has knocked down 
in the night. Ijook ! look ! is it the moss-people 
that I see ! As sure as I am a hungry sinner, the 
Wild One is out a hunting to-night." 

" More luck for us if we meet him. His dogs, 
as you say, may gain us a supjicr. I think our 
wisest course will be to join the cry." 

" Hush ! hush ! hush ! your highness would 
not talk so if you knew what j'our share of the 
spoils might be. Ay ! if your highness did, your 
check would he paler, and your very teeth would 
chatter. I knew one man who was travelling in 



VIVIAN GREY. 



121 



a forest, just as we are now, it was about this 
time, and he beheved in the Wild Huntsman about 
as much as your highness does — that is, he hked 
to talk of the spirit, merely to have the opportu- 
nity of denying that he believed in him ; which 
showed, as I used to say, that his mind was often 
thinking of it. He was a merry knave, and as 
firm a hand for a boar-spear as ever I met with, 
and I've met with many. We used to call him, 
before the accident. Left-handed Hans, but they 
call him now, your highness, the Child-hunter. 
! it's a very awful tale, your highness, and I'd 
sooner tell it in blazing hail than in free forest. 
Your highness didn't hear any sound to the left, 
did you V 

" Nothing but the wind, Essper ; on with your 
tale, my man." 

" It's a very awful tale, sir, but I'll make short 
work of it. You see, your highness, it was a 
night just like this ; the moon was generally hid, 
but the stars prevented it from ever being pitch 
dark. And so, sir, he was travelling alone ; he'd 
been up to the castle of the baron, his master — you 
see, sir, he was head-ranger to his lordship — and 
he always returned home through the forest. 
What he was thinking of, I cannot say, but most 
likely of no good ; when all on a sudden he heard 
the baying of hounds in the distance. Now, your 
highness, directly he heard it — I've heard him tell 
the story a thousand times — directly he heard it, it 
struck him that it must be the Spirit Huntsman ; 
and though there were many ways to account for 
the hounds, stijl he never for a moment doubted 
that they were the hell-dogs. The sounds came 
nearer and nearer. Now, your highness, I tell 
you this, because if ever, — which the Holy Virgin 
forbid ! — if ever you meet the Wild Huntsman, 
you'll know how to act : — conduct yourself al- 
ways with propriety, make no noise, but behave 
like a gentleman, and dun't put the dogs off 
the scent ; stand aside and let him pass. Don't 
talk, he has no time to lose, for if he hunt after 
daybreak, a night's sport is forfeited for every star 
left in the morning sky. So, sir, you see nothing 
puts hirp in a greater passion than to lose his time 
in answering impertinent questions. Well, your 
highness, Left-handed Hans stood by the road-side. 
The baying of the dogs was so distinct, that he 
felt that in a moment the Wild One would be up; 
his horse shivered like a sallow in a storm. He 
heard the tramp of the spirit-steed : they came in 
sight. As the tall figure of the Huntsman passed 
— I cannot tell your highness what it was — it 
might have been, I-ord forgive me in thinking 
what it miglit have been ! but a voice from behind 
Hans, a voice so like his own, that for a moment 
he fancied that he had himself spoken, although he 
was conscious that his lips had been firmly closed 
the whole time, a voice from the road side, — ^just 
behind poor Hans, mind, — said, ' Good sport, Sir 
Huntsman, 'tis an odd light to track a stag !' The 
poor man, sir, was all of an ague ; but how much 
greater, your highness, was his horror, when the 
tall Huntsman stofiped ! He thought that he was 
going to be eaten up on the spot, at least : not at 
all, your highness — ' My friend !' said the Wild 
One, in the kindest voice imaginable ; ' my friend, 
would you like to give your horse a breathing with 
usl' Poor Hans, your highness, was so alarmed, 
that it never entered into his head for a single mo- 
ment to refuse the invitation, and instantly he was 
16 



gallopping by the side of the Wild Huntsman. 
Away they flew I away ! away ! over bog, and over 
mere ; over ditch, and over hedge ; away ! away ! 
away ! — and the ranger's horse never failed, but kept 
by the side of the wild spirit without the least 
distress ; and yet, your highness, it's very singular 
that Hans was about to sell this very beast only a 
day before, for a matter of five crowns : — you SC'', 
your highness, he only kept it just to pick his way 
at night from the castle to his own cottage. Well ! 
your highness, it's very odd, but Hans soon lost all 
fear, for the sport was so fine, and he had such a 
keen relish for the work, that far from being alarm- 
ed, he thought himself one of the luckiest knaves 
alive. But the oddest thing all this time was, that 
Hans never caught sight for one moment q^ either 
buck or boar; although he saw by the dogs' noses, 
that there was something keen in the wind ; and 
although he felt that if the hunted beast were like 
any that he had himself ever followed before, it 
must have been run down with such dogs, quicker 
than a priest could say a paternoster. At last, sir, 
for he had grown quite bold, says Hans to the 
Wild Huntsman, 'The beasts run quick o' nights, 
sir, I think; it's been a long time, I ween, e'er I 
scampered so far, and saw so little !' Do you 
know, your highness, that the old gentleman was 
not the least affronted, but said, in the pleasantest 
voice imaginable, ' A true huntsman should be 
patient, Hans, you'll see the game quick enough ; 
look forward, man ! what see you V and sure 
enough, your highness, he did look forward. It 
was near the skirts of the forest, there was a green 
glade before them, and very few trees, and there- 
fore he could see far ahead. The moon was shin- 
ing very bright, and sure enough, what did he see ? 
Running as fleet over the turf as a rabbit, was a 
child. The little figure was quite black in the 
moonlight, and Hans could not catch its face ; — in 
a moment the hell-dogs were on it. Hans quivered 
like a windy reed, your highness, and the Wild 
One laughed till the very woods echoed. 'How 
like you hunting mossmen V asked the spirit. 
Novir when Hans, your highness, found it was 
only a raossmaii, be took heart again, and said hr a 
shaking voice, that 'It is rare good sport in good 
conipany ;' and then the spirit jumped oft' his 
horse, and said, 'Now, Hans, j'ou must watch me 
well, for I'm little used to bag game.' He said 
this with a proudish air, 3'our highness, as much as 
to hint, that hadu't he expected Hans, he wouldn't 
have rode out this evening without his groom. 
So the Wild One jumped on his horse again, ami 
put the bag before him. It was nearly morning, 
your highness, when Hans found himself at the 
door of his own cottage ; and bowing very respect- 
fully to the Spirit Hunter, he thanked him for the 
sport, and begged his share of the night's spoil. 
This was all in a joke, your highness, but Hans 
had heard that, ' talk to the devil, and fear the last 
word ;' and so he was determined, now that they 
were about to part, not to appear to tremble, but to 
carry it olf with a jest. ' Truly, Hans,' said the 
Huntsman, ' thou art a bold lad, and to encourage 
thee to s[)eak to wild huntsmen again, I have a 
mind to give thee for thy panis, the whole spoil 
Take the bag, knave, a mossman is good eating 
had I time I would give thee a receipt for sauce ;' 
and so saying, the spirit rode oft', laughing very 
heartily. Well, your highness, Hans was sc 
anxious to examine the contents of the bag, and 



123 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



see what kind of thing a mossman really was,— 
for he had only caught a glimpse of him in the 
thase,— that instead of going to bed immediately 
and saying his prayers, as he should have done, he 
lighted a lamp and untied the string ; and what 
think you he took out of the bag, your highness ] 
As sure as I'm a born sinner — his own child !" 

'• Tis a wonderful tale," said Vivian ; "and did 
the unfortunate man tell you this himself ?"' 

" Often and often, sir. — I knew Left-handed 
Hans well. He was ranger, as I said, to a great 
lord; and was quite a favourite, you see. For 
f^ome reason or other he got out of favour. Some 
said that the baron had found him out a poaching ; 
and that he used to ride his master's horses anight. 
Whether this be true or not, who can say 1 But, 
howsoever, Hans went to ruin ; and instead of being 
a flourishing, active lad, he was turned out, and 
went a begging all through Saxony; and he always 
told this story as the real history of his misfortunes. 
Some say, he's not as strong in his head as he used 
to be. However, why should we say it's not a true 
tale !— What's that!" almost shrieked Essper. 

Vivian listened, and heard distinctly the distant 
hayina; of hounds. ^ 

"Tis he! 'tis he !" said Essper; "now dont 
f,peak. sir, don't speak ; and if the devil make me 
join him, as may be the case, for I'm but a cock- 
brained thing, particularly at midnight ; don't be 
running after me from any foolish feeling, but take 
care of yourself, and don't be chattering. To think 
you should come to this, my precious young mas- 
ter !" 

" Cease your blubbering, for heaven's sake ! Do 
you think that I'm to be frightened by the idiot 
tales of a parcel of old women, and the lies of a 
gang of detected poachers'! Come, sir, ride on. 
We'are, most probably, near some huntsman's cot- 
tage. That distant baying is the sweetest music 
I've heard a great while." ^ 

" Don't be rash, sir — don't be rash — don t he 
rash. If you were to give me fifty crowns now, I 
couldn't remember a single line of a single prayer. 
Ave Maria ! — it always is so when I most want it. 
Paternoster ! — and whenever I've need to remem- 
ber a song, sure enough I'm always thinking of a 
prayer. — Unser Vater, der du hist im himmel-- 
sanctificado se el tu nombra ; il tuo regno venga." 
Here Essper George was proceeding with a scrap 
of modern Greek, when the horsemen suddenly 
came upon one of those broad, green vistas which 
we often see in forests, and which are generally 
cut, either for the convenience of hunting, or 
caiting wood. It opened on the left side of the 
road; and at the bottom of it, though apparently 
at a great distance, a light was visible. 

"So much for your Wild Huntsman, my friend 
Essper ! I shall be much disappointed if here are 
not quarters for the night. And see ! the moon 
comes out — a good omen !" 

After about ten minutes' sharp trot over the 
noiseless turf, the travellers found theinselves be- 
lore a large and many-windowed mansion. The 
building formed the farthest side of a quadrangle, 
which you entered through an ancient and massy 
gate; on each side of which was a small building 
—of course the lodges. Essper soon found that 
the gate was closely fastened; and though he 
knocked often and loudly, it was with no effect, 
'i'liat the inhabitants of the mansion had not yet 
etircd was certain, for lights were movuig in the 



great house ; and one of the lodges was not only 
very brilliantly illuminated, but full, as Vivian was 
soon convinced, of clamorous, if not jovial guests.^^ 
"Now, by the soul of my unknown father!" 
said the enrasred Essper, " 111 make these saucy 
porters learn their duty. What ho ! there— what 
ho ! within ! within !" But the only answer he 
received, was the loud reiteration of a rude and roar- 
ing chorus ; which, as it was now more distinctly 
and audibly enunciated, evidently for the purpose of 
enraging tlie travellers— they detected to be some- 
thing to the following elll'ct: — 



" Thpn a prayer to St. Peter, a praypr to St. Paul, 
A prayer to Si. Jerome— a prayer t<i them all— 
A pia'ver lo each one of the sainily sloclv, 
Bui dtvolion alone, devotion lo Hock!" 

• " A right good burden !" said Essper, The ver\- 
words had made him recover his temper, and ten 
thousand times more desirous of gaining admit- 
tance. He was off his horse in a moment, and 
scrambling up the wall, with the aid of the iron 
staunchions, he clambered up to the window. The 
sudden appearance of his figure startled the in- 
mates of the lodge ; — and one of tliem soon stag- 
gered to the gate. 

" What want you, ye noisy and disturbing vai- 
lets 1 what want you, ye most unhallowed rogues, 
at such a place, aiid at such an hour? If you be 
tliieyes- look at our bars— (here a hiccough.) If 
you be poachers— our master is engaged, and ye 
may slay all the game in the forest— (another hic- 
cough)— hut if ye be good men and true — " 
" We are, we are !" hallooed Essper, eagerly. 
" You are, you are !" said the porter, m a tone 
of great surprise ; " then you ought to be ashamed of 
yourselves for disturbing holy men at their devo- 
tions !" 

" Is this the way," said Essper, " to behave, ye 
shameless rascals, to a noble and mighty prince, 
who ha])pens to have lost his way in one of your 
cursed forests; but who, though he has parted with 
his suite, has still in his pocket a purse full of du- 
cats 1 Would ye have him robbed by any others 
but yourselves ? Is this the way you behave to a 
prince of the Holy Roman Empire— a knight of 
every order under the sun, and a most particular 
friend of your own master ? Is this the way to be- 
have to his secretary, who is one of the memest 
fellows living; can sing a jolly song with any of 
you, and so bedevil a bottle of Geisenheim with 
"lemons and brandv, that for the soul of ye, you 
wouldn't know it from the greenest Tokay. Out, 
out on ye ! you know not what you have lost! 

Ere Essper had finished, more than one stout 
holt had been drawn, and the gieatkey had already 
entered the stouter lock. 

" Most honourable sirs !" hiccoughed the porter; 
" in Our Lady's name enter. I had forgot myself; 
for in these autumn nights it is necessary to antici- 
pate the cold with a glass of cheering liquor: and, 
God forgive me ! if I didn't mistake your most 
mighty highnesses for a couple of forest rovers, or 
Miiall poachers at least. Thin entertainment here, 
kind sir— (here the last bolt was withdrewn)— a 
-lass of indifferent liquor, and a prayer-book. I pass 
The time chiefly these cold nights with a lew holy- 
minded friends, at our devotions. You heard us at 
our prayers, honourable lords ! 

A prayer to St. Peter, a prayer to St. Paul ! _ 
A prayer lo St. Jerome, a prayer lo then, all : 



VIVIAN GREY. 



123 



Here the devout porter most reverently crossed 
nuiiself. 

'" A praypr to each one of the saintly stock, 
Eul devolioii aloue, devotion to Hock !" 

bellowed Essper George — "you forget the best part 
of the burden, my honest friend." 

" O I" said the porter, with an arch smile, as he 
opened the lodge door; "Fin glad to find that your 
honourable excellencies have a taste for hymns !" 

The porter led them into a room, at a round ta- 
r ble in which, about half a dozen individuals were 
busily engaged in discussing the merits of various 
agreeable liijuors. There was an attempt to get up 
a show of polite hospitality to Vivian as he entered ; 
but the man who offered him his chair fell to the 
ground in an unsuccessful struggle to be courteous; 
and another one, who had filled a large glass for the 
guest on his entrance, offered him, after a prelimi- 
nary speech of incoherent compliments, the empty 
I'ottle by mistake. The porter and his friends, 
although they were all drunk, had sense enough to 
feel that the presence of a Prince of the Holy Ro- 
man Empire, a chevalier of every order under the 
fiun, and the particular friend of their master, was 
/lot exactly a fit companion for themselves, and was 
rather a check on the gay freedom of ecjual com- 
of.nionship ; and so, although the exertion was not 
a little troublesome, the guardian of the gate reeled 
out of the room to inform his honoured lord of the 
sudden arrival of a stranger of distinction. Essper 
George immediately took his place, and ere the 
master of the lodge had returned, the noble secre- 
tary had not only given a choice toast, sung a 
choice soug, and been hailed by the grateful plau- 
dits of all present ; but had proceeded in his attempt 
to fulfil the pledge which he had given at the gate 
to the very letter, by calling out lustily for a bottle 
of Geisenheim, lemons, brandy, and a bowl. 

" Fairly and softly, my little son of Bacchus," 
said the porter as he re-entered — " fairly and soft!}-, 
and then thou shalt want nothing ; but remember I 
nave to perform my duties unto the noble lord my 
master, and also to the noble prince your master. 
If thou wilt follow me," continued the porter, reel- 
ing as he bowed with the greatest consideration to 
^'ivian ; " if thou wilt follow me, most high and 
mighty sir, my master will be right glad to have 
the honour of drinking your health. And as for 
you, my friends, faiily and softly, fairly and softly, 
Bay I again. We'll talk of the Geisenheim anon. 
Am I to be absent from the first krewing ] JVo, no ! 
fairly and soflly, fairly and softly ; you can drink 
my health when I'm absent in cold hquor, and say 
those things which you could not well say before 
my face. But mind, most righteous and well-be- 
loved, I'll have no flattery — no flattery. Flattery is 
the destruction of all good-fellowship; it's hke a 
qualmish liqueur in the midst of a bottle of wine. 
No tiattery, no flattery ; speak your mhids, say any 
liltle thing that comes first, as thus — ' Well, for 
Hunsdrich the porter, I must declare that I never 
heard evil word against him ;' or thus, ' A very good 
leg has Hunsdrich the porter, and a tight made lad 
altogether; no enemy with the girls, I warrant me ;' 
or thus, ' Well, for a good-hearted, good-looking, 
stout-drinking, virtuous, honourable, handsome, 
generous, sharp-witted knave, commend me to 
Hunsdrich the porter;' but not a word more, my 
fri.mds, not a word more, no flattery, no flattery. 
Now, sir, I beg your pardon." 



The porter led the way through a cloistered 
walk, until they arrived at the door of the great 
mansion, to which they ascended by a lofty flight 
of steps ; it opened into a very large octagonal hall, 
the sides of which were covered with fowling 
pieces, stags' heads, couteaux de chasse, boar-spears, 
and huge fishing-nets. Passing through this liall 
they ascended a very noble staircase, on the first 
landing-place of which was a doer, which Vivian' 
conductor opened, and ushering him into a large 
and well-lighted chamber, immediately withdrew. 
From the centre of this room descended a magnifi- 
cently cut chandelier, which threw a graceful light 
upon a sumptuous banquet table, at which were 
seated eight very singular-looking personages. All 
of them wore hunting-dresses of various shades 
of straw-coloured cloth, with the exception of one, 
who sat on the left hand of the master of the feast, 
and the colour of whose costume was a rich crimson 
purple. From the top to the bottom of the table 
extended a double file of wine-glasses and goblets, 
of all sizes and all colours. There you might see 
brilliant relics of that ancient ruby-glass, the vivid 
tints of which seem lost to us for ever. Next to 
these were marshalled goblets of Venetian manu- 
facture, of a clouded, creamy white ; then came the 
huge hock-glass of some ancient primate of Mentz, 
nearly a yard high ; towering above its compa- 
nions, as the church, its former master, predomi- 
nated over the simple laymen of the middle ages. 
Why should I forget a set of most curious and 
antique drinking cups of painted glass, on whose 
rare surfaces were emblazoned the Kaiser and ten 
electors of the old Empire ? 

Vivian bowed to the party, and stood in silence, 
while they stared a most scrutinizing examination. 
At length the master of the feast spoke. He was 
a very stout man, with a prodigious paunch, which 
his tightened dre.«s set off to a great advantage. 
His face, and particularly his forehead, v/ere of 
great breadth. His eyes were set far apart. His 
long ears hung down almost to his shoulders ; yet 
singular as he was, not only in these, but in many 
other respects, every thing was forgotten when 
your eyes lighted on his nose. It was the most 
prodigious nose that Vivian ever remembered — not 
only seeing, but hearing, or even reading of. In 
fact, it was too monstrous for the crude conception 
of a dream. This mighty nose hung down almost 
to its owner's chest. 

" Be seated," said this personage, in no unpleas- 
ing voice, and he pointed to the chair opposite to 
him. Vivian took the vacated seat of the vice- 
president, who moved himself to the right. " Be 
seated, and whoever you may be — welcome ! If 
our words be few, think not that our welcome is 
scant. We are not much given to speech, holding 
it for a principle that if a man's mouth be open, it 
should be for the purpose of receiving that which 
cheers a mail's spirit ; not of giving vent to idle 
words, which, as fir as we have observed, produce 
no other eflect save filling the world with crude and 
unprofitable fantasies, and distracting our attention 
when we are on the ]joint of catching those 
flavours which alone make the world endurable 
Therefore, briefly but heartily welcome! Wel- 
come, Sir Stranger, from us and from all ; and first 
from us, the Grand-duke of Scboss Johannis- 
berger." Here his highness rose, and pulled out a 
large ruby tumbler from the file. Each of those 
present did the same, without, however, rising, and 



124 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



the lafe vicepresident, who sat next to Vivian, in- 
vited him to follow their example. 

The Grand-duke of Schoss Johannisberger 
brought forw aid, from beneath the table, an an- 
cient and exquisite bottle of that choice liquor 
from which he took his exhilarating title. The 
cork was drawn, and the bottle circulated with 
rafiidity ; and in three minutes the ruby glasses 
were tilled and emptied, and the grand-duke's 
health quafled by all present. 

" Again, Sir Stranger," continued the grand- 
duke, " briefly but heartily welcome ! — welcome 
from us, and welcome from all — and first fi cm us, 
and now from the Archduke of Hockheimer !" 

The Archduke of Hockheimer was a thin 
sinewy man, with long, carroty hair — eyelashes of 
the same colour, but of a remarkable length — and 
niuslachios, which, though very thin, were so long 
that they met under his chin. Vivian could not 
refrain from noticing the extreme length, white- 
ness, and apparent sharpness of his teeth. The 
archduke did not speak, but leaning under the 
table, soon produced a bottle of hockheimer. He 
then took from the file one of the Venetian glasses 
of clouded white. All followed his example — the 
bottle was sent round, his health was pledged — 
and the Grand-duke of Schoss Johannisberger 
again spoke : — 

" Again, Sir Stranger, briefly but heartily wel- 
come ! welcome from us, and welcome from all — 
and first from us, and now from the Elector of 
Steinberg !" 

The Elector of Steinberg was a short, but very 
broad-backed, strong-built man. Though his head 
•was large, his features were small, and appeared 
smaller from the miraculous quantity of coarse, 
shaggy, lirown hair, which grew over almost every 
part of his face, and fell down upon his shoulders. 
The elector was as silent as his predecessor, and 
quick produced a bottle of Steinberg. The curious 
drinking cups of painted glass were immediately 
withdrawn from the. file, the bottle was sent round, 
the elector's health was pledged, and the Grand- 
duke of Schoss Johannisberger again spoke : — 

" Again. Sir Stran.i;er, briefly but heartily wel- 
come ! — welcome from us, and welcome from all — 
and first from us, and now from' the Margrave of 
Eudcshcimer !" 

The Margrave of Paidesheimcr was a slender 
man, of elegant appearance. As Vivian watched 
the glance of his speaking eye, and the half-satiri- 
cal and half-jovial, smile which played upon his 
features, he hanily expected that his highness 
would be as silent as his predecessors. But the 
margrave spoke no word. He gave a kind of 
shout of savage exultation as he smacked his lips 
after dashing ofl" his glass of Rudcsheimer; and 
scarcely noticing the salutations of those who 
drank his health, he threw himself back in his 
cliair, and listened seemingly with a smile of deri- 
sion, while tlie Grand-duke of Schoss Johannis- 
pergcr again spoke : — 

" Again, Sir Stranger, briefly but lieartily wel- 
come 1 — welcome from us, and welcome from all — 
and first from us, and now from the Latidgrave of 
Grafienliergl" 

The Landgrave of Graflcnberg was a rude, 
awkward-looking person, who, when he rose from 
his sej.t, stared like an idiot, and seemed utterly ig- 
nora..t of what he ought to do. But his quick 
companio J. the Margrave of Rudcsheimer, soon I 



thrust a bottle of Graffenberg into the landgrave's 
hand, and with some trouble and bustle the land- 
grave extracted tlie cork; and then helping him- 
self, sat dowii, forgetting either to salute, or to 
return theisahitations of those present. 

" Again, Sir Stranger, briefly but heartily wel- 
come ! — welcome from us, and welcome from all — 
and first from us, and now from the Palsgrave of 
Geisenheim !" 

The Palsgrave of Geisenheim was a dwarf in 
spectacles. He drew the cork from his bottle like 
lightning, and mouthed at his companions, even 
while he bowed to them. 

" Again, Sir Stranger, briefly but h&artily wel- 
come ! — welcome from us, and welcome from all — 
and first from us, and now from the Count Mark- 
brunnen !" 

. The Count of Markbrunnen was a sullen-look- 
ing personage, with lips protruding nearly three 
inches beyond his nose. From each side of his 
upper jaw projected a large tooth. 

" Thanks to heaven !" said Vivian, as the grand- 
duke spoke — " thanks to heaven, here is our last 
man !" 

" Again, Sir Stranger, briefly but heartily wel- 
come ! — welcome from us, and welcome from all — 
and first from us, and now from the Baron of 
A.smanshausen !"' 

The Baron of Asmanshausen sat on the left 
of the Grand-duke of Schoss Johannisberger, and 
was dressed, as we have before said, in a unique 
costume of crimson purple. The baron stood 
without his boots, about six feet eight. He was a 
sleek man, with a head no bigger than a child's, 
and a pair of small, black, Icady eyes, of singular 
brilliancy. The baron introduced a bottle of the 
only red wine that the Kliine boasts ; but which, 
for its fragrant and fruity flavour, and its brilliant 
tint, is perhaps even superv-.r to the sunset glow 
of Burgundy. 

" And now," continued the grand-duke, "having 
introduced you to all present, sir, we will begin 
drinking." 

Vivian liad submitted to the introductory cere- 
monies with the good grace which becomes a man 
of the world; but the* coolness of his highness's 
last observation recalled our hero's wandering 
senses , and, at the same time, alarmed at discover 
ing that eight bottles of wine had been discussed 
by ■'he party, merely as a preliminarj', and em- 
boldened b}^ the cbntents of one bottle which had 
fallen to his own share, he had the courage to con- 
front the Graird-duke of Schoss Johannisberger in 
his own castle. 

" Your wine, most noble lord, stands in no need 
of my commendation ; but, as I must mention it, 
let it not be said that I ever mentioned it without 
praise. At'lcf a ten hom^'s ride, its flavour ik as 
grateful to the palate as its strength is refreshing to 
the heavt ; but tliough old hock, in homely phrat^e, 
is styled meat and drink, I confess to you that, at 
this moment, I stand in need of even more solid 
sustenance than the juice of the sunny hiil." 

" A traitor !" shrieked all present, each with 
his right arm stretched out, glass in hand ; •' a 
traitor !" 

" ]Xo traitor," answered Vivian ; " no traitor, 
my noble" and right thirsty lords ; but one of tho 
most hungry mortals that ever j-et famished." 

The only answer that he received for some 
time, was a loud and ill-boding murmur. 'I'he 



VIVIAN GREY, 



123 



Ion? whisker of the Archduke of Hockheimer 
curled with renewed rage: audible, though sup- 
pressed, was the growl of the hairy Elector of 
Steinberg ; fearful the corporeal involutions of the 
tall Baron of Asinanshausen ; and savagely sound- 
ed the wild laugh of the bright-eyed Margrave of 
Rudeshcimer. 

" Silence, my lords," said the grand-duke. 
'' Forget we that ignorance is the stranger's por- 
tion, and that no treason can exist among those 
who are not our sworn subjects] Pity we rather 
tiTe degeneracy of this bold-spoken youth ; and in 
the plenitude of our mercy, let us pardon his de- 
mand I Know ye, unknown knight, that you are 
in the presence of an august society, who are here 
met at one of their accustomed convocations ; 
whereof the purport is the frequent quaffing of 
those most glorious liquors, of which the sacred 
Rhine is the great father. We profess to find a 
perfect commentary on the Pindaric land of the 
strongest element, in the circumstance of the banks 
of a river being the locality where the juice of the 
grape is most delicious — and holding, therefore, 
that water is strongest, because, in a manner, it 
giveth birth to wine ; we also hold it as a sacred 
element, and, consequently, most religiously refrain 
from refreshing our bodies with that sanctified and 
most undrinkable fluid. Know ye, that we are the 
children of the Rhine — the conservators of his 
flavours — profound in the learning of his exquisite 
aroma, and deep students in the mysteries of his 
inexplicable nilre. Professing not to be immortal, 
we find in the exercise of the chase a noble means 
to preserve that health which is necessai-y for the 
performance of the ceremonies to which we are 
pledged. At to-mon'ovv's dawn our bugle sounds, 
and thou, stranger, may engage the wild boar at 
our side; at to-morrow's noon the castle bell will 
toll, and thou, stranger, may eat of the beast which 
thou hast conquered : — but to feed after midnight, 
to destroy the power of catching the delicate 
flavour, to annihilate the faculty of detecting the 
undefinable nare, is heresy — most rank and damna- 
ble heresy ! — Therefore at this hour soundeth no 
plate nor platter — ^jingleth no knife nor culinary 
instrument in the Palace of the Wines. Yet, 
in consideration of thy youth, and that on the 
whole thou hast tasted thy liquor like a proper 
man, from which we augur the best expectations 
of the manner in which thou wilt drink it, — we 
feel confident that our brothers of the goblet will 
permit us to grant thee the substantial solace of a 
shoeing horn." 

" Let it be a Dutch herring, then," said Vivian ; 
" and as you have souls to be saved^ grant me one 
slice of bread." 

" It cannot be," said the grand-duke ; " but as 
we are willing to be indulgent to bold hearts, verily, 
we will wink at the profanation of a single toast ; 
hut you must order an anchovy one, and give 
secret instructions to the waitingman to forget the 
fish. It must be counted as a second shoeing horn ; 
and you will forfeit for the last a bottle of Mark- 
brunnen." 

"And now, illustrious brothers," continued the 
grand-duke, "let us drink 1726 !" 

All present gave a single cheer, in which Vivian 
was obliged to join ; and they honoured with a glass 
of the ver}' year, the memory of a celebrated vin- 
tage. 

" 1748 !" said the grand-duke. 



Two cheers, and the same ceremony. 

1766, and 1770, were honoured in the same 
manner; but when the next toast was drunk, 
Vivian almost observed in the countenances of the 
grand-duke and his friends, the signs of incipient 
insanity. 

"1783 !" hallooed the grand-duke, in a tone of the 
most triumphant exultation ; and his mighty pro- 
boscis, as it snuffed the air, almost caused a whirl- 
wind round the room — HtJckheimer gave a roar — 
Steinberg a growl — Rudesheimer a wild laugh — 
Markbrunnen a loud grunt — Grafenberg a bray — 
Asmanshausen's long body moved to and fro with 
wonderful agitation ;— and little Geisenheim's bright 
eyes glistened through their glasses, as if they were 
on fire. How ludicrous is the incipient inebriety 
of a man who wears spectacles ! 

Thanks to an excellent constitution, which recent 
misery, however, had somewhat shattered, Vivian 
bore up against all these attacks ; and when they 
had got down to 1802, from the excellency of his 
digestion, and the inimitable skill with which he 
emptied many of the latter glasses under the table, 
he was, perhaps, in better condition than any one 
in the room. 

And now arose the' idiot Grafenberg; Rudes- 
heimer all the time, with a malicious smile, faintly 
pulling him down by the skirt of his coat ; as if he 
were desirous of preventing an exposure which his 
own advice had brought about. He had been 
persuading Grafenberg the whole evening to make 
a speech. 

" My lord duke," brayed the jackass ; and then 
he stopped dead, and looked round the room with 
an unmeaning stare. 

" Hear, hear, hear !" was the general cry ; but 
Grafenberg seemicd astounded at any one being 
desirous of hearing his voice, or for a moment se- 
riously entertaining the idea that he could have any 
thing to say ; and so he stared again, and again, 
and again; till at last, Rudesheimer, by dint of 
kicking his shins under the table, — the margrave 
the whole time seeming perfectly motionless — at 
length extracted a sentence from the asinine land- 
grave. 

"My lord duke!" again commenced Grafen- 
berg ; and again he stopped. 

" Go on," shouted all. 

" My lord duke ! Rudesheimer is treading on 
ray toes !" 

Here little Geisenheim gave a loud laugh of 
derision ; in which all joined, except surly Mark- 
brunnen, whose lips protruded an extra inch beyond 
their usual length, when he found that all were 
laughing at his friend. The grand-duke at last 
procured silence. 

" Shame ! shame ! most mighty princes ! Shame ' 
shame ! most noble lords. Is it with this irreverent 
glee, these scurvy flouts, and indecorous mockeiy, 
that you would have this stranger believe that we 
celebrate the ceremonies of our father Rhine ? 
Shame, I say — and silence I It is time that we 
should prove to him, that we are not iperely a 
boisterous and unruly party of swilling varlets, 
who leave their brains in their cups. It is time 
that we should do something to prove that we are 
capable of better and worthier things. What ho . 
my Lord of Geisenheim ! shall I speak twice to tha 
guardian of the horn of the Fairy Kingl" 

The httle dwarf instantly jumped from his seat, 
and proceeded to the end of the room; where, 



126 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



after having bowed three times with great reverence 
before a small black cabinet made of vine wood, he 
opened it with a golden key, and then with great 
pomp and ceremony bore its contents to the grand- 
duke. His royal highness took from the little 
dwarf the horn of a gigantic and antediluvian elk. 
The cunning hand of an ancient German artificer 
had formetl this curious relic into a drinking cup. 
It was exquisitely polished, and cased in the inte- 
rior with silver. On 'the outside the only orna- 
ments were three richly chased silver rings, which 
were placed nearly at equal distances. When the 
grand-duke had carefully examined this most pre- 
cious horn, he held it up with reverence to all 
present, and a party of devout Catholics could not 
have paid greater homage to the elevated Host, 
than did the various guests to the horn of the 
Fairy King. Even the satanic smile on Rudes- 
heimer's countenance was for a moment subdued ; 
and all bowed. The grand-duke then delivered 
the mighty cup to his neighbour, the Archduke of 
Hockheimer, who held it with both hands until 
his royal highness had emptied into it, with great 
care, three bottles of Johannisberger. All rose : 
the grand-duke took the goblet in one hand, and 
with the other he dexterously put aside his most 
inconvenient and enormous nose. Dead silence 
prevailed, save the roar of the liquor as it rushed 
down the grand-duke's throat, and resounded 
through the '-hamber hlce the distant dash of a 
•waterfall. In three minutes his royal highness 
had completed his task, the horn had quitted his 
mouth, his nose had again resumed its usual situa- 
tion, and as he handed the cup to the archduke, 
Vivian thought that a material change had taken 
place in his countenance since he had quafied his 
last draught. His eyes seemed more apart; his 
ears seemed broader and longer ; and his nose was 
most visibly lengthened. The archduke, before he 
commertced his draught, ascertained with great 
scrupulosity that his predecessor had taken his fair 
share by draining the horn as far as the first ring ; 
and then he poured oflf with great rapidity his own 
portion. But though in performing the same task, 
he was quicker than the master of the party, the 
draught, not only apparently but audibly, produced 
upon him a much more decided effect than had it 
on the grand-duke ; for when the second ring was 
drained, the archduke gave a loud roar of exulta- 
tion, and stood up for seme time from his seat, 
with his hands resting on the table over which he 
leaned, as if he were about to spring upon his op- 
posite neighbour. The cup was now handed 
across the table to the Baron of Asmanshausen. 
His lordship performed his task with ease ; but as 
he withdrew the horn from his mouth, all present, 
except Vivian, gave a loud cry of '• Supernaculum !" 
The baron smiled with great contempt as he 
tossed, with a careless hand, the great horn upside 
downwards, and was unable to shed upon his nail 
even the one excusable pearl. He handed the 
refilled horn to the Elector of Steinberg, who drank 
his portion with a growl ; but afterwards seemed 
so pleased with the facility of his execution, that 
instead of delivering it to the next bibber, the 
Palsgrave of Markbrunnen, he commenced some 
clumsy attempts at a dance of triumjjh, in which 
he certuinly would have proceeded, had not the 
loud grunts of the surly and thick-lipped Mark- 
brunnen occasioned the interference of the grand- 
tluke. Supernaculum now fell to the Margrave of 



Rudesheimer, who gave a loud and long-ccntinued 
laugh as the dwarf of Geisenheim filled the horn 
for the third time. 

While this ceremony was going on, a thousand 
plans had occurred to Vivian for his escape ; but 
all, on second thoughts, proved impracticable. 
With agony he had observed that supLMnaculum 
was his miserable lot. Could he but have foisted 
it on the idiot Grafenbcrg, he might, by his own 
impudence and the other's stupidity, have escaped. 
But he could not flatter himself that he should be 
successful in bringing about this end, for he ob- 
served with sorrow, that the malicious Rudesheimer 
had not for a moment ceased watching him with a 
keen and exulting glance. Geisenheim performed 
his task ; and ere Vivian could ask for the goblet, 
Rudesheimer, with a fell laugh, had handed it to 
Grafcnberg. The greedy ass drank his portion 
with ease, and indeed drank far beyond his limit. 
The cup was in Vivian's hand, Rudesheimer was 
roaring (supernaculum) louder than all — Vivian 
saw that the covetous Grafcnberg had providentially 
rendered his task comparatively hght ; but even as 
it was, he trembled at the idea of drinking at a 
single draught, more than a pint of most vigorous 
and powerful wine. 

" My lord duke," said Vivian, " you and your 
companions forget that I am little used to these 
ceremonies ; that I am yet uninitiated in the mys- 
teries of the niire. I have endeavoured to prove 
myself no chicken-hearted water-drinking craven, 
and I have more wine within me at this moment 
than any man yet bore without dinner. I think, 
therefore, that I have some grounds for requesting 
indulgence; and I have no doubt that the good 
sense of yourself and your friends " 

Ere Vivian could finish, he almost fancied that 
a well-stocked menagery had been suddenly emptied 
in the room. Such roaring, and such growling, 
and such hissing, coidd only have been exceeded 
on some grand feast-day in the recesses of a Bra- 
zilian forest, .^sm.ansliausen looked as fierce as a 
boa constrictor before dinner. The proboscis cf 
the grand-duke heaved to and fro like the trunk of 
an enraged elephant. Hockheimer glared like a 
Bengal tiger, about to spring upon its prey. 
Steinberg gi-owled like a I3altic bear. In Mark- 
brunnen Vivian recognised the wild boar he had 
himself often hunted. Grafenbeig brayed like a 
jackass ; and Geisenheim chattered like an apt. 
But all was forgotten and unnoticed when Vivian 
heard the fell and frantic shouts of the laughing 
hyfena, the Margi-ave of Rudesheimer! Vivia;:, 
in despair, dashed the horn of Oberon to his 
mouth. One pull — a gasp — another desperate 
draught — it was done ! and followed by a super- 
naculum almost superior to the exulting Asmans- 
hausen's. 

A loud shout hailed the exploit, and when the 
shout had subsided into silence, the voice of the 
Giand-duke of Schoss Johaimisberger was again 
heard : — 

" Noble lords and princes ! I congratulate yoii 
on the acquisition of a congenial comate, and the 
accession to our society of one, who I now venture 
to say, will never disgrace the glorious foundation ; 
but who, on the conlrarj^, with heaven's blessing 
and the aid of his own good palate, will, it i« 
hoped, add to our present knowledge of flavotus 
by the detection of new ones, and by illustrations 
drawn from frequent study and constant observation 



VIVIAN GREY. 



127 



of the mysterious na.re. In consideration of his ' 
long journey and Iiis noble achievement, I do pro- 
pose that we drink but very lightly to-night, and 
meet by two hours after to-morrow's dawn, under 
the mossman's oak. Nevertheless, before we part, 
for the refreshment of our own good bodies, and 
by way of reward, an act of courtesy unto this 
noble and accomplished stranger, let us pledge him 
in some foreign grape of fame, to which he may 
perhaps be more accustomed than unto the ever 
preferable juices of our father Rhine." — Here the 
grand-dukc nodded to little Geisenheim, who in a 
moment was at his elbow. 

It was in vain tliat Ik^ivian remonstrated, excused 
himself from joining, or assured his royal highness 
that his conduct had already been so peculiarly 
courteous, that any further attention was at pre- 
sent unnecessary. A curiously cut glass, which, 
on a moderate calculation Vivian reckoned would 
hold at least three pints, was placed before each 
guest; and a basket, containing nine bottles of 
sparkling Champagne, premiere qualite, was set 
before his highness. 

" We are no bigots, noble stranger," said the 
grand-duke, as he took one of the bottles, and scru- 
tinized the cork with a very keen eye ; — " We are 
no bigots, and there are moments when we drink 
Champagne, nor is Burgundy forgotten, nor the 
soft Bourdeaux, nor the glowing grape of the 
sunny Rhone!" His highness held the bottle at 
an oblique angle with the chandelier. The wire 
is loosened, — whirr ! — The exploded cork whizzed 
through the air, extinguished one of the burners of 
the chandelier, and brought the cut drop which 
was suspended under it rattling down among the 
glasses on the table. The grand-duke poured the 
foaming fluid into his great goblet, and bowing to all 
around, fastened on its contents with as much eager- 
ness as a half-insane dog rushes to a puddle in July. 

The same operation was performed as regularly 
and as skilfully by all, except Vivian. Eight 
burners were extinguished ; eight diamond drops 
had fallen clattering on the table ; eight human 
beings had finished a miraculous carouse, by each 
drinking off a bottle of sparkling Champagne. It 
was Vivian's turn. All eyes were fixed on him 
with the most perfect attention. He was now, 
indeed, quite desperate ; for had he been able to 
execute a trick which long practice alone could have 
enabled any man to perform, he felt conscious that 
it was quite out of his power to taste a single drop 
of the contents of his bottle. However, he loosen- 
ed his wire and held the bottle at an angle with 
the chandelier ; but the coik flew quite wild, and 
struck with great force the mighty nose of the 
grand-duke. 

" A forfeit !" cried all. 

" Treason, and a forfeit !" cried the Margrave 
of Rudesheimer. 

" A forfeit is sufficient punishment," said the 
grand-dukc ; who, however, still felt the smarting 
effect of the assault on his proboscis. " You must 
drink Obcron's horn full of Champagne," continued 
his highness. 

" Never I" said Vivian, " enough of this ; I 
have already conformed in a degree which may 
injuriously affect my health, with your barbarous 
humours, — but there is moderation even in excess, 
— and so, if you please, my lord, your servant may 
show me to my apartment, or I shall again mount 
mv horse." 



" You shall not leave this room," said the grand- 
duke, with great firmness. 

" Who shall prevent uie 1" asked Vivian. 

" I will — all will !" said the grand-duke. 

" Now, by heavens ! a more insolent and inhos- 
pitable old ruifian did I never meet. By the wine 
you worship, if one dare touch me, you shall rue 
it all youi born days ; and as for you, sir, if you 
advance one step towards me, I'll take that sausage 
of a nose of yours and hurl you half round your 
own castle !" 

" Treason !" shouted all, and looked to the 
grand-duke. 

" Treason !" said the enraged majesty. The 
allusion to the nose had done away with all the 
constitutional doubts which his highness had 
sported so moderately at the commencement of ti.e 
evening. 

" Treason !" howled the gi-and-duke : " instant 
punishment !" 

" What punishment 1" asked Asmanshausen. 

"Drown him in the new butt of Moselle," re- 
commended Rudesheimer. The suggestion was 
immediately adopted. Every one rose : the little 
Geisenheim already had hold of Vivian's shoulder ; 
and Grafenberg, instigated by the cowardly but 
malicious Rudesheimer, was about to seize him by 
the neck. Vivian took the dwarf and hurled hiin 
at the chandelier, in whose brazen chains the little 
being got entangled, and there remained. An un- 
expected cross-buttocker floored the incautious and 
unscientific Grafenberg ; and following up these 
advantages, Vivian laid open the skull of his prime 
enemy, the retreating Margrave of Rudesheimer, 
with the assistance of the horn of Oberon ; which 
flew from his hand to the other end of the room, 
from the force with which it rebounded from the 
cranium of the enemy. All the rest were now on 
the advance ; but giving a vigorous and unexpected 
push to die table, the grand-duke and Asmans- 
hausen were thrown over, and the nose of the 
former got entangled with the awkward windings 
of the fairy king's horn. Taking advantage of 
this move, Vivian rushed to the door. He escaped, 
but had not time to secure the lock against the 
enemy, for the stout Elector of Steinberg was too 
quick for him. He dashed down the stairs with 
extraordinary agility; but just as he had gained 
the large octagonal hall, the whole of his late boon, 
companions, with the exception of the dwarf Gei- 
senheim, who was left in the chandelier, were visi- 
ble in full chase. Escape was impossible, and so 
Vivian, followed by the seven nobles, who were 
headed by the grand-duke, described with all pos- 
sible rapidity a circle round the hall. He, of 
course, gave himself up for lost ; but luckily for 
him, it never occurred to one of his pursuers to 
do any thing but follow their leader ; and as, 
therefore, they never dodged Vivian, and as also 
he was a much fleeter runner than the fat grand- 
duke, whose pace, of course, regulated the progress 
of his followers, the party might have gone on at 
this rate until all of them had dropped from fatigue, 
had not the occurrence of a still more ludicrous 
incident prevented this consummation. 

The hall-door was suddenly dashed open, and 
Essper George rushed in, followed in full chase by 
Hunsdrich and the guests of the lodge, who were 
the servants of Vivian's pursuers. Essper darted 
in between Rudesheimer and Markbrunnen, aiid 
Hunsdrich and his friends followmg the same t&c- 



128 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



lies as their lords and masters, without making any 
attempt to surround and hem in the o'oject of their 
pursuit, merely followed him in order ; describing, 
but in a contrary direction, a lesser circle within 
the eternal round of the first party. It was only 
proper for the servants to give their masters the 
wall. In spite of their very disagreeable and dan- 
gerous situation, it was with difiiculty that Vivian 
refrained from laughter as he met Essper regularly 
every half minute at the foot of the great staircase. 
Suddenly, as Essper passed, he took Vivian by the 
waist, and with a single jerk placed him on the 
stairs ; and then, with a dexterous dodge, he 
brought Hunsdrich the porter and the grand-duke 
in full contact. 

*' I have got you at last," said Hunsdrich, seiz- 
ing hold of his grace of Schoss Johannisberger by 
the ears, and mistaking him for Essper. 

" I have got you at last," said his royal highness, 
grappling with his porter, whom he supposed to 
be Vivian. Both struggled : their followers pushed 
on with irnpetuous force : the battle was general ; 
the overthrow universal. In a moment all were 
on the ground; and if any less inebriated, or more 
active indi\idual attempted to rise, Essper imme- 
dially brought him down with a boar-spear. 

" Give me that large fishing-net," said Essper 
to Vivian ; " quick, quick, your highness." 

Vivian pulled down an immense coarse net, 
which covered nearly five sides of the room. It 
was immediately unfolded, and spread over the 
fallen crew. To fasten it down with half a dozen 
boar-spears, which they drove into the floor, was 
the work of a moment. Essper had one pull at 
the proboscis of the Grand-duke of Schoss Johan- 
nisberger before he hun-ied Vivian away ; and in 
ten minutes they were again on their horses' 
backs, and galloping through the star-lit wood. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

It is the hour before the labouring bee has left his 
golden hive; not yet the blooming day buds in 
the blushing east ; not yet has the victorious Lu- 
cifer chased from the early sky the fainting splen- 
dour of the stars of night. All is silent, save the 
light breath of morn waking the slmnbering leaves. 
Even now a golden streak breaks over the gray 
mountains. Hark ! to shrill chanticleer ! As the 
cock crows, the owl ceases. Hark ! to shrill chan- 
ticleer's feathered rival ! the mounting lark springs 
from the sullen earth, and welcomes with his hymn 
the coming day. The golden streak has expanded 
into a crimson crescent, and rays of living fire flame 
over the rose-enamelled east. IWan rises sooner 
than the sun ; and already sound the whistle of the 
ploughman, the song of the mower, and the forge 
of the smith, — and hark ! to the bugle of the 
hunter, and the baying of liis deep-mouthed hound. 
The sun is up— the generatmg sun ! and temple, 
and tower, and tree ; the massy wood, and the 
broad field, and the distant hill, hurst into sudden 
I15IU — quickly up-curlcd is the dusky mist from the 
shining river — quickly is the cold dew drunk from 
the raised heads of the droopmg flowers ! 

These observations are not by our hero ; for al- 
though, lilie all other British youth, he had been 
accust sncd from an early age to scribble, and gene- 



rally devoted his powers to the celebration of sun- 
rise, sunset, the moon, the evening star, and the 
other principal planets ; nevertheless, at the present 
moment, he was far from being in a disposition to 
woo the muse. A quick canter, by a somewhat 
clearer light than the one which had so imfortu- 
natcly guided himself and his companion to the 
castle of the Grand-duke of Schoss Johannisberger, 
soon carried them again to the skirts of the forest, 
and at this minute they are emerging on the plain 
from yonder dark wood. 

" By heavens ! Essper, I cannot reach the town 
this morning. Was ever any thing more terribly 
unfortmiate ! A curse on those driJnken fools ! 
What with no rest, and no solid refreshment, and 
the whole rivers of hock that are flowing within 
me, and the infernal exertion of running round 
that vile hall, I feel fairly exhausted, and could at 
tliis moment fall from my saddle. See you no 
habitation, my good fellow, where there might be a 
chance of a breakfast and a few hom^s' rest 1 We 
are now well out of the forest — O ! surely there is 
smoke from behmd those pines ! Some good wife, 
I trust, is by her chimney-corner." 

" If my sense be not destro3'ed by the fumes of 
that mulled Geiscnheim, which still haunts me, I 
could sweai" that the smoke is the soul of a burning 
weed." 

" A truce to your jokes, good Essper, I really am 
veiy ill. A year am I could have laughed at our 
misfortmies, but no^ it is very diflerent ; and, by 
heavens, I must have breakfagt I So stir — exei* 
yourself, and although I die for it, let .us canter up 
to the smoke." 

• " No, my dear master, I will ride on before. 
Do you follow gently, and if there be a pigeon in 
the pot in all Gennany, I swear by the patron 
saint of every village for fifty miles round, provided 
they be not heretics, that you shall taste of its breast- 
bone this morning." 

The smoke did issue frOm a chimney, but the 
door of the cottage was shut. 

" Hilloa ! hilloa ! within, within !" shouted Ess- 
per ; " who shuts the sun out on a September 
morning 1" 

The door was at length slowly opened, and a 
most ill-favoured and inhospitable-looking dame 
demanded, in a sullen voice, " What's your will 1" 

" O ! you pretty creature !" said Essper, who 
was still a little tipsy. 

The door would have been shut in his face, had 
not he darted into the house before the woman was 
aware. 

" Truly, a very neat and pleasant dwelluig ! and 
you would have no objection, I guess, to give a 
handsome young gentleman some little sop of some- 
thing, just to remind him, you know, that it isn't 
dinner-time." 

" We give no sops here ; what do you take jus 
for] and so, my handsome j'oung gentleman, be 
ofl", or I shall call the goodman." 

" O ! you beauty : why, I'm not the handsome 
young gentleman, that's my master ! who, if he 
were not half stars'ed lo death, v%culd fall m love 
with you at first sight." 

" O ! your master — is he in the caiTiagc ''" 

" Carriage ! no — on horseback." 

"Travellers?" 

" To be sure, my dearest dame ; travellers true." 

"Travellers true, without luggage, and at thii 
time of morn ! Mcthuiks, by your looks, queei 



VIVIAN GREY. 



129 



fellow, that you're travellers v.hnm it may Le wise 
for an honest woman not to meet " 

'• What ! some people have an objection, then, 
to a forty krenser piece on a sunny morning." 

So saying, Essper, in a careless manner, tossed a 
broad piece in the air, and made it rmg on a fellow 
coin, as he caught it in the palm of his hand when 
it descended. 

" Is that your master 1" asked the woman. 

" Ay ! is it ; and the prettiest piece of flesh I've 
seen this month, except yourself." 

" Vl^ell ! if the gentleman likes bread, he can sit 
!own here," said the woman, pointing to a dirty 
iiench, and throwmg a sour black loaf upon the 
tabic. 

"Now, sir!" said Essper, wiping the bench with 
great care, " lie you here and rest yourself I've 
known a marshal sleep upon a harder sofa. 
Breakfast will be ready immediately, won't it, 
ma'am 1" 

" Haven't I given you the bread T If you can- 
not eat that, you may ride where you can find 
better cheer." 

" Yes ! you beauty — yes ! you angel — yes ! you 
sweet creature — but what's bread for a traveller's 
breakfast 1 But I dare say his highness will be 
contented — young men are so easily pleased when 
there's a pretty girl in the case — you know that, 
you wench ! you do, you little hussy, you're takiirg 
advantage of it." 

Something like a smile Ut up the face of the sul- 
len woman when she said — "There may be an 
egg in the house, but I don't know." 

'• But you will soon, you dear creature I you see 
his highness is in no hurry for his brcakilist. He 
hasn't touched the bread yet, he's thinking of you, 
I've no doubt of it ; now go and get the eggs, that's 
a beauty ! ! what a pretty foot !" bawled Essper 
after her, as she left the room. " Now confound 
tlris old hag, if there's not meat about this house, 
may I keep my mouth shut at our next dinner. I 
wonder what's in that closet ! — fastened I" Here 
the knave began sniffing and smelling in all the 
crevices. " ! here's our breakfast ! my good 
lady, is it so 1 "What's that in the comer 1 a 
boar's tusk I Ay ! ay ! a huntsman's cottage — 
and when lived a himtsmair on black bread before ! 
, Good cheer ! good cheer, sir ! we shall have such a 
breakfast to-day, that, by the gods of all nations, 
we .shall never forget it ! — ! bless your bright 
eyes for these eggs, and that basin of new milk." 

So saying, Essper took them out of her hand, 
and placed them before Vivian. 

"I was saying to myself, my pretty girl, when 
you were out of the room — ' Essper George, 
Essper George — good cheer, Essper George — say 
thy prayers, and never despair — come, what come 
may, you'll fall among friends at last ; and how do 
you know that your dream mayn't come true after 
all.' ' Dream !' said I to myself ' What dream 1' — 
' Dream I' said myself to I, 'didn't you dream that 
you breakfasted in the month of September with a 
genteel young woman, with gold ear-rings ; and 
isn't she standing before you now ! and didn't she 
do every thing in the world to make you comforta- 
ble 1 Didn't she give you milk and eggs, and when 
you complained that you and meat had lieen but 
slack friends of late, didn't she open lier own closet, 
and give you as fine a piece of hunting beef as was 
ever set before a jagd junker 1' — ! you beauty !" 

" I think you'll turn me into an inn-keeper's 
17 



wife at last," said the dame, her stem features re- 
laxing mto a smile ; and whUe she spoke she ad- 
vanced to the great closet, Essper George following 
her, walking on his toes, lolling out his enormous 
tongue, and stroking his mock paunch. As she 
opened it he jumped upon a chair, and had ex- 
amined every shelf in less time than a pistol could 
flash. " White bread ! O ! you beauty, fit for a 
countess. Salt ! O ! you angel, worthy of Poland. 
Boar's head ! ! O ! you sweet creature, no better 
at Troyes ! and hunting beef ! ! ! my dream is 
true !" and he bore in triumph to Vivian, who was 
nearly asleep, the ample round of salt and pickled 
beef, well stufied with all IdnJs of savoury herbs. 

" Now, sir !" said he, putting before his master a . 
plate and necessary implements ; " let your heart 
gladden — No, sir ! no, sir ! cut tlie other side — cut 
the other side — there's the silver edge. Now, sir, 
some fat — drink your milk — drink yoru- milk — such 
beef as this will soon settle all your Khenish, 
Why, your eyes are brighter already. Have you 
breakfasted, ma'am ] You have, eh ! — ! break- 
fast again — never too much of a good thing. I 
always breakfast myself till dinner-time ; and when 
dinner's finished, I begin my supper. Pray, where 
the devil are v.'e I — Is this Keisenberg ?" 

•' So we call it." 

" And a very good name, too ! — Let me give 
you a little stuffing, sir. And are the grand-duke's 
gentlemen out a huntmg 1" 

" No, it's the prince." 

" The prince — ah ! I dare say you've a little 
more milk. What a nice cottage this is ! How I 
should like to live here — with you though — with 
you — thank you for the milk — quite fresh — beauti- 
ful ! I'm my own man again ! How do you feel, 
sirr' 

" Thanks to this good woman, much better ; and 
with her kind permission, I will now rest myself on 
this bench for a couple of hours. This, good lady," 
said Vivian, giving her some florins, " I do not oflfer 
as a remuneration for your kindness, but as a 
slight token of " 

Here Vivian began to snore. Essper George, 
who always slept with his eyes open, and who 
never sat still for a second, save when eating, imme- 
diately left the table ; and in five minutes was as 
completely domesticated in the huntsman's cottage, 
as if he had lived there all his life. The woman 
was quite dehghted with a guest who, in the 
course of half an hour, had cleaned her house from 
top to bottom, dug up half her garden, mended her 
furniture, and milked her cow. 

It was nearly an hour before noon, ere the tra- 
vellers had remounted. Their road again entered 
the enormous forest which they had been skirting 
for the last two days. The huntsmen were abroad ; 
and the fine weather, his good meal, and seasona- 
ble rest, and the inspiring sounds of the bugle, 
made Vivian feel quite recovered from his late 
fatigues. 

" That must be a true-hearted huntsman, Essper, 
by the sound of his bugle. I never heard one 
played with more spirit. Hark ! how fine it dies 
away in the wood — fainter and fainter, yet how 
clear ! It must be now half a mile distant.", 

" I hear nothing so wonderful," said Essper, 
putting the two middle fingers of his right hand 
before his mouth, and sounding a note so clear and 
beautiful, so exactly iniitative of the fall which 
Vivian had noticed and admired, that for a moment 



130 



D ' I S R A E L r S NOVELS. 



he imngincJ that t]ic huntsman was at his el- 
Iviw. 

" Thou art a cunnini; knave ! — do it again." 
This time Esj^pcr made the very wood echo. In a 
few minutes a horseman galloped up. He was as 
spruce a cavalier as ever pricked gay steed on the 
pliant grass. He was dressed in a green military 
uniform, and a small gilt hugle luing down his 
side. His spear told them that he was hunting the 
wild hoar. When he saw Vivian and Essper he 
suddenly pulled up his horse, and seemed very 
much astonished. 

" I thought that his highness had heen here," 
sai'l tlic liuntsman. 

'' No one has passed us, sir," said Vivian. 

'• I could have sworn that his bugle sounded 
from this very spot," said the huntsman. " My 
ear seldom deceives nic." 

" We heard a bugle to the right, sir," said 
Essper. 

" Thanks, thanks, thanks, my friend," — and the 
liuntsman was about to gallop off. 

'■ May I ask the name of his highness," said 
Vivian. 

•' We are strangers in this country." 

" That may certainly account for your igno- 
rance," said the huntsman; " but no one who lives 
in this land can be unacquainted with his Serene 
Highness the Prince of Ijiltlc Lilliput, my illus- 
trious mxster. I have the honour," continued the 
hunt-sman, "of being jagd junker, or gentilhomme 
de la chasse to his serene highness." 

" 'Tis an ofhce of great dignity," said Vivian, 
" and one that I have no doubt you most admirably 
jxTforni — I will not stop you, sir, to admire your 
horse." 

The huntsman bowed very courteously, and 
galloped off. 

" You see, sir," said Essper George, " that my 
nugle has deceived even the jagd junker, or gentii- 
hoinme de la chasse of Ids 8erene Highness the 
Prince of Little Lilliput himself;" so saying, 
Essjjpr again sounded his instrument. 

" A joke may be carried too far, my good fel- 
low," said ^'^ivian. " A true huntsman, like my- 
self, must not spoil a brother's sport. So silence 
your bugle." 

Now again galloped up the jagd junker, or 
gentilhomme de la chasse of his Herene Highness 
the Prince of Little Lilliput. He pulled up his 
horse again, apparently as much astounded as 
ever. 

" I thought that his highness had been liere," 
said the huntsman. 

" No one has passed us," said Vivian. 

" We heard a bugle to the right," said Essper 
(leorge. 

" I am afraid his serene highness must be in 
distress. The whole suite are olV the scent. It 
must have been his bugle, for the regulations of 
ihis forest are so strict, that no one dare sound a 
Mast but his s««rene higlincss." Away galloped 
the huntsman. 

" Next time I must give you up, Essper," said 
Vivian. 

" One more blast, my good master!" begged 
Essper, in a very Mupplieating voice. " This tinie 
to the left — ihe confusion will Ih" then romplete." 

" On yiiur life not — I command you not," and 
Hrt they rode on in Milence. 15 ut it was one of 
tiioscdays when E>.sjt«r could neither be oilent nor 



subdued. Greatly annoyed at not being permitted 
to play his bugle, he amused himself for some time 
by making the most hideous grimaces ; but as 
there were none either to admire or to be alarmed 
by the contortions of his countenance, tliis diver- 
sion soon palled. He then endeavoured to find 
some entertainment in riding his horse in every 
mode except the right one ; but again, who was to 
be astounded by his standing on one foot on the 
saddle, or by his imitations of the ludicrous shifts 
of a female equestrian, perfectly ignorant of the 
manege. At length lie rode with his back to his 
horse's liead, and imitated the peculiar sound of 
every animal that he met. A young fawn, and 
va-rious kinds of birds already followed him ; and 
even a squirrel had perched on his horse's neik. 
And now they came to a small farm-house which 
was situated in the forest. The yard here offered 
great amusement .td Essper. He neighed, and 
half a dozen horses' heads immediately appeared 
over the hedge ; another neigh, and they were fol- 
lowing him in the road. The dog rushed out to 
seize the dangerous stranger, and recover his 
charge : but Essper gave an amicable bark, and in 
a second the dog wa-s jumping by his side, and en- 
gaged in the most earnest and friendlj- conversa- 
tion. A loud and continued grunt soon brought 
out the pigs ; and meeting three or four cows re- 
turning home, a few lowing sounds soon seduced 
them from keeping their appointment with the 
dairymaid. A stupid jackass, who stared with 
astonishment at the procession, was saluted witli a 
lusty bray, which immediately induced him to 
swell the ranks : and !\s Essjx'r passed the poultry- 
yard, he so deceitfully informed the inhabitants 
that they were about to be led, that twenty broods 
of ducks and chickens were immediately after 
him. The careful hens were terribly alarmed at 
the danger which their ollspring incurred from the 
heels and hoofs of the quadrupeds ; but while they 
were in doubt and despair, a whole flock of stately 
geese issued in solemn pomp from another gate of 
the farm-j'ard, and commenced a cackling conver- 
sation with the delighted Essper. So contagious 
is the force of example, and so great was the con- 
fidence which the hens place in these pompous 
geese, who were not the first fools whose solemn 
air has deceived a iew old females ; that as soon as 
the}' perceived them in the train of the horsemen, 
they also trotted up to pay their resjjects at his 
levee. And here Vivian Grey stopped his horse, 
and burst into a fit of laughter. 

But it was not a moment for mirth ; for rushing 
down the road with awful strides appeared two 
sturdy and enraged husbandmen, one armed wiih a 
pike, and the other with a jiiteh-fork, and uccom- 
panied by a frantic female, who never for a moment 
ceased hallooinir. " ]^f urder. rape, and fire!" every 
thing but " theft." 

" .Now, Essper. here's a jirelty scraj)e !" 

" Slop, you laseals I" hallooed Adolph the 
herdsman. 

".•Slop, you irang of thieves!" hallooed Wil 
helm the ploughman. 

" f?>top, you bioiKly murderers !" shrieked Phil 
lippa, the indignant mistress of tJie dairy and the 
jioullry-yard. 

" Stop, you villains !" hallooed all three. The 
villains certainly made no attempt to eseo])e, and 
ill half a second the enraged lious<>hold of the 
I'oiest fanner would have seized on Essper Geo'ge; 



VIVIAN GREY. 



131 



but just at this crisis he uttered loud sounds in the 
respective lunguage of every bird and heast about 
hin»,; and suddenly they all turned round, and 
counter-marched. Away rushed the terrified 
Adolph the herdsman, while one of his own cows 
was on his back. Still quicker scampered off the 
scared Wilhelm the ploughman, while one of his 
own steeds kicked him in his rear. Quicker than 
all these, shouting, screaming, shrieking, dashed 
back the unhappy mistress of the hen-roost, with 
all her subjects crowding about her ; some on her 
elbow, some on her head, her lace cap destroyed, 
her whole dress disorganized. Another loud cry 
from Essper George, and the retreating birds 
cackled with redoubled vigour. Still louder were 
the neighs of the horses, the bray of the jackass, 
and the barking of the dog, the squeaking of the 
swine, and the lowing of the cows ! Essper en- 
joyed the scene at his ease, leaning his back in a 
careless manner against his horse's neck. The 
movements of the crowd were so quick that they 
were soon out of sight. 

" A trophy !" called out Essper, as he jumped 
off his horse, and picked up the pike of Adolph 
the herdsman. 

" A boar-spear, or I am no huntsman," said 
Vivian — " give it me a moment !" He threw it up 
into the air, and caught it with ease, poised it on 
his linger with the practised skill of one well used 
to handle the weapon, and with the same delight 
iiiiprinted on his countenance as gi'cets the sight 
of an old friend. 

" This forest, Essper, and this spear, make me 
remember days when I was vain enough to think 
that I had been sufficiently visited with sorrow. 
Ah ! little did I then know of human misei-y, 
although I imagined I had suffered so much ! — 
But not my will be done !" muttered A'^ivian to 
himself. 

As he spoke, the sounds of a man in distress 
were heard from the right side of the road. 

" Who calls, who calls 1" cried Essper ; a shout 
was the only answer. There was no path, but the 
underwood was low, and Vivian took his horse, an 
old forester, across it with ease. Essper's jibbed. 
Vivian found himself in a small green glade of 
about thirty feet square. It was thickly surrounded 
with lofty trees, save at the point where he had en- 
tered ; and at the farthest corner of it, near some 
gray rocks, a huntsman was engaged in a desperate 
contest with a wild boar. 

The huntsman was on his right knee, and held 
his spear with both hands at the furious beast. It 
was an animal of extraordinary size and power. 
Its eyes glittered like fire. On the tui-f to its right 
a small gray mastiff, of powerful make, lay on its 
back, bleeding profusely, with its body ripped open. 
Another dog, a fawn-coloured bitch, had seized on 
the left ear of the beast ; but the under-tusk of the 
boar, which was nearly a loot long, had penetrated 
the courageous dog, and the poor creature writhed 
in agony, even while it attempted to wreak its 
revenge upon its enemy. The huntsman was 
nearly exhausted. Had it not been for the courage 
of the fawn-coloured dog, which, clinging to the 
boar, prevented it making a full dash at the man, 
he must have been instantly gored. Vivian was 
©ff his horse in a minute, which, frightened at the 
sight of the wild boar, dashed again over the 
hedge, 

" Keep firm, keep finn, sir !" said he, " do not 



move. I'll amuse him behind, and make him 
turn."' 

A graze of Vivian's spear on its back, though it 
did not materially injure the beast, for there the 
boar is nearly invulnerable, annoyed it ; and dash- 
ing off the fawn-coloured dog, with great force, it 
turned on its new assailant. Now there are only 
two places in which the wild boar can be assailed 
with any effect ; and these are just between the 
eyes, and between the shoulders. Great caution, 
however, is necessary in aiming these blows, for 
the boar is very adroit in transfixing the weapon 
on his snout, or his tusks ; and if once you juiss, 
particularly if you are not assisted by your dogs, 
which Vivian was not, 'tis all over with you ; for 
the enraged animal rushes in like lightning, and 
gored you must be. 

But Vivian was quite fresh, and quite cool. 
The animal suddenly stood still, and eyed its new 
enemy. Vivian was quiet, for he had no objection 
to give the becst an opportunity of retreating to 
its den. But retreat was not its object — it sud- 
denly darted at the huntsman, who, however, was 
not off his guard, though unable from a slight 
woxmd in his knee to rise. Vivian again annoyed 
the boar at the rear, and the animal soon returned 
to him. He made a feint, as if he were about to 
strike his spike between its eyes. The boar not 
feeling a wound, which had not been inflicted, and 
very irritated, rushed at him, and he buried his 
spear a foot deep between its shoulders. The 
beast made one i'earful struggle, and then fell 
down quite dead. The fawn-coloured bitch, 
though terribly wounded, gave a loud bark ; and 
even the other dog, which Vivian thought had 
been long dead, testified its triumphant joy by an 
almost inarticulate groan. As soon as he was 
convinced that the boar was really dead, Vivian 
hastened to the liuntsman, and expressed his hope 
that he was not seriously hurt. 

" A trifle, a trifle, which our surgeon, who is 
used to these affairs, will quickly cure — Sir ! we 
owe you our life !" said the huntsman, with great 
dignity, as Vivian assisted him in rising from the 
ground. He was a tall man, of imposing appear- 
ance ; but his dress, which was the usual hunting 
costume of a German nobleman, did not indicate 
his quality. 

" Sir, we owe you our life !" repeated the stran- 
ger ; " five minutes more, and our son must have 
reigned in Little Lilliput." 

" I have the honour then of addressing your 
serene highness. Far from being indebted to mc, 
I feel that I ought to apologize for having so un- 
ceremoniously joined in your sport." 

" Nonsense, man, nonsense ! We have killed 
in our time too many of these gentlemen, to be 
ashamed of owning that, had it not been for you, 
one of them would at last have revenged the spe- 
cies. But many as are the boars that we have 
killed or eaten, we never saw a more furious or 
more powerful animal than the present. Why, 
sir, you must be one of the best hands at the spear 
in all Christendom !" 

" Indifferently good, your highness : your Iiigh- 
ness forgets that the animal was already exhausted 
by your assault." 

"Why, there's something in that; but it was 
neatly done, man — it was neatly done. — You're 
fond of the sport, we think 1" 

" I have had some practice, but illness has 



132 



D ' I S R A E L I ' S NOVELS, 



60 weakened me that I have given up the fo- 
rest." 

'• Indeed! pity, pity, pity! and on a second 
rxiiniination, v\e obscn-e that you are no hunter. 
Tliis cont is not for the free forest ; but how came 
you by the pike?" 

'■ I tini travelUng to the next post town, to which 
I have sent on my luggage. I am getting fast to 
the south ; and as for this pike, my seri-ant got it 
tliis nioniing from some peasant in a brawl, and 
was showing it to me when I heard your highness 
rail. I really think now that Providence must 
have sent it. I certainly could not have done you 
much service with my riding wliiji — Hilloa ! Ess- 
pcr, Es.«per, where are you]" 

'• Here, noble sir ! here, here — why what have 
you got there'! The horses have jibbed, and will 
not stir — I can stay no longer — they may go to 
the devil !" So saying, Vivian's valet dashed over 
the underwood, and leaped at the foot of the 
prince. 

" In God's name, is this thy servant V asked his 
highness. 

'• In good faith am I," said Essper ; " his valet, 
his cook, and his secretary, all in one ; and also 
h.is jagd junker, or gentilhomme de la chasse — as 
a puppy with a bugle horn told me this morning." 

" A very merry knave !" sard the prince ; " and 
talking of a puppy with a bugle horn, reminds us 
how unaccountably we have been deserted to-day 
by a suite that never yet were wanting. We arc 
indeed astonished. Our bugle, we fear, has turned 
traitor." So sa_\inii, the prince executed a blast 
with great skill, which Vivian immediately recog- 
nised as the one which Essper George had so 
admirably imitated. 

'• And now, my good friend," said the prince, 
'■ we cannot hear of your passing through our land, 
without visiting our good castle. We would that 
we could better testify the obligation which wc 
feel under to yon, in any other way than by the 
offer of a hosjiitality which all gentlemen, by right, 
can command. But your presence would, indeed, 
give us sincere pleasure. You must not refuse us. 
Your looks, as well as your prowess, prove your 
Mood ; and we are quite sure no cloth -merchant's 
order will suffer by your not hurrk-ing to your pro- 
posed point of destination, \^'e are not wrong, we 
think, — though your accent is good, — in supposing 
that we are conversing with an English gentleman. 
But here they come." 

As he spoke, three or four horsemen, at the 
head of wliom was the young huntsman whom 
the travellers had met in the morning, sprang into 
the chide. 

" Why, Amelni !" said the prince, "when before 
was the jagd junker's ear so bad that he could not 
di»>cover his master's bugle, even tliough tlie wind 
were against him'!" 

" In truth, your highness, we h.ive heard bugles 
enough this morning. Who is violating the forest 
laws, wc know not ; but that another bugle is 
sounding, and played, — St. Hubert forgive me for 
H.iying so, — with as great skill as your highness', 
is certain. Mvself, Von Neuwicd, and Lint7., have 
been cnllnpiii)^ over the whole forest, 'i'he rest, I 
di)ubt not, will be up directly." The jagd junker 
blew hi« own bugle. 

In the course of five minutes .ibout twenty 
otho< l.orfcmeii, all dressed in the same uni- 
fonr., hud arrived ; all complaining of their wild 



chases after the prince in every other part of the 
forest. 

"It must be the Wild Huntsman himylfl" 
swore an old hand. ITiis solution of the mystery 
satisfied all. 

" Well, well !" said the prince ; " whoever it 
may be, had it not been for the timely presence 
of this gentleman, you must have changed your 
green jackets for mourning coats, and our bugle 
would have sounded no more in the forests of our 
fathers. Here, Arnclm ! — cut up the beast, — and 
remember that the left shoulder is the quarter of 
honour, and belongs to this stranger; — not less 
honoured because imknown." 

All present took off their caps and bowed to 
Vivian ; who took this opportunity of informing 
the prince who he was, 

" And now," continued his highness, " Mr. Grey 
will accompany us to our castle ; — nay, sir, wc can 
take no refusal. We will send on to the town for 
your luggage. Arnelm, do you look to this! — 
And, honest friend !" said the prince, turning to 
Essper George, — " we commend you to the special 
care of our friend Von Keuwied, — and so, gentle- 
men, with stout hearts and spurs to your steeds — 
to the castle !" 



CHAPTER XVin. 

The cavalcade proceeded for some time at u 
verj- brisk but irregidar pace, until they arrived at 
a less wild and wooded part of the forest. The 
Prince of Little Lilliput reined in his steed as he 
entered a verj- broad avenue of purple beeches, at 
the end of which, though at a considerable distance, 
^'ivian perceived the towers and turrets of a Gothic 
edifice glittering in the sunshine. 

" Welcome to Turriparva !" said his highness. 

" I assure your highness," said Vivian, " that I 
view with no unpleasant feeling, the prospect of a 
reception in any civilized mansion ; for to say tlie 
truth, for the last cight-and-forty hours, Fortune 
has not favoured me cither in my researches after 
a bed, or that which some tliink still more impor- 
tant than nightly repose." 

"Is it so !" said the prince; " why, we should 
have thought by your home-thrust this morning, 
that you were as fresh as the early lark. In good 
faith, it was a pretty stroke ! And whence come 
you then, good sir?" 

" Know you a most insane and drunken idiot, 
who .styles himself tlie Grand-duke of Schosj* 
Johannisberger ?" 

" No, no !" said the prince, staring in Vivian's 
face ven,- earnestly, and then bursting into a louil 
fit of lauijhter ; " IVo, no, it cannot be ! hah ! hah ! 
hah ! but it is, though ; and you have aetuallv 
fallen among that mad crew. Hah! hah! hah! 
a most excellent adventure ! Arnelm ! why, man, 
where ait thou ? ride up, ride up ! Behold in the 
l>erson of this gentleman a new victim to the over- 
whclniiuK hospitality of our uncle of tlie Wines. 
And did they confer a title on you on the spot? 
Say, art thou elector, or palsgrave, or biuron ; or, 
failint; in thy devoirs, as once did our good cousin 
Antelm, confess that thou wert ordained with be- 
coming reverence, the Arehpriniate of l"uddl<»- 
driiik. Eh! Anielni, is not that ll:c ttjle thou 
beurest at tl>c Palace of the Wines?" 



VIVIAN GREY. 



133 



" So it would seem, your highness. I think the 
title was conferred on me the same night that your 
highness mistook the grand duke's proboscis for 
Oberon's horn, and committed treason not yet par- 
doned." 

" Hah ! hah ! hah ! good ! good ! good ! thou 
hast as there. Truly a good memory is often as 
ready a friend as a sharp wit. Wit is not thy 
strong point, friend Arnelm ; and yet it is strange, 
that in the sharp encounter of ready tongues and 
idle logomachies, thou hast sometimes the advan- 
tage. But, nevertheless, rest assured, good cousin 
Arnelm, that wit is not thy strong point." 

" It is well for me that all are not of the same 
opinion as your serene highness ;" said the young 
jagd junker, somewhat nettled ; for he prided him- 
self peculiarly on his repartees. 

The prince was exceedingly diverted with Vi- 
vian's account of his last night's adventure ; and 
our hero learned from his highness, that his late 
host was no less a personage than the cousin of the 
Prince of Little Lilliput, an old German baron, 
who passed his time with some neighbours of con- 
genial temperament, in hunting the wild boar in 
the morning, and speculating on the flavours of the 
fine Rhenish wines during the rest of the day. 
" He and his companions," continued the prince, 
" will enable you to form a tolerably accurate idea 
of the character of the German nobility half a cen- 
tury ago. The debauch of last night was the 
usual carouse which crowned the exploits of each 
day when we were a boy. The revolution has 
rendered all these customs obsolete. Would that 
it had not sent some other things equally out of 
fashion !" 

At this moment the prince sounded his bugle, 
and the gates of the castle, which were not more 
than twenty yards distant, were immediately thrown 
open. The whole cavalcade set spurs to their 
steeds, and dashed at full gallop over the hollow- 
sounding drawbridge, into the court-yard of the 
castle. A crowd of sarving-men in green liveries, 
instantly appeared ; and Arnelm and Von Neuwied, 
jumping from their saddles, respectively held the 
stirrup and the bridle of the prince as he dismounted. 

" Where is Master Rodolph V asked his high- 
ness, with a loud voice. 

" So please your serene highness, I am here !" 
answered a very thin treble ; and bustling through 
the surrounding crowd, came forward the owner of 
the voice. Master Rodolph was not above five feet 
high, but he was nearly as broad as he was long. 
Though more than middle-aged, an almost infantile 
smile played upon his broad fair face ; to which his 
small turn-up nose, large green, goggle eyes, and 
unmeaning mouth, gave no expression. His long 
hair hung over his shoulders, the flaxen locks in 
some places maturing into gray. In compliance 
with the taste <vf his master, this most unsportsman- 
like-looking steward was clad in a green jerkin, on 
the right arm of which was embroidered a giant's 
head — the crest of the Little Lilliputs. 

" Truly, rV»dolph, we have received some scratch 
in the chase to-day, and need your assistance. The 
best of surgeons, we assure you, Mr. Grey, if you 
require one : — and look you that the blue chamber 
be prepared for this gentleman ; and we shall have 
need of our cabinet this evening. See that all 
this be done, and inform Prince Maximilian that 
we would speak with him. And look you. Master 
Rodolph, there is one in this company, — what call 



you your servant's name, sir? — Essper George! 
'tis well : look you, Rodolph, see that our friend 
Essper George be well provided for. We know 
that we can trust him to your good care. And 
now, gentlemen, at sunset we meet in the Giant's 
Hall." So saying, his highness bowed to the 
party ; and taking Vivian by the arm, and followed 
by Arnelm and Von Neuwcid, he ascended a stair- 
case which opened into the court, and then mount- 
ed into a covered gallery which ran round the 
whole building. The interior wall of the gallery 
was alternately ornamented with stags' heads, or 
other trophies of the chase, and coats of arms bla- 
zoned in stucco. The prince did the honours of 
the castle to Vivian with great courtesy. The 
armoury, and the hall, the knight's chamber, and 
even the d(mjon-keep were all examined; and when 
Vivian had sufficiently admired the antiquity of 
the structure, and the beauty of the situation, the 
prince, having proceeded down a long corridor, 
opened the door into a small chamber which he 
introduced to Vivian as his cabinet. The furniture 
of this room was rather quaint, and not unpleasing. 
The wainscot and ceiling were painted alike, of a 
very light green colour, and were richly carved and 
gilt. The walls weie hmig with dark green velvet, 
of which costly material were also the chairs and a 
sofa, which was placed under a large and curiously 
cut looking-glass. The lower panes of the windows 
of this room were of stained glass, of the most vivid 
tints ; but the upper panes were untinged, in order 
that the light should not be disturbed which fell 
through them upon two magnificent pictures ; one 
a hunting piece by Schneiders, and the other a 
portrait of an armed chieftain on horseback, by 
Lucas Cranch. 

And now the door opened, and Master Rodolph 
entered, carrying in his hand a white wand, and 
bowing very reverently as he ushered in two ser 
vants bearing a cold collation. As he entered, it 
was with dithculty that he could settle his counte- 
nance into the duo and requisite degree of gravity; 
and so often was the fat steward on the point of 
bursting into laughter, as he arranged the setting 
ont of the refreshments on the table, that the prince, 
with whom he was, at the same time, both a favour- 
ite and a butt, at last noticed his unusual and un- 
manageable risibility. 

" Why, Rodolph, what ails thee 1 hast thou just 
discovered the point of some good saying of yester- 
day ?" 

The steward could now contain his laughter no 
longer, and he gave vent to his emotion in a most 
treble " He ! he I he !" 

" Speak, man, in the name of St. Hubert, and on 
the word of as stout a huntsman as ever yet crossed 
horse. Speak, we say, what ails thee 1" 

" He ! he ! he ! in truth, a most comical knave ! 
I beg your serene highness ten thousand pardons, 
but in truth a more comical knave did I never see. 
How call you him ? Essper George, I think, he ! 
he ! he ! In truth, your highness was right when 
you styled him a merry knave — in truth a most 
comical knave — he ! he ! he ! a very funny knave ! 
he ! he ! he ! He says, your highness, that I'm like 
a snake in a consumption ! — he ! he ! he ! in truth 
a most comical knave I" 

" Well, Rodolph, as long as you do not quarrel 
with his jokes they shall pass as true wit. But 
why comes not our son ? Have you bidden the 
Prince Maximilian to our presence 1" 
M 



134 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" In truth have I, your highness ; but he wok 
engaged at the i:ionicnt with Mr. Sievers, and there- 
fore he could not immediately attend my bidding ; 
nevertheless, he bade nic deliver to your serene 
highness his dutiful alTcction ; saying, that he 
would soon have the honour of bending his knee 
unto your serene highness." 

•• He never said any such nonsense. At least, 
if he did, he must be much changed since last we 
Ijuited." 

" In truth, your highness, I cannot aver upon 
my conscience as a faithful steward, that such were 
the precise words and exact phraseology of his 
highness, tlie Prince Maximilian. But in the time 
of the good prince, your father, whose memory be 
ever blessed, such were the words and style of 
nessage, which I was schooled and instructed by 
Mr. Von Lexicon, your serene highness's most 
honoured tutor, to bear unto the good prince your 
father, whose memory be ever blessed ; when I had 
the great fortune of being your serene highness's 
most particular page, and it fell to my lot to have 
the pleasant duty of informing tlie good prince, 
your father, whose memory be ever blessed — " 

" Enough ! enough ! but Sievers is not Von 
Lexicon, and Maximilian, we trust, is — " 

'• Papa ! papa I — dearest papa !" shouted a young 
lad, as lie dashed open the door ; and rushing into 
the room, threw his arms around the prince's neck. 

" My darling !" said the father, forgetting at this 
moment of genuine feeling, the pompous plural in 
which he liad hitherto spoken of himself. The 
prince fondly kissed his child. The boy was about 
ten years of age, exquisitely handsome. Courage, 
;iot audacity, was imprinted on his noble features. 

" Papa ! may I hunt with you to-morrow 1" 

" M'hat says Mr. Sievers V 

" I Mr. Sievers says I am an excellent fellow ; 
I assure you upon my honour he does. I heard 
you come home ; but though I was dying to see 
you, I would not run out till I had finished my 
Roman History. I say ! papa I wliHt a grand fellow 
Brutus was — what a grand thing it is to be a 
jiatriot ! I intend to be a patriot myself, and to 
kill the Grand-duke of Keisenberg Papa, who's 
that !" 

" My friend, Max, Mr. Grey. Speak to him." 

" I am very happy to see you at Turriparva, 
«ir," said the boy, bowing to Vivian with great 
dignity, " Have you been hunting with his high- 
ness this morning I" 

" I can liardly say I have." 

" Max, I have received a slight wound to-day. — 
Don't lodk alarmed — it is verj' slight. I only men- 
tion it, because had it not been for this geritleman, 
it is verj' probable you would never have seen your 
fjlher again. He has saved my life T'' 

" Saved your life ! saved my |>apa's life !" said 
the young prince, seizing Vivian's hand — "()! 
bir, what can I do for you 1 Mr. Sievers !" said 
the boy, with great eagerness, to a gentleman who 
entered the room — " Mr. Sievers ! hero is a young 
lord who has saved papa's life !" 

Mr. Sievers wiw u very tall, thin man, perhajis 
about forty, with a clear sallow complexion, a high 
forehead, on which a few wrinkles were visible, 
very bright keen eyo«, narrow arched brows, and a 
quantity of gray curling hair, which was comlied 
back ollhis forehead, and fell dnwn over liin shoul- 
ders. He was iuHUuitly introilm-t-d to \'ivi m as 
the princc'ii niotit particular friend ; luul then he 



listened, apparently with great interest, to his high- 
ness's narrative of the morning's adventure; his 
danger, and his rescue. Young Maximilian never 
took his large, dark-blue eyes otl" his father while 
he was speaking ; and when he had finished, the 
boy rushed to Vivian, and threw his anns round 
his neck. A'ivian was delighted with the affection 
of the chiltl, who whispered to hun, in a low voice 
— " I know vvhat you are !" 

" What, my young friend J" 

" Ah I I know." 

" But tell me !" 

"You thought I shouldn't find out: — you're a 
— patriot I" 

" I hope I am," said Vivian ; " but travelling in 
a foreign counti-y is hardly a proof of it. Perhaps 
you do not know that I am an Englishman."' 

" An Englishman !" said the child, with an air 
of great disappointment — " I thoucht you were a 
patriot ! I am one. Do you know, I'll tell you a 
secret. You must promise not to tell, tliough. — 
Promi.se — upon your word ! Will, then," said the 
urchin, whispering with great energy in "\'ivian's 
ear, through his hollow fist: — "I halo the Grand- 
duke of Keisenberg, and I mCnn to stab liim to the 
heart;" so saying, the little prince, grated his teeth 
with an expression of the most litter detestation. 

" What the devil is the matter with the child !" 
thought Vivian ; but at this momcnl his conversa- 
tion with him was interrupted. 

'• Am I to believe this young gentleman, my dear 
Sievers," asked the prince, "when he tells me that 
his conduct has met your approbation ?" 

" Your son, prince," answered Mr. Sievers, "can 
onlj- s])cak truth. His excellence is proved by my 
praising him to his face." 

The young Maximilian, when ]\Tr. Sievers had 
ceased speaking, stood blushing, with his eyes fixed 
on the ground ; and llie delighted jiareiit catching 
his child up in his lums, embraced him with uu- 
alfected fondness. 

" And now, all this time Master Rodolph is 
waiting for his patient. By St. Hubert, you can 
none of you think me \CTy ill ! Your pardon, Mr. 
Grey, for leaving you. S\y friend Sievers will, I 
am sure, be delighted to make youffeel at ease at 
Turriparva. Max, come with me !'' 

Vivian found in Mr. Sievers a very interesting 
comjjanion ; notliing of the pedant, and much of 
the ]<hilosoplur. Their conversation was of course 
chii'fiy on topics of local interest, an«'cdotes of the 
castle and the country-, of Vivian's friends, the 
drunken Johannisberger and his crew, and such 
nraltcrs ; but there was a keenness of satire in some 
of Mr. Sievers' observations which was highly amus- 
ing, and enough passed to make Vivian desire op- 
l)ortunities of conversing w itli him at greater length, 
and on subjects of greater interrst. They were at 
l)rA'sent disturbed by Essper (.nurge riilering the 
room to inform Vivian that his luu^ape had arrived 
from the village; and that the blue chandler was 
now ]ireparetl fur his pcesence. 

" We shall me( t, I sujipose, in the hall, Mr. 
Sievers 1" 

"No, I shall not dine there. If you remain ai 
Turrijiarva, which I trust you will, I shall be hajpy 
to SCO you in my room. If it have no otlwr in 
(lucement to qiiin it the honour of your vi.sit, it ha* 
here, at least, the reconimentlatitiu of sinv-ulaiity , 
there is, at any rate, no other chamber Like it ui 
thit) good cufctlc." 



VIVIAN GREY, 



135 



The business of the toilet is sooner performed 
for a hunting party in a German forest, than for a 
state dinner at Chateau Desir ; and Vivian was 
ready long before ho was summoned. 

" His serene highness has commenced his pro- 
gress towards the hall," announced Essper George 
to Vivian, in a very treble voice, and bowing with 
great ceremony as he olfercd to lead the way, with 
a long white wand waving in his right hand. 

"I shall attend his highness," said his master; 
" but before I do, if that white wand be not imme- 
diately laid aside, it will be broken at your back." 

" Bruken about my back ! Vv-liat, the wand of office 
of your highness' steward ! Master Rodolph says 
that, in truth, a steward is but half himself who 
hath not his wand. Methinks when his rod of 
office is wanting, his Highness of Lilliput's steward 
is but unequally divided. In truth he is stout 
enough to be Aaron's wand, that swallowed up all 
the rest. But has your nobleness really any serious 
objection to my carrying a wand 1 It gives such an 
air ! I really thought your highness could have no 
serious objection. It cost me a good hour's talking 
with Master Rodolph to gain his pennission. I was 
obliged to swear that he was a foot taller than my- 
self, ere he would consent; and then only on the 
condition that my wand should be full twelve 
inches shorter than Iiis own. The more's the pity," 
continued Essper : " it spoils the sport, and makes 
me seem but half a steward after all. By the 
honour of my mother ! it shall go hard with me if 
I do not pick the pith of his rush this night! 
Twelve inches shorter! you must have a conscience, 
Master Rodolph !" 

" Come, come, silence ! and no more of this frip- 
pery." 

" No, your highness, not a word, not a word ; — 
but twelve inches, your highness — twelve inches 
shorter, what do you think of that 1 Twelve inches 
shorter thim Master Rodolph's — Master Rodolph, 
forsooth ! — Master Treble-Paunch ! If he had as 
much brains in his head, as he has something else 
in his body, why then, your highness " 

" No more, no more !" 

" Not a word, not a word, your highness ! Not 
a word should your highness ever have heard, but 
for the confounded folly of this goggle-eyed gander 
of a steward : — twelve inches, in good truth ! — 
Why, twelve inches, your highness — twelve inches 
is no tritle — twelve inches is a size — twelve inches 
is only six shorter than the Grand-duke of Schoss 
Johannisberger's nose." 

" It matters little, Essper, for I shall tolerate no 
such absurdities." 

"Your highness is the best judge — it isn't for me 
to d-iffer with your highness. I am not arguing for 
the wand ; I am only saying, your highness, that if 
that overgrown anchovy, whom they call Master 
Rodolph had shown a little more sense upon the 
occasion, why then I should have had a better 
opinion of his judgment; as it is, the day he can 
tell me the morrow of Easter eve, I'll make a house 
steward of a Michaelmas goose." 

The Giants' Hall was a Gothic chamber of im- 
posing appearance. The oaken rafters of the curi- 
ously carved roof rested on the grim heads of 
gigantic figures of the same material. These statues 
extended the length of the hall on each side ; they 
were elaborately sculptured and highly polished, 
and each one held in its outstretched arm a blazing 
and aromatic torch. Above them, small windows 



of painted glass admitted a light which was no 
longer necessary at the banquet to which I am now 
about to introduce the reader. Over the great 
entrance doors was a gallery, from which a band 
of trumpeters, arrayed in ample robes of flowing 
scarlet, sent forth many a festive and martial strain. 
More than fifty individuals, all wearing hunting- 
dresses of green cloth on which the giant's head 
was carefully emblazoned, were already seated in 
the hall when Vivian entered. He was conducted 
to the upper part of the chamber, and a seat was 
allotted him on the left hand of the prince. His 
highness had not arrived, but a chair of state, placed 
under a crimson canopy, denoted the style of its 
absent owner ; and a stool, covered with velvet of 
the Same regal colour and glistening with gold lace, 
announced that the presence of Prince Maximilian 
was expected. While Vivian was musing in as- 
tonishment at the evident afiectation of royal pomp 
which pei-vaded the whole establishment of the 
Prince of Little Lilliput, the trumpeters in the gal- 
leiy suddenly commenced a tvium;)hant flourish. 
All rose as the princely procession entered the 
hall. First came Master Rodolph, twirling his 
white wand with the practised pride of a drum- 
major, and looking as pompous as a turkey-cock 
in a storm. Six footmen in splendid liveries, two 
by two, immediately followed him. A page herald- 
ed the Prince Maximilian, and then came the serene 
father ; the jagd junker, and four or five other gen- 
tlemen of the court formed the suite. 

His highness ascended the throne. Prince Maxi- 
milian was on his right, and Vivian had the high 
honour of the left hand; the jagd junker seated 
himself next to our hero. The table was profusely 
covered, chiefly with the sports of the forest, ano 
the celebrated wild boar was not forgotten. Few 
minutes had elapsed ere Vivian perceived that his 
highness was always served on bended knee. Sur- 
prised at this custom, which even the highest and 
most despotic monarchs seldom exact, and still more 
surprised at the contrast which all this state aflbrd- 
ed to the natural ease and aflable amiability of the 
prince, Vivian ventured to ask his neighbour 
Amelm whether the banquet of to-day was in cele- 
bration of any particular event of general or indi- 
vidual interest. 

" By no means," said the jagd junker ; " this 
is the usual style of the prince's daily meal, except 
that to-day there is perhaps rather less state and 
fewer guests than usual ; in consequence of many 
of our fellow-subjects having left us with the pur- 
pose of attending a great hunting party, which is 
now being held in the dominions of his highness' 
cousin, the Duke of Micromegas." 

When the more necessary, but, as most hold, the 
less delightful part of banquetting was over, and the 
numerous serving-men had removed the more nu- 
merous dishes of wild boar, red deer, kid, and wing- 
ed game ; a stiti'Calvinistic-looking personage rose, 
and delivered a long, and most grateful grace, to 
which the sturdy huntsmen listened with a due 
mixture of piety and impatience. When his starch 
reverence, who, in his black coat, looked among the 
huntsmen very like, as Essper George observed, a 
blackbird among a set of moulting canaries, had 
finished, — an old man, with long snow-white hair, 
and a beard of the same colour, rose from his seat : 
and with a glass in his hand, bowing liist to his 
highness with great respect, and then to his com- 
panions with an air of condescension, gave in a 



136 



D ' I S R A E L 1 S NOVELS 



etout voice, " The prince !" A louil shout was 
jmnicdiiitrly raisctl, and all qnafTed with rapture 
the health of a ruler whom evidently they adored. 
Master Rodoluli now brought forward an immense 
silver gohlet, full of some crafty compound, from 
its odour doubtlest; delicious. The prince held the 
(joblet by its two massy handles, and then said in 
a loud voice : — 

".My friends! the Giant's Head! and he who 
sneers at its frowns, may he rue it.s bristles !" 

The toast was welcomed with a loud cry of tri- 
umph. When the noise had subsided, the jac;d 
junker rose; and prefacing the intended pledge l)y 
a few obsen-ations, as remarkable for the delicacy 
of their sentiments as tiie elegance of their expres- 
sion, he gave, pointing to Vivian, " Tlie guest ! and 
may the prince never want a stout arm at a strong 
push !" The sentiment was again echoed by the 
lusty voice of all present, and particularly by' his 
highness. As Vivian shortly returned thanks and 
modestly apologized for tho German of a foreigner, 
he could not refrain from remembering the last 
time when he was placed in the same situation. 
It was when the treacherous Earl of Courtown had 
drank success to Mr. Vivian Grey's maiden speech 
in a bumper of claret, at tlic political orgies of 
Oiateau Desir. Could he really, in very fact, be 
the same individual as the bold, dashing, fearless 
youth, who then organized the crazy councils of 
those ambitious, imbecile graybeards ? What was 
lie then 1 What had happened since 1 What was 
he now ? He turned from the comparison with 
feelings of sickening disgust, and it was with diU'i- 
culty that his countenance could assume the due 
degree of hilarity w hich befitted the present occa- 
sion. 

" Truly, Mr. Grey," said the prince ; " your Ger- 
man would pass current at Weimar. Arnelm. good 
cousin Arnelm, we must trouble thy alTectionate 
duty to marshal and regulate the drinkii;g devoirs 
of our kind subjects to-night ; for by the advice of 
our trusty surgeon, Master Rodolph, of much fame, 
we shall refrain this night from our accustomed 
potations, and betake ourselves to the solitude of 
our cabinet — a solitude, in good sooth, unless we 
can persuade you to accompany us, kind sir," said 
the prince, turning to Mr. Grey. " Methinks eight- 
and-forty hours without rest, and a good part spent 
in the mad walls of our cousin of Johannisberger, 
are hardly the best preparalises for a drinking bout. 
Unless, after Oberon's horn, ye may fairly be con- 
sidered to be in practice IVcverthelc.';s, I advise the 
cabinet and a cup of Rodoliili'-s coll'ee. A\'hat say- 
est thou ?" A'iviar Acceded to the prince's propo- 
sition with eager jilcasure ; and accom])anied by 
Prince Maximilian, and precede<l by the little stew- 
ard, who, Kurrotmded by his sen ing-men, verj- much 
resembled l planet eclipsed by his satellites, they left 
Uxe halL 

•' "J'lK almost a pity to shut out the moon on such 
a night," said the prince, na he drew a large green 
M-lvct curtain from the windows of the cabinet. 

'• "I'is ci-rtiiiiily a magnificent night !" said 
\'iviun ; "How fine tlie eflect of the light is ujion 
the jiicturc of the warrior. I declare the hors«' seems 
quite living, and its fierce rider ncluully frowns 
upon ue ' 

"He may well frown," said the Prince ofl.ittle 
I.illipuL, in a voice of deep melancholy ; ainl he 
hastily redrew the curtiiin. In a moment he starti'd 
from tlic cliair on which be had just seated himself, 



and again admitted themoonliirlit. " .^m I rcallv 
afraid of an old picture ? No, no, it has not yet 
come to that." 

This was uttered in a veiy distinct voice, and of 
course excited the astonishment of Vivian, who, 
however, had loo much discretion to evince his sur- 
prise, or to take any measure by which his curiosity 
might be satisfied. 

His companion seemed instantly conscious of the 
seeming singularity of his expression. 

" You are surprised at my words, good sir," said 
his highness, as he j)aced very rapidly up and down 
the small chamber ; " You are surprised at my 
words ; but, sir, my ancestor's brow was guarded 
by a diadem !" 

" M'hich was then well won, prince, and is now 
worthily worn." 

"By whom? where? howl" asked the prince, 
in a very rapid voice. " Maximilian," continued 
his highness, in a more subdued tone ; " Maximilian, 
my own love, leave us — go to .Mr. Sievers — God 
bless you, my only boy — good night !" 

" Good night, dearest papa, and down with the 
Grand-duke of Keisenberg I" 

" He echoes the foolish zeal of my fond follow- 
ers," said the prince, as his son left the room. " The 
idle parade to which their illegal loyalty still clinga 
— my own manners, the relics of former days — 
habits will not change like stations — all these have 
deceived you, sir. You have mist^iken me for a 
monarch ; I should be one. A curse light on me 
the hour I can mention it without a burning blush. 
Oh, shame ! — shame on the blood of my father's 
son ! Can my mouth own that I once was one ? 
Yes, sir I you see before you the most injured, the 
least enviable of human beings — I am a Media- 

TlSKn PllINCK !" 

Vivian had resided too long in Germany to be 
ignorant of the meaning of this title; with which, 
as most probably few of my readers are acquainted, 
I may be allowed for a moment to disturb the t<^tc- 
il-ti'te in the cabinet — merely, as a wordy and 
windy orator preliminarily protests, when he is about 
to bore the house with a harangue of five hours — 
merely to say. "just one single word." A media- 
tised prince is an unhappy victim of those con- 
gresses, which, among other good and evil, purged 
with great efiTect the ancient German political sys- 
tem. By the regulations then dctennined on, that 
country was freed at one fell swoop from tlic vexa- 
tious and harassing dominion of the various petty 
jirinces who exerci.sed absolute sovereignties over 
little nations of fifty thousand souls. These inde- 
pendent sovereigns became subjects; and either 
swelled, by their mediatisation, lire territories of 
some already ])owerful potentate, or transmuted 
into a state of iniporlancc .some more fortunate 
pretty ruler than themselves ; w ho.se independence, 
through the exertions of political intrigue or family 
inl1uehc^, had been preserved inviolate. In most 
instances, the ctmcurrence of these little rulers in 
their worldly di-grudation was obtained by a lavish 
grant of ofiirial emoluments or increase of territo- 
rial possession, — and the mediatised jirince, itistead 
of being an impoverished and uninlluential sove- 
reign, became u wi-althy and powerful subject. But 
BO dominant in the heart of man is the love of inde- 
]icndcnt dominioti, that even with these temptations 
tew of the jH'tty princes could have been induced 
to have parted with their cherished sceptres, had 
Uiey not been consciout>, lliat in case of contumacy, 



VIVIAN GREY. 



137 



the resolutions of a diet would have been enforced 
by the armies of an emperor. As it is, few of them 
iiave }'et given up the outward and visible signs of 
regal sway. The throne is still preserved, and the 
tiara still revered. They seldom frequent the 
courts of their so\^reigns, and scarcely condescend 
to notice the attentions of their fellow-nobility. 
Most of them expend their increased revenue in 
maintaining the splendour of their little courts at 
their ancient capitals ; or in swelling the ranks of 
their retainers at their solitary forest-castles. 

The Prince of Little Lilliput was the first medi- 
atised sovereign that Vivian had ever met. At 
another time, and under other circumstances, he 
might have smiled at the idle parade and useless 
pomp which he had this day witnessed ; or mora- 
lized on that weakness of human nature which 
seemed to consider the inconvenient appendages 
of a throne, as the great end for which power was 
to be coveted ; but at the present moment he only 
saw a kind, and, as he believed, estimable indivi- 
dual disquieted and distressed. It was painful to 
witness the agitation of the prince; and Vivian felt 
it necessary to make some observations, which from 
his manner expressed much, though in fact they 
meant nothing. 

" Sir," said his highness ; "your sympathy con- 
soles me. Do not imagine that I can misunder- 
stand it — it does you honour. You add, by this, to 
the many favours you have already conferred on 
me, by saving my life and accepting my hospitality. 
I trust, I smcerely hope, that your departure hence 
will be postponed to the last possible moment. Your 
conversation and your company have made me 
pass a more cheerful day than I am accustomed to. 
All here love me ; but with the exception of Sie- 
vers, I have no companion; and although I esteem 
his principles and his talents, there is no congeni- 
ality in our tastes, or in our tempers. As for the 
rest, a more devoted band cannot be conceived ; but 
they think only of one thing — the lost dignity of 
their ruler ; and although this concentration of their 
thoughts on one subject may gratify my pride, it 
does not elevate my spirits. But this is a subject 
on which in future we will not converse. One of 
the curses of my unhappy lot is, that a thousand 
circumstances daily occur which prevent me forget- 
ting it." 

The prince rose from the t.ahle, and pressing 
with his right hand on part of the wall, the door of 
a small closet sprung open. The interior was lined 
with crimson velvet. He took out of it a crimson 
velvet cushion of the same regal material, on which 
reposed, in solitary magnificence, a golden coronet, 
of antique workmanship. 

"The crown of my fathers !" said his highness, 
as he placed the treasure, with great reverence, on 
the table ; " won by fifty battles and lost without a 
blow ! Yet, in my youth I was deemed no dastard : 
and I have shed more blood for my country in one 
day, than he who claims to be my suzerain, in the 
whole of his long career of undeserved prosperity. 
Ay ! this, this is the curse — the ancestor of my 
present sovereign was that warrior's serf!" Tlie 
prince pointed to the grim chieftain, whose stout 
helmet Vivian now perceived was encircled by a 
crown, exactly similar to the one which was lying 
b-;fore him. " Had I been the subject — had I been 
obliged to acknowledge the svi-ay of a Ccesar, I 
might have endured it with resignation : — had I 
been forced to yield to the legions of an emperor, 
18 



a noble resistance miglit have consoled me for the 
clanking of my chains; but to sink without a 
struggle, the victim of political intrigue — to become 
the bondsman of one who was my father's slave , 
for such was Reisenberg — even in my own remem- 
brance our unsuccessful rival. This, this was toci 
bad; it rankles in my heart; and unless revenged, 
I shall sink under it. To have lost my dominions 
would have been nothing. But revenge I will have ! 
It is yet in my power to gain for an enslaved peo- 
ple the liberty I have myself lost. Yes ! the en- 
lightened spirit of the age shall yet shake the quaver- 
ing councils of the Reisenberg cabal. I will, in 
truth I have already seconded the just, the unan- 
swerable demands of an oppressed and insulted 
people ; and ere six mouths are over, I trust to sc€ 
the convocation of a free and representative coun- 
cil, in the capital of the petty monarch to whom I 
have been betrayed. The chief of Reisenberg has, 
in his eagerness to gain his grand-ducal crown, 
somewhat overstepped the mark. 

" Besides myself, there are no less than three 
other powerful princes, whose dominions have been 
devoted to the formation of his servile dutchy. We 
are all animated by the same spirit, — all intent 
upon the same end. We have all used, and are 
using, our influence as powerful nobles, to gain for 
our fellow-subjects their withheld rights, — rights 
which belong to them as men, not merely as Ger- 
mans. Within this week I have forwarded to the 
Residence a memorial subscribed by myself, my 
relatives, the other princes, and a powerful body of 
discontented nobles ; requesting the immediate grant 
of a constitution similar to those of Wirtemberg 
and Bavaria. My companions in misfortune are 
inspirited by my joining them. Had I beeii wise, 
I should have joined them sooner; but until thi.s 
moment, I have been the dupe of the artful con- 
duct of an unprincipled minister. My eyes, how- 
ever, are now open. The grand-duke and his 
crafty counsellor, whose name shall not profane 
my lips, already tremble. Part of the people, em- 
boldened by our representations, have already re- 
fused to answer an unconstitutional taxation. I 
have no doubt that he must yield. Whatever may 
be the inclination of the courts of Vienna or St. 
Petersburg, rest assured that the liberty of Ger- 
many will meet with no opponent except political 
intrigue ; and that Mctternich is too well acquaint- 
ed with the spirit which is now only slumbering 
in the bosom of the German nation, to run the 
slightest risk of exciting it by the presence of foreign 
legions. No, no ! that mode of treatment may <lc* 
very well for Naples, or Poland, or Spain ; but the 
moment that a Croat or a Cossack shall encamp 
upon the Rhine or the Elbe, for the purpose of sup- 
porting the unadulterated tyranny of their new- 
fangled grand-dukes, that moment Germany be- 
comes a great and united nation. The greatest 
enemy of the prosperity of Germany is the natural 
disposition of her sons; but that disposition, while 
it does now, and may forever, hinder us from be- 
ing a great people, will at the same time infalli- 
bly prevent us from ever becoming a degraded 
one." 

At this moment, this moment of pleasing antici- 
pation of public virtue and private revenge, Master 
Rodolph entered, and prevented Vivian from gain- 
ing any details of the histoiy of his host. The lit- 
tle round steward informed his master that a horse- 
man had just arrived, bearing fox hi-s highness a 



133 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



dcsjiatch of importance, whioh he insisted upon de- 
livering into the prince's own hands. 

" Whence comes he ?" asked liis hi;^hnes3. 

" In truth, your serene higliness, that were hard 
to say, — aiasniuch as the messenger refuses to in- 
fonn us." 

" Admit him." 

A man. whose jaded looks proved that he had 
tru'vclled far tluit day, was soon ushered into the 
room ; and, bowing to tlie prmce, delivered to him, 
in silcnc*^, a letter. 

" From wliom comes thisl" asked the prince. 

" It will itself mform your highness," was the 
only answer. 

" .My friend, you are a trusty messenger, and 
have been well trained, liodolph, look tliat this 
gentleman be well lodged and attended." 

" I thank your highness," said the messenger, 
'• but I do not taiTy here. I wait no answer, and 
my only pur^iose in seeing you was to perform my 
commission to the letter, by delivering tills papier 
into j-our own hands." 

" As you please, sir ; you must be the best judge 
of your own time ; but we like not strangers to 
leave our gates while our drawbridge is yet echoing 
with their entrance stejis." 

The prince and Vivian were again alone. As- 
tonishment and agitation were very visible on his 
highness' countenance as he dashed his eye over the 
letter. At length he folded it up, put it into his 
breast pocket, and tried to resume conversation ; 
but the effort was both evident and unsuccessful. 
In another moment the letter was again taken out, 
and again read with not less emotion than acconi- 
l)anicd its first perusal. 

" I fear I have wearied you, Mr. Grey," said his 
highness ; " it was inconsiderate in nie not to re- 
member that you require sepose." 

Vivian was not sorry to liave an opportunity of 
retiring, so he quickly took the hint, and wLsheJ his 
highness agreeable dreams. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

No one but an adventurous traveller can know 
the luxury of sleep. There is not a greater fallacy 
in the world than the common creed that " sweet 
sleep is labour's guerdon." Merc regular, corpo- 
real labour certainly procures us a good, sound, re- 
freshing slumber, disturbed ol'ten by the conscious- 
ness of the monotonous duties of the morrow : — 
but how sleep the other great labourers of this la- 
borious world ! Where is the sweet sleep of the 
politician I .\fter hours of fatigue in his olliee, and 
hoiirs of exhaustion in the House, he p.iins his 
jiillow ; and a brief, fevcri.sh night, disturbed by the 
triumph of a cheer and the horrors of a reply. 
Where is the sweet sleep of the jwet, or the novel- 1 
isi ! We all know how harassing are Uie eonnnon , 
dreams which an* made up of incoherent images of 
.)ur daily life, in which the actors arc individuals 
that we know, and whose conduct generally ap- I 
jwarh to be regulated by j^rincijilen which we can 
comjirehend. How much inon- enervating niul 
lictttroying nmst lie the slumber of that man who , 
dreams of an imaginary world ! waking, with a , 
lieuted and rxcitetl Hpirit, to mourn over some im- 
|>re^iiivu incident uf tho uitjht, which is ucvcrthcleaB i 



forgotten ; or to collect some inexplicable plot which 
has been revealed in sleep, and has fltd from the 
memorj' as tlic eyelids have opened. M'liere is 
the sweet sleep of an artist 1 — of tlie lawyer T 
Where, indeed, of any human being to whom the 
morrow brings its necessary duties 1 Sleep is the 
enemy of care, and care is the constant companion 
of regular labour, mental or bodily. 

But your traveller, your adventurous traveller — 
careless of the future, recklcs.s of the past — with a 
mind interested by the world, from tire inmiense 
and various character which that world presents to 
him, and not by his own stake in any petty or par- 
ticular contingency ; wearied Ir)' delightful fatigue, 
daily occasioned by varying means, and from varj'- 
ing causes ; with the consciousness that no pru- 
dence can regulate the fortunes of the morrow, and 
with no curiosity to discover what lliose fortunes 
may be, from a conviction that it is utterly impossi- 
ble to ascertain them ; perfectly easy whether he 
lie in a mountain-hut or a royal palace ; and reck- 
less alike of the terrors and chances of storm and 
bandits ; seeing that he has as fair a chance of meet- 
ing both with security and enjoyment — this is the 
fellow, who tlirowiiig his body upon a down couch 
or his mule's packsaddle. with equal eagerness and 
equal s;uig-froid sinks into a repose, in wliich he 
is never reminded by the remembrance of an ajv 
pointment or an engagement" for the next day, a 
duel, a marriage, or a diiuier, the three perils of 
man, that he has the misfortune of being mortal ; 
and wakes, not to combat care, but only to feel that 
he is fresher and more vigorous than he w;is the 
night before ; and that come Svhat come may, he is, 
at any rate, sure this day of seeing diflerent faces, 
and of improvising his unpremeditated part upon a 
diflerent scene. 

I have now both philosophically accounted, and 
politely' apologized, for the loud and unfasliioHable 
snore which sounded in the blue chamber about five 
minutes after Vivian Grey had entered that most 
comfortable ajiartment. In about twelve hours time, 
he was scoldiug Esspcr George for having presumed 
to wake hiai so early, quite unconscious that he 
had enjoyed any thing more than a twenty minutes' 
doze. 

" I should not have come in, sir, only they arc 
oil out They were oil" by six o'clock this morn- 
ing, sir ; most p;u-t at least. The prince has gone ; 
I don't know whether he went with them, but .Mas- 
ter Kodolph has given me — I breakfasted witli Mas- 
ter Kodoijth. — Holy ^■irgin ! your highness, what 
quarters we have got into ; the finest venison pas- 
ties, corned beef, hare soup, cherry sauce — " 

" To the point, to tho pouit, my good Esspcr ; 
what of the [irince 1" 

" His highness h;is left the castle, and desired 
Master Kodoljih — if your gnice bad only s«'en .Mas- 
ter Hodoljih tiiisy last night : hah ! hall ! hidi ! ho 
rolled about like a turbot in a tornado." 

"What of the prince, Esspir; what of the 
prince !" 

" His highness, your grace, has left the costle ; 
and Master Rodolph, who, by-the-by — " 

'• No more of .Master Kodolph, mt ; what of t^e 
prince?" 

" Vour highness won't hear me. The prince 
desired Master Kodolph — if your highness had oidy 
seen him last night — I beg pardon, I bei; pardon — 
the prince, Gotl bles-s him for his breaklk-^t ; the fi- 
nest venison pasties, corned beef, hare soup, cherry 



VIVIAN GREY, 



139 



sauce — I bf-g pardon, 1 beg pardon — the prince de- ' 
sired this letter to be given to your highness." 

Vivian read the note, which supposed that, of 
course, he would not wish to join the chase this 
morning, and regretted that the writer was obhged 
to ride out for a few hours to visit a neighbouring 
nobleman, but requested the pleasure of his guest's 
company at a private dinner in the cabinet, on liis 
return. 

Alter breakfast Vivian called on Mr. Sievers. — 
He found that gentleman busied in his library. 

'' These are companions, Mr. Grey," said he, 
pointing to his well-stored shelves, " that I ever find 
interesting. I hope, from the mysterious account 
of my retreat which I gave you yesterday, that you 
did not expect to be introduced to the sanctum of 
an old conjurer ; but the truth is, the cell of a ma- 
gician could not excite more wonder at Turriparva 
than does the library of a scholar." 

" I assure you, sir," said Vivian, " that nothing 
in the world could give me greater pleasure than to 
pass a morning with you in this retreat. Though 
born and bred in a library, my life, lor the last two 
years, has been of so veiy adventurous a nature, 
that I have seldom had the opportunity of recurring 
to those studies which once alone occupied my 
thoughts ; and your collection, too, is quite after my 
heart — poUtics and philosophy." 

Vivian was sincere in his declaration, and he had 
not for a long time passed a couple of hours with 
more delight tlian he did this morning with Mr. 
Sievers ; who, at the same time that he was a per- 
fect master of principles, was also 'a due reverencer 
of facts: a philosophical antiquary, in the widest 
and worthiest acceptation of the title ; one who ex- 
tracted from the deep knowledge of the past benefi- 
cial instruction for the present. 

" Come," st.'id Mr. Sievers, " enough of the su- 
perstitions of the middle ages ; aitevaM. superstitio7i 
is a word th;it it hardly becomes a philosoplier to 
use : nothing is more fatal in disquisition than terms 
which cannot be defined, and to which diflcrent 
meanings are attached, according to the different 
sentiments of different persons. A friend of mine 
once promised to give us a volume on ' The modes 
of Belief of the Middle Ages.' I always thought it 
a ve.y delicate and happy title, a most philosophi- 
cally-chosen phrase. I augured well of the volume ; 
but it has never appeared. Some men are great 
geniuses at a title-page I And to give a good title 
to a book does, indeed, require genius. I remem- 
ber when I was a student at Leipsic, there was an 
ingenious bookseller in that city vi'ho was a great 
hand at title-making. He published every jear 
magnificent lists of works ' in the press.' At first 
these catalogues produced an immense sensation 
throughout Germany, since there was scarcely a 
subject that could possibly interest mankind,which 
ivas not to be discussed in a forthcoming volume. — 
The list always regularly began with an epic poem : 
ilas regularly contained some learned history, in ten 
volumes, quarto — a grand tragedy — a first-rate histo- 
rical novel — works on criticism, natural philosophy, 
general literature, politics, and on every other sub- 
ject that you can possibly conceive, down to a new 
ahnanac for the coming year. Not one of these 
works ever- appeared. Such treatment, after our 
f.npetites had been so keenly excited, was rcafly 
^ rse than the Barmecide's conduct to the barber's 
I .ther. It was like asking a party of men to dine 
"^'ilh you at some restaurateur's in the Palais Royal, 



and then presenting to each of them for dinner — a 
copy of the carte." 

"You never hunt, I suppose, Mr. Sievers?" 

" Never, never. His highness is, I imagine, out 
this morning; the beautiful weather continues; 
surely we never had sudi a season. As for my- 
self, 1 almost have given up my in-door pursuits. 
The sun is not the light of study. Let us take 
our caps, and have a stroll." 

The gentlemen accordingly left the library, and 
proceeding through a different gate to that by which 
V^ivian had entered the castle, they came upon a 
part of the forest in which the timber and brush- 
wood had been in a great measure cleared away ; 
large clumps of trees being left standing on an 
artificial lawn, and newly-made roads whiding 
about in pleasing irregularity until they were all 
finally lost in the encircling woods. 

'■ I think you told me," said Mr. Sievers, " that 
you had been long in Germany. What course do 
you think of taking from here 1" 

" Straight to Vienna." 

" Ah ! a delightful place. If, as I suppose to be 
the case, you are fond of dissipation and luxury, 
Vienna is to be preferred to any city with which I 
am acquainted. And intellectual companions are 
not wanting there, as some have said. There are 
one or two houses in which the literary soirees 
will yield to none in Europe ; and I prefer them to 
any, because there is less pretension, and more 
ease. The Archduke John is really a man of con- 
siderable talents, and of more considerable acquire- 
ments. A most admirable geologist! Are you 
fond of geology 1" 

" I am not the least acquainted with the science." 

" Naturally so — at your age if, in fact, we study 
at all, we are fond of fancying ourselves moral 
philosophers, and our study is mankind. Trust 
me, my dear sir, it is a branch of research soon 
exhausted ; and in a few years you will be very 
glad, for want of something else to do, to meditate 
upon stones. See now," said Mr. Sievers, picking 
up a stone, " to what associations does this little 
piece of quartz give rise ! I am already an antedi- 
luvian, and instead of a stag bounding by that 
wood, I witness the moving mass of a mammoth. 
I live in other worlds, which, at the same time, I 
have the advantage of comparing with the present. 
Geology is indeed a magnificent study ! What 
excites more the imagination? What exercises 
more the mind? Can you conceive any thing 
sublimer than the gigantic shadows, and the grim 
wreck of an antediluvian world 1 Can you devise 
any plan which will more brace our powers, and 
develope our mental energies, than the formation 
of a perfect chain of inductive reasoning to account 
for these phenomena ! What is the boasted com- 
munion which the vain poet holds with nature, 
compared with the conversation which the geolo- 
gist perpetually carries on with the elemental 
world 1 Gazing on the strata of the earth, he 
reads the fate of his species. In the undulations 
of the mountains is revealed to him the history of 
the past ; and in the strength of rivers, and the 
powers of the air, he discovers the fortunes of the 
future. To him, mdeed, that future, as well as the 
past and the present, are alike matter for medita- 
tion : for the geologist is the most satisfactory of 
antiquaries, the most interesting of philosopherf,, 
and the most inspired of prophets ; demonstrating 
that wliich has past by discovery, ihat which is 



140 



D'lSRAKLI'S NOVELS. 



occurring by observation, and that which is to come 
bv induction. When you 50 to Vienna I will give 
vou a letter to Frederic Schlegcl ; we were fellow- 
students, and are friends, though for various reasons 
we do not at present meet ; nevertheless, a letter 
from me will command proper resj>ect. I should 
advise you. however, before you go on to Vienna, 
to visit Heisenl>erg." 

'• Indeed ! from the prince's account I .should 
have thought that there was little to interest ms 
ihere." 

'• His hiehness is not an impartial judge. You 
arc probably acquainted with the disagreeable 
manner in which he is connected with that court 
Far from his opinion being correct, or his advice 
in this particular to be followed. I should say there 
are few places in Germany more worthy of a visit 
than the little court near us; and above all things 
in the world, my advice is that you should not 
pass it over." 

" I am inclined to follow your advice. You arc 
right in supposing that I am not ignorant that his 
highness has the misfortune of being the mediatised 
prince; but what is the exact story about him ? I 
have heard -some odd rumours, some vague expres- 
sions, some — " 

" O ! don't you know it all ! It's a curious 
story, but I'm afraid you'll find it rather long. 
Nevertheless, if you really visit Rcisenberg, it may 
be of use to you to know sometliing of the singu- 
lar characters yon will meet there ; and our present 
conversation, if it do not otherwise interest you, 
will at least, on this score, give you all requisite 
information. In the first place, yov: say you know 
that Little Lilliput is a mcdiati.sed prince ; and, of 
course, are }ircciscly aware what that title means. 
About fifty years ago, the rival of the illustrious 
family, in whose chief castle we are both of us now 
residing, was the Margrave of Rviscnberg. another 
petty prince, with territories not so extensive as 
those of our friend, and with a population more 
limited : perhaps fifty thousand souls, half of whom 
were drunken cousins. The old Margrave of Rei- 
senberz. who then reicncd, was a [jerfcct s|>ecimen 
of the old-fashioned, narrow-minded, brutal, bigoted, 
German prince ; he did nothing but hunt, and 
drink, and think of the ten thous-.ind quartcrings 
of his immaculate shield, all duly acquired from 
some Vanda.1 ancestor as barbarous as himself. 
His little margraviate was misgoverned enough for 
ft great empire. Half of his nation, who were his 
Teal people, were always starving, and were unable 
to find crown pieces to maintain the extr.ivagant 
expenditure of the other moiety, the five-and-tvvinty 
thousand cousins; who, out of gratitude to their 
fellow-subjects for their generous support, or as a 
punishment for their unreasonable unwillingness 
to starve, in order that the cousins might drink, 
harass them with even.- sjH'cies of brulul excess. 
Complaints were of course immcdiulcly made to 
the t:i ■ ^ louil cries for juslire ri'soundcd 

at tl • ' s. 'l"liis prince was a iiii'st iin- 

(>arti,., . ... ■• '■ '•••'''■•"-•'' fspfcially 

upoti his ' ' . nnd he 

allowwl nc : _i his deci- 

rionx. His inlaiiibie |iinn lijr nrrunging all ditfer- 
encea had the merit of In-ing brief; and if brevity 
lie the imul of wit, it cfrt.iinly was must unreason- 
able in his subjects to consider his judiiments no 
joke. He always countid the quaii('riiii;H in llie 
sbieUls o' the respective partic» and decided ac- 



cordingly. In^agine the speedy redress gaitic^ by 
a muddy -veined peasant against one of the cousins, 
who, of course, had as many quarterings as the 
margrave himself. The defendant was always re- 
gularly acquitted. At length, a man's house hav 
ing l>cen burned down out of mere joke in the 
night, the owner had the temeritv in the morning 
to accuse one of the fivc-and-twenty thousand ; 
and produced, at the same time, a shield with ten 
thousand and one quarterings, exactly one more 
than the reigning shield itself contained. The 
margrave was astounded, the nation in raptures, 
and the five-and-twenty thousand cousins in de- 
spair. The complainant's shield was examined and 
counted, and not a flaw discovered. What a di- 
lemma ! The chief magistrate consulted with the 
numerous branches of his family, and next morn- 
ing the comjilainant's head was struck c.fl' for 
treason, for daring to have one more quartering 
than his monarch ! 

'• In this way they passed their time about fifty 
years since in Reisenberg: occasionally, for the 
sake of variety, declaring war against the inhabi- 
tants of Little LilHput ; who, to say the truth, in 
their habits and pursuits did not materially difici 
from their neighbours. The margrave had one 
son, the present grand-duke. A due reverence of 
the great family shield, and a full acquaintance 
with the 'invariable principles' of justice were 
early instilled into him; and the royal stripling 
made such rapid progress under the tuition of his 
amiable parent, that he soon became highly popular 
with his five-and-twenty thousand cousins. At 
length his popularity became troublesome to his 
father ; and so the old margrave sent for his son 
one morning, and informed him that he had 
dreamed the preceding night that the sir of Rei- 
senberg was peculiarly unwhole.some for young 
{lersons. and therefore he begged him to get out of 
his dominions as soon as possible. The young 
prince had no I'bjection to see something of the 
world, and so with dutiful affection he immediately 
complied with the royal order, without putting his 
cousins' loyalty to the test He flew to a relative 
whom he had never before visited. This noble- 
man was one of thuse individuals who anticipate 
their age. which, by-the-by, Mr. Grey, none but 
noblemen should do; for he who anticipates his 
century, is generally persecutetl when living, and is 
always pilfered when dead. Howbeit, this relation 
was a jihilosopher ; all about him thought him 
mad; he. in ictum, thought all alxiut him fouls. 
He s«'nt the jrir.ce to a university, and gave him 
for a tutor, a youiitr man alxiut ten years older than 
his pupil. 'I'hi-i iK-n-on's name was Beckcndortl'. 
Vou will hear more of him. 

" About three years after the sudden departure 
of the young prince, the old margrave his fathir, 
and the then reigning Prince of Little Lilliput, 
shot each other through the head in a drunken 
brawl, after a dinner given in honour of a prrcla- 
matii'iii of peace betw«vn the two countries. The 
live-anti-twenly thousand cousins were not nu'.ch 
grievid. as they anticipaii^l a fit successor in their 
former favourite. Splendid preparations were 
made fur the reception of the inheritor of ten 
thousand quarterings, and all KcisenlK'rg waa 
[xiurcd'out to \\itnf>« the triumphant entrance of 
their future mcnarch. At liLst, two horsemen, in 
plain dr«-»«es, and on very indifferent steeds, rrnie 
up to the pdlacr- gates, dismounted, and without 



VIVIAN GREY. 



141 



making any inquiry, ordered the attendance of 
some of the chief nobility in the presence-chamber. 
One of them, a young man, without any prepara- 
tory explanation, introduced the Eeisenberg chief- 
tains to his companion as his prime minister ; and 
commanded them immediately to deUver up their 
porte-feuilles and golden keys to Mr. BeckendorlF. 
The nobles were in dismay, and so astounded that 
they made no resistance ; though the next morning 
they started in their beds, when they remembered 
that they had delivered their insignia of office to 
a man without a vo7i before his name. They were 
soon, however, roused from their sorrow and their 
stupor, by receiving a peremptory order to quit the 
palace ; and as they retired from the walls which 
they had long considered as their own, they had 
the mortification of meeting crowds of the common 
people, their slaves and their victims, hunying with 
joyful countenances and triumphant looks to the 
palace of their prince ; in consequence of an 
energetic proclamation for the redress of grievances, 
and an earnest promise to decide cases in future 
without examining the quarterings of the parties. 
In a week's time, the five-and-twenty thousand cou- 
sins were all adrift. At length they conspired, but 
the conspiracy was tardy — they found their former 
servants armed, and they joined in a most unequal 
struggle ; for their opponents were alike animated 
with hopes of the future, and with levenge for the 
past. The cousins got well beat, and this was not 
the worst; for Beckendorff took advantage of this 
unsuccessful treason, which he had himself foment- 
ed, and forfeited all their estates ; destroying in one 
hour the foul system which had palsied, for so 
many years, the energies of his master's subjects. 
In time, many of the chief nobility were restored 
to their honours and estates ; but the power with 
which they were again invested was greatly modi- 
fied, and the privileges of the commons greatly 
increased. At this moment the French revolution 
broke out — the French crossed the Rhine, and 
carried all before them ; and the Prince of Little 
Lilliput, among other tiue Germans, made a bold 
but fruitless resistance. The Margrave of Eeisen- 
berg, on the contrary, received the enemy with 
open arms — he raised a larger body of troops than 
his due contingent, and exerted himself in every 
manner to second the views of the great nation. 
In return for his services he was presented with 
the conquered principality of Little Lilliput, and 
some other adjoining lands ; and the margraviate 
of Reisenberg, with an increased temtory and 
population, and governed with consummate wis- 
dom, began to be considered the most flourishing 
of the petty states in the quarter of the empire to 
which it belonged. On the contraiy, our prmcely 
and patriotic friend, mortified by the degenerate 
condition of his country and the prosperity of hjs 
rival house, quitted Little LiUiput, and became one 
of those emigrant princes who abounded during 
the first years of the revolution in all the northern 
courts of Europe. Napoleon soon appeared upon 
the stage ; and vanquished Austria, with the French 
dictating at the gates of her capital, was no longer 
in a condition to support the dignity of the em- 
pire. The policy of the Margrave of Reisenberg 
was as little patriotic, and quite as consistent, as 
before. BeckendorlV became the constant and 
favoured counsellor of the French emperor. It 
was chiefly by his exertions that the celebrated 
confederation of the Rhine was carried into effect. 



The institution of this body excited among manv 
Germans, at the time, loud expressions of indigna- 
tion ; but I believe few impartial and judicious 
men now look upon that league as any other than 
one, in the formation of which the most consum- 
mate statesmanship was exhibited. In fact, it 
prevented the subjugation of Germany to France, 
and by flattering the pride of Napoleon, it saved 
the decomposition of our empire. But how this 
might be, it is not at present necessaiy for us to 
inquire. Certain, however, it was, that the pupil 
of Beckendorff was amply repaid for the advice 
and exertions of his master, and his minister ; and 
when Napoleon fell, the brows of the former mar- 
grave were encircled with a grand-ducal crown ; and 
his dutchy, while it contained upwards of a million 
and a half of inhabitants, numbered in its limits 
some of the most celebrated cities in Germany, 
and many of Germany's most flourishing provinces. 
But Napoleon fell. The Prince of Little Lilliput 
and his companions in patriotism and misfortune 
returned from their exile, panting with hope and 
vengeance. A congress was held to settle the 
affairs of agitated Germany. Where was the 
Grand-duke of Reisenberg] His hard-earneu 
crown tottered on his head. V»' here was his crafty 
minister, the supporter of revolutionary France, 
the friend of its imperial enslaver, the constant 
enemy of the house of Austria? At the very 
congress which, according to the expectations of 
the exiled princes, was to restore them to their 
own dominions, and to reward their patriotic loy- 
alty with the territories of their revolutionary 
brethren ; yes ! at this very congress was Becken- 
dorff; not as a supplicant, not as a victim ; but 
sitting at the right hand of Melternich, and watch- 
ing, with paternal affection, the first interesting and 
infantine movements of that most prosperous of 
political bantlings — the Holy Alliance. You may 
well imagine that the military grand-duke had a 
much 1 etter chance in political negotiation than 
the emigrant prince. In addition to this, the 
Grand-duke of Reisenberg had married, during 
the war, a princess of a powerful house ; and the 
allied sovereigns were eager to gain the future aid 
and constant co-operation of a mind like Becken- 
dorlT's. The Prince of Little Lilliput, the patriot, 
was rewarded for his conduct by being restored to 
his forfeited possessions ; and the next day he be- 
came the subject of his former enemy, the Grand- 
duke of Reisenberg, the traitor. What think you 
of Monsieur Beckendorfl'1 He must be a curious 
gentleman, I imagine !" 

" One of the most interesting characters I have 
long heard off. But his pupil appears to be a man 
of mind." 

" You shall hear, you shall hear. I should how 
ever first mention, that while Beckendorff has not 
scrupled to resort to any measures, or adopt any 
opinions in order to further the interests of his 
monarch and his countiy, he has in everj' manner 
shown that personal aggrandizement has never been 
his object. He lives in the most perfect retire- 
ment, scarcely with an attendant, and his moderate 
official stipend amply supports his more moderate 
expenditure. The subjects of the grand-duke may 
well be grateful that they have a minister without 
relations, and without favourites. The grand-duke' 
is, unquestionably, a man of talents; but at the 
same time, perhaps, one of the most weak-minded 
men that ever breathed. He was fortunate ill 



142 



D'lSRAELTS NOVELS. 



mcrtin^ with BeckonilorfT early in life ; and as the 
influence of the nnnister has not for a moment 
cease<l over tlie mind of the monarch, to the world, 
the CJrand-diike of Reisenberg has always ajipcar- 
ed to be an individual of a strong miirJ and con- 
sistent conduct. But when you have lived as 
much and as intimately in his court as I have 
done, vou will find how cattily the workl may be 
deceived. Since the close connexion which now 
exists between Reisenberp ond Austria took place, 
liCckendDrlT has, in a great decree, revived the 
ancient privilcEces of blood and birth. A minister 
who has spruncr from the people will always con- 
ciliate the aristocracy. Having no family influ- 
ence of his own, he endeavours to gain the influ- 
ence of others ; and it often happens that merit is 
never less considered than when merit has made 
the minister. A curious instance of this occurs 
in a neighbouring state. There the premier, de- 
cidedly a man of crcat talents, is of as low an 
orisrin as BcckcndorlT. With no f^imily to ui)hold 
him. he supports himself by a lavish division of 
all the places and patronage of the state among 
the nobles. If the younger son or brother of a 
peer dare to sully his oratorical virginity by a 
chance observation in the Lower Chamlier, the 
minister, himself a real orator, immediately rises 
to consratulate, in pompous phrase, the House and 
the country on the splendid display which has made 
this night memorable; and on the decided advan- 
tages which must accrue both to their own resolu- 
tions and the national interests, from the future 
participation of his noble friend in their delibera- 
tions. All about him are young nobles, utterly 
imfit for the discharge of their respective duties. 
His private secretary is unable to coin a sentence, 
almost to direct a letter, but he is noble ! — The 
secondary ofTicials cannot he trusted even in the 
least critical conjimctures, but they are noble ! — 
And the prime minister of a powerful empire is 
forced to rise early and be up late ; not to meditate 
on the present fortunes or future destinies of his 
country, hut by his personal exertions, to compen- 
sate for the inefficiency and expiate the blunders 
<if his underlings, whom his unfortunate want of 
blood has fnrccd him to overwhelm with jirais-es 
which they do not deserve, and duties wbicii they 
cannot discharge. I do not wish you to infer that 
the policy of Bcckendorlf has been actuated by 
the feelings which influence the minister whom I 
have noticed, from whose conduct in this very 
respect his own materially dillers. On the con- 
trary, his connexion with Austria is in all ))ro- 
habilitv the |)riniary great cause. However this 
ninv be. certain it is, that all oflices about the c»urt 
and connected wiih the arniy, (and I n<-ed mil 
reniiiKl you, that at a small tierman court tln'se 
situations are often the most important in the 
Mate,) can only be filled by the nobility ; nor can 
any jierson who has the misfortune of not inherit- 
iiiff ll'.e magical monosyllabic row before his mime. 
whi< h, as you know, like th<! French (if, is the 
Kbililiolelh of nobility, and the syndiol of territorial 
pride, violate by their unhallowed presence the 
Mnclily of court <linners. or the as sacred ceremo- 
/licH of n noble fete. Hut while u n>onopoly of 
ihoKc olllces, which for their due performance re- 
<|uirf only n Hhowy exterior or a schooled aihlress, 
is uriinled to the nobleit, all those state chargoR 
wliiih reijuire the cxt-rcine of iiitelliTt, aic now 
chiifly lilUd by ibc bourgeoisn At the same 



time, however, that both our secretaries of sfafe^ 
many of our privy councillors, war councillors, 
forest councillors, and finance councillors, are to 
be reckoned among the second class, still not one 
of these exalted individuals, who from their situa- 
tions are necessarily in constant personal commu- 
nication with the sovereign, ever sec that sovereign 
except in his cabinet and his council-chamber. 
Beckendorff himself, the premier, is the son of a 
peasant ; and of course not noble. IS'obility, which 
lias been proffered him, not onlj- by his own mo- 
narch, but by most of the sovereigns of Europe, he 
has invariaJily refused ; and consequently never 
appears at court. The truth is, that from dispo- 
sition, he is little inclined to mix with men ; and 
he has taken advantage of his want of on escut- 
cheon, completely to exempt himself from all those 
duties of etiquette which his exalted situation 
would otherwise have imposed upon him. None 
can complain of the haughtiness of the mibles, 
when, ostensibly, the minister himself is not ex- 
empted from their exclusive regulations. If you 
go to Reisenberg, you will not therefore sec Bcck- 
endorlf, who lives, as I have mentioned, in perfect 
salitude, about thirty miles from the capital ; com- 
municating oidy with his royal master, the foreion 
ministers, and one or two ofllcial characters of his 
own country. I w.ns myself an inmate of the 
court for upwards of two years. During that 
time I never saw the minister ; and, with the ex- 
ception of some members of the royal family, and 
the characters I have mentioned, I never knew one 
person who had even caught a glinjpse of the in- 
dividual, who nvay indeed be said to be regulating 
their destinies. 

"It is at the court, then," continued Mr. Sievers, 
" when he is no longer imdcr the control of Beck- 
endorff, and in those minor points which are not 
subjected to the management or influenced by the 
mind of the minister, that the tnie chanicter of the 
grand-duke is to be detected. Indeed, it may really 
be said, that the weakness of his mind has been 
the origin of his fortune. In his early youth, his 
pliant temper adapted itself without a struggle to 
the barbarous customs and the brutal conduct of 
his father's court: that same pliancy of tempo- 
prevented him opposing with bigoted obstinacy the 
exertions of his relation to ixlucafe and civiliy.e 
him ; that same pliancy of temper allowed him to 
become the ready and the enthusiiustic disciple of 
Beckendorff. Had the pupil, when he ascended 
the throne, left his master behind him, it is vert' 
prob;Jile that his natural feelings would have led 
him to oppose the French ; and at this moment, 
instead oi being the first of the second-rate pow» is 
of Ciermany, the Grand-duke of Reisenberg juigbt 
himself have been a meiliatised prince. As it w as. 
the same pliancv of temper which I have noticed, 
enabled him to receive IS'apolenn when an emu'- 
ror, with outstretched arms; and at this moment 
does not prevent him from receiving, with equal 
raptun% the imperial archihitchcss, who will soon 
be on her road from Vioinia to espouse his son — 
for. to crown his wonderfid career. BcckcndortVhas 
successfully negotiated a marriage betwii n a daugh- 
ter of the house of Austria and the Crown I'rincc* 



• net cditary prince \!>, I brliove. In nil casp». the correct 
ulylc iif ilio erilenl son of n ticrninn grniuliliike. 1 liavs 
iii'ii ii'ir.l n titio wliUh woiilil not tx- umlersUiod l>y ih»« 
r.iitlihli rin<liT. frciru /.ii«i« is also n (.ifrnmli lille; Wfl 
iu suiclui'6s, only uMUiuid ly ihe son of a kiug. 



VIVIAN GREY, 



143 



of Reiscnberg;. It is generally believed that the 
next step of the diet will be to transmute the 
father's g^-and-ducal coronet into a regal crown ; 
and perhaps, my good sir, before you reach 
Vienna, you may have the supreme honour of 
being presented to his majesty, the King of Reisen- 
berg." 

" Beckendorff's career you may well style won- 
derful. But when you talk only of his pupil's pli- 
ancy of temper, am I to suppose, that in mention- 
ing his talents you were speaking ironically ?" 

" By no means ! The grand-duke is a brilliant 
scholar ; a man of refined taste ; a real patron of the 
fine arts ; a lover of literature ; a promoter of science ; 
and what the world would call a philosopher. His 
judgment is sound and generally correct — his 
powers of discrimination singidarly acute — and his 
knowledge of mankind greater than that of most 
sovereigns: but, with all these advantiges, he is 
cursed with such a wavering and indecisive temper, 
tliat when, which is usually the cas^ he has come 
to a right conclusion, he can never prevail upon 
himself to carry his theory into practice ; and with 
all his Eicuteness, his discernment, and his know- 
ledge of the world, his mind is always ready to 
receive any impression from the person who last 
addresses him ; though he himself be fully awai'e 
of the inferiority of his adviser's intellect to his 
own, or the imperfection of that adviser's know- 
ledge. Never for a moment out of the sight of 
Beckendorff. the royal pupil has made a most ad- 
mirable political puppet ; since his own talents have 
always enabled him to understand the part which 
the minister had forced him to perform. Thus the 
world has given the grand-duke credit, not only for 
the possession of great talents, but almost for as 
much firmness of mind and decision of character 
as his minister. But since his long-agitated career 
has become calm and tranquil, and Beckendorff, like 
a guardian spkit, has ceased to be ever at his elbow, 
tiie character of the Grand-duke of Reiscnbrrg be- 
gins to be understood. His court has been, and 
still is, frequented by all the men of genius in 
Germany, who are admitted without scruple, even 
if they be not noble. But the astonishing thing is, 
that the grand-duke is always surrounded by every 
species of political and philosophical quack that 
you can imagine. Discussion on a free press, on 
the reformation of the criminal code, on the aboli- 
tion of commercial duties, and such-like intermina- 
ble topics, are perpetually resounding within the 
palace of this arbitrary prince ; and the people, fired 
by the representations of the literary and political 
journals with which Reisenherg abounds, and 
whose bold speculations on all subjects elude the 
\'igi!ance of the censor, by being skilfully amalga- 
mated with a lavish praise of the royal character, 
are perpetually flattered with the speedy hope of 
becoming freemen. Suddenly, when all are ex- 
pecting the grant of a charter, or the institution of 
Chambers, Mr. Beckendorff rides up from his re- 
U-eat to the Residence, and the next day the whole 
crowd of philosophers are swept from the royal 
presence, and the censorship of the press becomes 
so severe, that for a moment you would fancy that 
Reisenberg, instead of being, as it boasts itself the 
modern Athens, had more right to the title of the 
modern Bosotia. The people, who enjoy an im- 
partial administration of equal laws, who have 
flourished and are flourishing, vmder the wise and 
moderate rule of their new monarch, have in fact 



no inclination to exert themselves for the attain- 
ment of constitutional lilierty, in any other way 
than by their ' voices. Their barbarous apathy 
astounds the philosaphcs ; who, in despair, when 
the people tell them that they are happy and con- 
tented, artfully remind them that their happiness 
depends on the will of a single man ; and tliat, 
though the present character of the monarch 
may guaranty present felicity, still they shoull 
think of their children, and not less exert them 
selves for the ensurance of future. These repre- 
sentations, as constantly reiterated as the present 
system will allow, have at length, I assure you, 
produced an effect ; and political causes of a pecu- 
liar nature, of which I shall soon speak, combining 
their influence with these philosophical exertions, 
have of late, frequently frightened the grand-duke ; 
who, in despair, would perhaps grant a Constitution, 
if Beckendorrt' would allow him. But the ministei 
is conscious that the people would not be happier^ 
and do not in fact require one : he looks with a jea- 
lous and an evil eye on the charlatanism of all 
kinds which is now so prevalent at court: he 
knows from the characters of many of these phi- 
losophers and patriots, that their private interest is 
generally the secret spring of their public virtue ; 
that if the grand-duke, moved by their entreaties, 
or seduced by their flattery, were to yield a little, 
he would soon be obliged to grant all, to their de- 
mands and their threats ; and finally, Beckendorff 
has of late years, so completely interwoven the 
policy of Reisenberg with that of Austria, that he 
feels that the rock on which he has determined to 
found the greatness of his country must be quitted 
forever, if he yield one jot to the caprice or the 
weakness of his monarch." 

" But Beckendorff," said Vivian ; " why can he 
not crush in the bud the noxious plant which he 
so m.uch dreads ] Why does the press speak in 
the least to the people 1 Why is the grand-duke 
surrounded by any others except pompous grand- 
marshals, and empty-headed lord-chamberlams ] 
I am surprised at this indifference, this want of 
energy !" 

" My dear sir, there are reasons for all things 
Rest assured that BeckendoriT is not a man to act 
incautiously or weakly. The grand-dutchess, the 
mother of the crown prince, has been long dead. 
Beckendorfl' who, as a man, has the greatest con- 
tempt for women — as a statesman, looks to thein 
as the most precious of political mstruments — it 
was his wish to have married the grand-duke to t!ie 
yomig princess who is now destined for his son ; 
but for once in his life he failed in mfluencing his 
pupil. The truth was, and it is to this cause that 
we must trace the present disorganized state of tire 
court, and indeed of the kingdom, that the grand- 
duke had secretly married a lady to whom he had 
long been attached. This lady was a countess, and 
his subject ; and as it was impossible, by the laws 
of the kingdom, that any one but a member of a 
reigning family could be allowed to share the throne, 
his royal highness had recourse to a plan which is 
not uncommon in this country, and espoused the 
lady with his left hand. The ceremony, which we 
call here a morgavutic mamage, you have proba- 
bly heard of before. The favoured female is, to 
all intents and purposes, the ivife of the monarch, 
and shares every thing except his throne. She 
presides at court, but neither she nor her children 
assume the style of majesty ; although in some iri- 



144 



D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. 



stances the latter have b&en creatcti princes, and 
acknowlciliied as heirs apparent, when there has 
been a dt-tUult in the Uiunil royal issue. The lady 
of whom wc are speaking, accordinc; to the usual 
custom, luis assumed a name derivative from that 
of her royal husband ; and as the grand-duke's 
name is Charles, she is styled Madame Caro- 
hna." 

" And what kind of lady is Madame Carolina!" 
a.sked Vivian. 

•• Philosophical ! piquant ! Parisian ! — a genius, 
according to her friends ; who, as in fact she is a 
ijueen, are of course the whole world. Though a 
tierman by family, she is a Frenchwoman by birth. 
Educated in the salviis spirituels of the French 
metropolis, she has early imbibed superb ideas of 
the perfectibility of man and of the 'science' of con- 
versation ; on both which subjects you will not be 
long at court, ere you hear her descant ; demon- 
strating by the brilliancy of her ideas the possibility 
of the one, and by the fluency of her language her 
acquaintance with the other. She is much younger 
than her husband ; and though not exactly a model 
for Phidias, a most fascinating woman. Variety 
i^ the talisman by which she commands all hearts, 
and gained her monarch's. She is only consistent 
ill being delightful ; but, though changeable, she is 
not capricious. Each day displays a new accom- 
plishment as regularly as it does a new costume ; 
but as the acquirement seems only valued by its 
j)ossessor as it may delight others, so the dress 
st'enis worn, not so much to gratify her own 
vanity, as to please her friends' tastes. Genius is 
iier idol ; and with her, genius is found in every 
thing. She speaks in equal raptures of an opera 
dancer, and an epic poet. Her ambition is to con- 
verse on all subjects; and by a judicious manage- 
ment of a great mass of miscellaneous reading, 
and by indefatigable exertions to render herself 
mistress of the prominent points of the topics of the 
day, she appears to converse on all subjects with 
abihty. She takes the Uveliest interest in the 
progress of mind, in all quarters of the globe ; and 
imagines that she should, at the same time, immor- 
talize herself and benefit her species, could she 
only establish a quarterly review in Ashantee, and 
a scientific gazette at Timbuctoo. IN'otwilhstand- 
ing her sudden elevation, no one has ever accused 
her of arrogance, or pride, or ostentation. Her 
liberal principles, and her enlightened views, arc 
acknowledged by all. She advocates equality in 
lier circle of privileged nobles ; and is enthusiastic 
on the rights of man, in a country where justice is 
a favour. Her boast is to be surrounded by men 
of genius, and her delight to correspond with the 
most celebrated persons of all countries. She is 
h'Tself a literary character of no mean celebrity. 
Few niontliR have elapsed since enra[>tured Keisen- 
berg hailed, from her glowing pen, two neat octa- 
\o8, bearing the title of' AIkmoihs of the Corirr 
OF CmnLEMAnsF.,' which give an interesting utid 
accurate picture of the age, and delight the modern 
j)ul)lic with vivid descriptions of the cookery, cos- 
tume, and conversation of the eighth century. Vou 
hiiiile, my friend, at Madame Carolina's production. 
Do not you agree with me, that it requires no mean 
talent lo convey a picture of the bustle of a levee 
during the middle iigcs ? Conceive !Sir Oliver 
lx>king in ut his club ! and fancy the small (alk 
of lloland during a morning visit 1 Vet even the 
' iii.e of this work in to be eclipsed by madame's 



forthcoming quarto of 'Hahou^ al Raschib attd 
HIS TiMF.s.' 'I'his, it is whispered, is to be a ckef 
d'wuvre, enriched by a chronoloirical arrangement, 
by a celebrated oriental scholar, of all the anecdotes 
in the Arabian Nights relating to the caliph. It 
is, of course, the sun of madame's patronage that 
has hatched into noxious lite the swarm of sciolists 
who now infest the court, and who arc sapping the 
husband's political power, while they are establish- 
ing the wife's literary reputation. So much for 
Madame Carolina! I need hardly add, that 
during your short stay at court, you will he do- 
liglited with her. If ever you know her a-i well as 
I do, you will find her vain, superficial, heartless : 
her sentiment — a system ; her enthusiasm — exag- 
geration ; and her genius — merely a clever adop- 
tion of the profundity of others." 

" And BeckendorlT and the lady are not friend- 
ly 1" asked Vivian, who was delighted with his 
communicative companion. 

" BeckendorlV's is a mind that such a woman 
cannot, of course, comprehend. He treats her 
with contempt, and, if possible, views her with 
hatred ; for he considers that she has degraded the 
character of his pupil ; while she, on the contrary, 
wonders by what magic spell he exercises such 
influence over the conduct of her husband. At 
first, Beckendorrt" treated her and her circle of illu- 
minati with contemptuous silence ; but, in pohtics, 
nothing is contemptible. The minister, knowing 
that the people were prosperous and happy, cared 
little for projected constitutions, and less for meta- 
physical abstractions ; but some circumstances 
have lately occurred, which, I imagine, have con- 
vinced him that for once he had miscalculated. 
After the arrangement of the German states, when 
the princes were first mediatised, an attempt was 
made, by means of a threatening league, to obtain 
for these pohtical victims a verv* ample share of the 
power and patronage of the new state of Reisen- 
bcrg. This plan failed, from the lukewarmness 
and indecision of our good friend of Little Lilliput ; 
who, between ourselves, was prevented from join- 
ing the alliance by t!ie intrigues of BeckendortT. 
Beckendorlf secretly took measures that the prince 
should be promised, that in case of his keeping 
backward, he should obtaiu more than would fall 
to his lot by leading the van. The Prince of Little 
Lilliput and his peculiar friends accordingly were 
quiet, and the attempt of the other chieftains 
failed. It was then tiiat his highness found he had 
been duped. Beckendorlf would not acknowledge 
the authority, and, of course, did not redeem the 
pledge of his agent. The elToct that this afl'air pro- 
duced upon the prince's mind you can conceive. 
Since then he has never frequented Keisenlierg, 
but constmtly resided either at his former capitid, 
now a provincial town of the graiiil-<lutchy, or at 
this castle ; viewed, you may suppose, with no 
very cordial feeling by his companions in niisfor- 
tuue. But the thirst of revenge will inscribe the 
bitterest enemies in tlic same nnister-roll. and the 
princes, incited by the bold carriage of .Madame 
Carolina's philosophical protcgi'-s, and iiiduceil to 
believe that BeckendorlFs jtower is on the wane, 
have again made overtures to our friend, witliout 
whose powerful assistance they feel that they have 
but little choncc of success. Observe how much 
more men's conduct is influenced by circuinstancejt 
than principles! ^\'hen these |)ersons leagued 
together bcl'orc, it was with the avowed intention 



VIVIAN GREY. 



145 



of obtaining a share of the power and patronage 
of the state : the great body of the people, of 
course, did not sympathize in that, which, after all, 
to them, was a party quarrel; and by the joint 
exertions of open force and secret intrigue, the 
court triumphed. But now, these same individuals 
come forward, not as indignant princes demanding 
a share of the envied tyranny, but as ardent 
patriots auvocating a people's rights. The public, 
though I believe that in fact they will make no 
bodily exertion to acquire a constitutional freedom, 
the absence of which they can only abstractedly 
feel, have no objection to attain that, which they 
are assured will not injure their situation, provided 
it be by the risk and exertions of others. As far, 
tlaerefore, as clamour can support the princes, they 
'have the people on their side; and as upwards 
of throe hundred thousand of the grand-ducal sub- 
jects are still living on their estates, and still con- 
sider themselves as their serfs, they trust that some 
excesses from this great body may incite the rest 
of the people to similar outrages. The natural 
disposition of mankind to imitation, particularly 
when tlie act to be imitated is popular, deser/es 
attention. The court is divided ; for the exertions 
of madame, and the bewitching influence of fashion, 
have turned the heads even of gray-beards : and to 
give you only one instance, his excellency the 
grand-marshal, a protege of the house of Austria, 
and a favourite of Mettemich, the veiy persons to 
whose interests, and as a reward for whose ser- 
vices, our princely friend was sacrificed by the 
minister, has now himself become a pupil in the 
school of modern philosophy, and drivels out, with 
equal ignorance and fervour, enlightened notions 
on the most obscure subjects. In the midst of all 
this confusion, the grand-duke is timorous, du- 
bious, and uncertain. Beckendorff has a dithcult 
game to play ; he may fall at last. Such, my dear 
sir, are the tremendous consequences of a weak 
prince marrying a blue-stocking !" 

*' And the crown prince, Mr. Sievers, how does 
he conduct himself at this interesting moment "? 
or is his mind so completely engrossed by the anti- 
cipations of his imperial alliance, that he has no 
thought for any thing but his approaching bride V 
" The crown prince, my dear sir, is neither 
thinkuig of hit bride, nor of any thing else : he is 
a hunch-backc: idiot. Of his deformities I have 
myself been a v:itncss; and though it is difficult 
to give an opinion of the intellect of a being with 
whom you have never interchanged a syllable, 
nevertheless his countenance does not contradict 
tlie common creed, I say the common creed, Mr. 
(xrey, for there are moments when the Crown 
Prince of Reisenberg is spoken of by his future 
subjects in a very ditlerent manner. "Whenever 
any unpopular act is committed, or any unpopular 
plan suggested by the court or the grand-duke, 
then whispers are immediately afloat that a future 
Brutus must be looked for in their prince ; then it 
is generally xmderstood that his idiotisra is only 
assumed ; and what woman does not detect, in tlie 
glimmerings of liis lack-lustre eye, the vivid sparks 
of suppressed genius 1 Li a short time the cloud 
blows over the court; dissatisfaction disappears; 
and the moment that the monarch is again popular, 
the unfortunate crown prince again becomes the 
unuilluentiid object of pity or derision. All im- 
mediately forget that his idiotism is only assumed; 
and what woman ever ceases from deploring the 
19 



unhapiiy lot of the future wife of their impuissant 
prince ? — Such, my dear sir, is the way of man- 
kind ! at the first glance it would appear, that in this 
world, monarchs, on the whole, have it pretty well 
their owii way ; but reflection will soon enable U3 
not to envy their situations ; and speaking as a 
father, which unfortunately I am not, should I not 
view with disgust that lot in life, which necessarily 
makes my son — my enemy ] The crown prince 
of all countries is only a puppet in the hanils of tiio 
people, to be played against his own father." 



CHAPTER XX 

TiiK prince returned home at a late hour, and 
immediately inquired for Vivian. During dinner, 
which he hastily despatched, it did not escape our 
hero's attention, that his highness was unusually 
silent, and, indeed, agitated. 

" When we have finished our meal, my good 
friend," at length said the prince, " I very- much 
wish to consult with you on a most important busi- 
ness." Since the explanation of last night, the 
prince, in private conversation, had dropped his 
regal plural. 

" I am ready this moment," said Vivian. 

" You will think it very strange, Mr. Grey, 
when you become acquainted with the nature of 
my communication ; you will justly consider it 
most strange — most singular — that I should choose 
for a confidant and a counsellor in an important 
business, a gentleman with whom I have been ac- 
quainted so short a time as yourself. But, sir, I 
have well weighed, at least I have endeavoured well 
to weigh, all tlie circumstances and contingencies 
which such a confidence would involve ; and the 
result of my reflection is, tliat I will look to you as 
a friend and an adviser, feeling assured that both 
from your situation and your disposition, no tempt- 
ation exists which can induce you to betray or to 
deceive me." Though the prince said this with 
an appearance of perfect sincerity, he stopped and 
looked very earnestly in liis guost's face, as if he 
would read his secret tlioughts, or were desirous of 
now giving him an opportunity of answering. 

" As far as the certainty of your confidence be- 
ing respected," answered Vivian, " I trust your 
highness may communicate to me with the most 
assured spirit. But while my ignorance of men 
and affairs in this country will insure you from any 
treachery on my part, I very much fear tliat it will 
also preclude me from affording you any advanUt- 
geous advice or assistance." 

" On that head," replied the prince, " I am of 
course the best judge. The friend whom I need is 
a man not ignorant of the world, Vv'ith a cool head 
and an impartial mind. Though yoimg, you have 
said and told me enough to prove that you are not 
unacquainted with manldnd. Of your courage, I 
hav-e already had a convincing proof. In the busi- 
ness in which I require your assistance, freedom 
from national prejudices will materially increase 
the value of your advice; and therefore I am far 
from being unwilling to consult a person ignorant, 
according to your own phrase, of men and afl'airs 
in this countr}'. Moreover, your education as an 
Englishman has early led you to exercise your 
mind on political subjects ; and it is in a politicai 
business that I require your aid." 
N 



1J6 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Am I fated alwnys to be the dn-nurse of an 
embryo fartion I" thoiislit \'ivian, in despair, and 
he watched eiimcstly the counlenanrc of the prince. 
Ill a moment lie expected to I'C invited to heoornc 
a counsellor of the leac^ued princes. Kither the 
lamp \v:ls huniinir dim, or tlie blazing wood lire 
had suddenly died away, or a mist was over ^'ivian'H 
eyes ; but lor a moment he almost imajrined tliat 
he was sitting: opposite his old friend, the .Marquess 
of Carabas. The prince's phrase Iiad given rise to 
11 thousand agonizing associations : in an instant 
Vivian had worked up his mind to a pitch of ner- 
vous excitemenL 

" Political business !" said Vivian, in an agitated 
voice. " Vou could not have addressed a more 
unfortunate person. I have seen, prince, too much 
of politics, ever to wish to meddle with them 
again." 

" Vou are too quick — too quick, my good friend," 
continued his highness. " I may wish to consult 
you on political business, and yet have no inten- 
tion of engaging you in politics — which, indeed, is 
quite a ridiculous idea. But I see that I was 
right in supposing that these subjects have engaged 
your attention." 

*' I have seen, in a short time, a great deal of the 
political world," answered Vivian, who was almost 
ashamed of his previous emotion ; " and I thank 
Heaven daily, that I have no chance of again hav- 
ing any connexion with it." 

•' Well, well ! — that as it may be. Nevertheless, 
your experience is only another inducement to nie 
to request your assistance. Do not fear that I 
wish to embroil you in politics ; but I hope you 
will not refuse, although almost a stranger, to add 
to the very great obligations which lam already un- 
der to you, and give me the benefit of your opi- 
nion." 

" Your highness may sjx^ak with the most per- 
fect unreserve, and reckon upon my delivering my 
most genuine sentiments." 

" You have not forgotten, I venture to believe," 
said the piince, "our shoit conversation of last 
night 1" 

" It was of too interesting a nature easily to es- 
cape my memory." 

" Ueforc I can con.sidtyou on the subject which 
at present interests me, it is necessary that I should 
make you a little acquainted with the present state 
of public aflairs here, and the characters of llie prin- 
cipal individuals who control." 

" An far nn an account of the present state of po- 
litical jiartics, the history of the grand-duke's ca- 
reer, and that of his minister, Mr. BeckendorlT, and 
their reputed characters, will form part of your 
highness's narative, by so much may its length be 
curtailed, and your trouble lessened ; for I have at 
difl(Tent times picked tip, in casual conversation, a 
great deal of inforiiiallon on these topics. Indeed, 
vou may address me, in this respect, as you would 
ony (Icrinnn gentleman, who, not being himself 
jierpoiially interested in |nililic life, is of course not 
ueqiiainted with its most wcri't details." 

"I ilid not reckon on this," said the prince, in a 
ctieerfiil voice. "This is a ffrvixl advantage, luid 
another reason that I should no longer hesitate to 
(Icvclope to you a certain ulfair which now occu- 
pien my mind, 'i'o |io short," continued the prince, 
*' it is of the letter which I so mysteriously rec«'iveil 
\%al night, and which, iw you must have remarked, 



very much agitated mc, — it is on this letter that 
I wish to consult you. Bearing in mind the exact 
position — the avowed and public position in which 
I stand, as connected with the court ; and having 
a due acquaintance, which you state you have, 
with the character of Mr. Beckendorll, what think 
you of this letter?" 

So saying the prince leaned over the table, and 
handed to Vivian tlie following epistle. 

"to niS IIIGIIIJESS THE PniNCE OP LITTLE 
LILLIPUT. 

" I am commanded by his royal highness to in- 
form your highness, that his royal highness has 
considered the request which was signed bv your 
highness and other noblemen, and presented by 
you to his royal highness in a private interview. 
His royal highness commands me to state, that 
that re(|uest will receive his most attentive const- 
deration. At the same time, his royal highness also 
commands mc to observe, that, in bringing about 
the completion of a result desired by all parties, it is 
difficult to carry on the necessary communications 
merely by written documents ; and his royal hig'^- 
ncss has therefore commanded me to submit to 
your highness, the advisability of faking sf.ne steps 
in order to further the possibility of the occurrence 
of an oral interchange of the sentiments of tlie re- 
spective parties. Being aware, that from tlie posi- 
tion which your highness has thought proper at 
present to maintain, and from other causes wkich 
are of too delicate a nature to be noticed in any 
other way except by allusion, that youv highness 
may feel difliculty in personally commiviicating 
with his royal highness, without consulting the 
wishes and opinions of the other princes; a process 
to which it must be evident to your highness, L4s 
royal highness feels it impossible to submit ; and 6* 
the same time, desirous of forwarding the progress 
of those views, which his royal highness and your 
highness may conjunctively consider calculated to 
advance the wcU-bcmg of the state, I have to s\A>- 
mit to your highness the propriety of considering 
tlie propositions contained in the enclosed paper; 
which, if 3 our highness keep unconnected with this 
communication, the purport of Uiis letter will I* 
confined to your highness. 

" pnorosiTio^s. 

" 1st. Tliaf an interview shall take place l>etwecn 
your highness and myself; the object of which 
shall be the consider.ition of measures by vvhi<-h, 
when adoi)ted. the various interests now in agita- 
tion shall respectively be regarded. 

" 2d. That this interview shall be secret ; your 
highness being incognito. 

" If your highness l>c disposed to acceile to the 
first proposition, I beg to submit to you, that from 
the nature of my residence, its situation and oilier 
causes, there will be no fear that any suspicion of 
the lact of Mr. tw» Vhilipson acceding to tlw 
two pro])0':ilions will gain notoriety. This letlir 
will lie di-livered into your own hands. If Mr. 
von IMiilipson determine on accedint; to tliceo 
propositions, he is most probably aware of the gene- 
ral locality in which my residence is situated ; and 
pro|«'r measures will be t:iken that, if Mr. von 
i'hilipMm honour me with a visit, he shall not Im 
under tlie nocci^ity of attracting attention, by ii>- 
I quiring tlic way to my house. It is wi.slicd tht# 



VIVIAN GREY. 



147 



the fact of the second proposition being acceded to, 
should only be known to Mr. von Philipson and 
myself: but if to be perfectly unattended be con- 
sidered as an insuperable objection, I consent to his 
being accompanied by a single friend. I shall be 
alone. " Beckendoeff." 

" Well !" said the prince, as Vivian finished the 
letter. « 

" The best person," said Vivian, " to decide 
upon your highness consentmg to this interview is 
yourself." 

" That is not the point on which I wish to have 
the benefit of 3'^our opinion ; for I have already con- 
sented. I rode over this morning to my cousin, the 
Duke of Micromegas, and despatched from his resi- 
dence a trusty messenger to Beckendortl". I have 
agreed to meet him — and to-morrow ; but on the 
express terms that I shall not be unattended. Now, 
then," continued the prince, with great energy, 
" now, then, will you be my companion"!" 

"II" said Vi\ian,in the greatest surprise. 

" Yes ; you, my good friend I — you, you. I should 
consider myself as safe if I were sleeping in a 
burning house, as I should be were I with Becken- 
dorff alone. Although this is not the first time 
diat we have communicated, I have never yet seen 
him ; and I am fully aware, that if the approaching 
interview were known to my friends, they would 
consider it high time that my son reigned in my 
stead. But I am resolved to be firm — to be inflex- 
ible. j\Iy course is plain. I am not to be again duped 
by him ; which," continued the prince, very much 
confused, " I will not conceal that I have been 
once." 

" But I !" said Vivian ; " I — what good can I 
possibly do ? It appears to me, that if Becken- 
dorff is to be dreaded as you describe, the pressnce 
or the attendance of no friend can possibly save 
you from his crafty plans. But surely, if any one 
attend you, why not be accompanied I53' a person 
whom } ou have known long, and who knows \"ou 
■well — on whom you can confidently rely, and who 
may be aware, from a thousand signs and circum- 
stances wdiich will never attract my attention, at 
what particular and pressing moments you may 
require prompt and energetic assistance. Such is 
the companion you want; and surely such a one 
you may find in Arnelm — Von Neuwied — " 

"Arnelm! Von Neuwiedl" said the prince; 
" the best hands at sounding a bugle, or spearing a 
boar, in all Rcisenberg I Excellent men, forsooth, 
to gu-ard their master fi-om the diplomatic deceits of 
the wily Beckendorff! Moreover, were tliey to 
have even the slightest suspicion of my intended 
movement, they would commit rank ti'eason out 
of pure loyally, and lock mc up in my own cabi- 
net ! No, no ! they will never do : I want a com- 
panion of experience and knowledge of the world ; 
with whom I may converse with some prospect of 
finding my wavcimg firmness strengthened, or my 
misled judgment rightly guided, or my puzeled 
brain cleared, — modes of assistance to which the 
worthy jagd junker is but little accustomed, how- 
ever q<iucld,y he might hasten to ray side in a com- 
bat, or the chase." 

" rf these, then, will not do, surely there is one 
man in this castle, who, although he may not be a 
match for Beckendorff, can be foiled by few others 
— Mr. Sievers !" said Vivian, with an inquiring 
eye. 



" Sievers !" exclaimed the prince with great eager- 
ness; " the very man ! firm, experienced, and sharp- 
witted — well schooled in political learning, in case 
I required his assistance in aiTangin^ the terms of 
the intended charter, or the plan of the intended 
chambers ; for these, of course, are the points on 
which Beckendorfl' wishes to consult. But one 
thing I am determined on : I positively pledge my- 
self to nothing, while under Beckendorff 's roof. He 
doubtless anticipates, by my visit, to grant the liber- 
ties of the people on his own terms : perhaps Mr. 
Beckendoi-ft", for once in his life, may be mistaken. 
I am not to be deceived twice ; and I am deternained 
not to yield the point of the treasury being under 
the control of the senate. That is the part of the 
harness which galls; and to preserve themselves 
from this rather inconvenient regulation, without 
question, my good friend Beckendortf has hit upon 
this plan." 

" Then Mr. Sievers will accompany you 1" asked 
Vivian, calling the prince's attention to the point 
of consultation. 

" The very man for it, my dear friend ! but al- 
though Beckendorff, most probably respecting my 
presence, and taking into consideration the circum- 
stances under which we meet, would refrain from 
consigning Sievers to a dungeon ; still, although 
the minister invites this interview, and although I 
have no single inducement to conciliate him ; yet 
it would scarcely be correct, scarcely dignified on 
my part, to prove by the presence of my companion, 
that I had for a length of time harboured an indi- 
vidual who, by Beckendorff's own exertions, was 
banished from the grand-dutchy. It would look too 
much like a bravado." 

" O !" said Vivian, " is it so ; and pray of what 
was Mr. Sievers guilty 1" 

" Of high treason against one who was not his 
sovereign." 

"How is that?" 

" Sievers, who is a man of most considerable 
talents, was for a long time a professor in one of 
our great universities. The publication of many 
able works procured him a reputation which in- 
duced Madame Carolina to use every exertion to 
gain his attendance at court ; and a courtier in 
time the professor became. At Reisenberg Mr. 
Sievers was the great authority on all possible sub- 
jects — philosophical, literary, and political. In fact, 
he was the fashion ; and, at the head of the great 
literary journal which is there published, he teiTi- 
fied admiring Germany with his prolb-and and 
piquant critiques. Unfortimately, like some men 
as good, he was unaware that Reisenberg was not 
an independent state ; and so, on the occasion of 
Austria attacking Naples, Mr. Sievers took the 
opportunity of attacking Austria. His article, elo- 
qt:?nt, luminous, profound, revealed the dark co- 
Ic-iirs of the Austr-au polic;,' ; as an artist's lamp 
brings out the murky tints of a Spagnolctto. Every 
one admires Sievers' I:ittor sarcasms, enlightened 
views, and indignant eloquence. Madame Caroliiia 
crowned him with laurel in the midst of her co- 
terie ; and it is said that the grand-dulce sent him 
a snuff-box. In a very short time the aiticle r^-ach- 
ed Vienna ; and in a still shorter time Mr. Beck 
endorff reached the Residence, and insisted on the 
author being immediately given up to the Austrian 
government. Madame Carolina was in despair, 
the grand-duke in doubt, and Beckendorff threat 
ened to resign if Uie order were not signed. A 



148 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



kind friend, perhaps hi^ royal hielincss himseM", 
gave Sicvcrs timely notice, and by rapid flif!;ht he 
rcaehed my castle, and demanded my hospitality ; 
he has lived here ever since, and has done me a 
thousand services, not the least of which, is the 
education which he has given my son, my glorious 
Maximili;in." 

" And Ijeckendorff," asked Vivian, "has he al- 
ways been aware that Sievcrs was concealed here V 

*' That I cannot answer : had he been, it is not 
improbable that he would have winked at it ; since 
it never has been his policy unnecessarily to an- 
noy a mediatised prince, or without preat occasion 
to let us feel that our independence is gone, I will 
not, with such a son as I have, say — forever." 

" Mr. 8icvers. of coiurse, tlien, cannot visit Beck- 
endord'," said Vivian. 

" That is clear," said the prince, " and I there- 
fore trust that now you will no longer refuse my 
lirst request." 

It was, of course, impossible for Vivian to deny 
the prince any lon;;er : a)id indeed he had no 
objection, as his highness could not be better 
attended, to seize the singular and unexpected o|> 
jwrtunity, which now ollered it.sclf. of becoming 
acquainted with an individual, respecting whom his 
curiosity was verj' nmch excited. It was a late 
hour ere the prince and his friend retired ; having 
arrang^ every thing for the morrow's journey, and 
convcBrd on the probable subjects of the approach- 
ing interview at great length. 



CHAPTER XXL 

Os the following morning, before sunrise, the 
prince's valet roused Vivian from his slumbers. 
According to the appointment of the preceding 
evening, Vivian repaired in due time to a certain 
spot in the park. 'J'he prince reached it at the 
h-ame moment. A mounted groom, leading two 
English horses, of very showy a])pcarance, and 
each having a travelling case stra))i>ed on the back 
of it.s saddle, awaited thoin. His highness nuiunt- 
e<l one of the steeds with .«kiltul celerity, although 
Arnelm and Von Neuwied were not there to do 
honour to his bridle and his stirruj). 

" You must give me an impartial o|)inion of 
your courser, my dear friend," said the prince to 
Vivian, " for if you deem it worthy of being be- 
.•tridden by you, my son requests that you will do 
him the great honour of accepting it ; if so, call it 
Max; and provided it bo as thorough-bred as the 
donor, you need not change it for Uucephalws." 

" Not worthy of the son of Ainmon !" said 
Vivia'i, !is he touched llie gjiirited animal with his 
sijur, and proved its fiery action on the springing 
tuif. 

.\ man never feels so j)roud or so sanguine as 
wl'.en he is bounding on the back of a faie hors<<. 
Cares lly with Uie tirst curvet ; and the very sight 
of a ppur is enough to ]irevent one committing 
liuicitle. What a niagnifu-ent creature is man. 
that a brute's prancing hoof enn influence his tem- 
per or his destiny I — and truly, however little there 
tnay Ih> to admire in the rider, few things in this 
ndmirable world can bo conci-ived more beautiful 
lluui a horne, when the bloody Hpurhas thrust some 
aiiL'cr in hiii resentful side. How splendid to view 



him with liis dilated nostril, his flaming eye, l.Jt 
arched neck, and his waving tail, rustling like a 
banner in a battle ! — to see him champing Lis 
slavered bridle, and sprinkling the snowy fo&m 
upon the earth, which his hasty hoof seems almost 
as if it scorned to touch ! 

When Vivian and his companion had proceeded 
about five miles, the prince pulled uj). and giving 
a s(fcled letter to the groom, he desired him to leave 
them. The prince and Vivian amused themselves 
for a considerable time by endeavouring to form a 
correct conception of the person, mamiers, and 
habits of the wonderful man to whom they were 
on the point of paying so interesting a visit. 

" I bitterly regret," said Vivian, " that I have 
forgotten my Montesquieu ; and what would I give 
now to know by rote only one quotation from 
Machiavel ! I expect to be received with folded 
arms, and a brow lowering with the overwhelming 
weight of a brain meditating for the control of 
millions. His letter has prepared us for the mys- 
terious, but not very amusing style of his conver- 
sation. He will be perpetually on his guard not 
to commit hunself ; and although public business, 
and the receipt of papers, by calling him away, 
will occasionally give us an opportunity of being 
alone ; still I regret most bitterly, that I did not 
put iti my case some interesting volume, which 
would have allowed me to feel less tedious those 
hours during which you will neces-sarily be em- 
ployed with him in private consultation." 

After a ride of five hours, the horsemen arrived 
at a small village. 

'* Thus Air I think I have well piloted you," said 
the prince: "but I confess my knowledge here 
ceases ; and though I shall disobey the diplomatic 
instructions of the great man, I nmst even ask 
some old woman the way to Mr. BeckendorlV's." 

While they were hesitating as to whom they 
should address, an equestrian, who already passed 
them on the road, thouijh at some distiuice, came 
up, and inquired, in a voice which A'ivian immedi- 
ately recognised as that of the messenger who had 
brought BeckendorlV's letter to Turriparva, whether 
he had the honour of addressing Mr. von Philip- 
son. Neither of the gentlemen answered, for 
Vivian of course expected the prince to reply ; and 
his highness was, as yet, so unused toliis ijicognito, 
that ho had actually forgotten his own name. But 
it was evident tluit the demandant had questioned 
rather from .system thiui by way of security ; and he 
waited very patiently until the prince had collected 
his senses, and assumed sullicient gravity of coun- 
tenance to inform tlie horstumm that lie was the 
person in question. " What, sir, is your plea- 
sure 1" 

" I lun instructed to ride on before you, sir, tliat 
you may not mistake your way :"' and without 
waiting for an answer, the laconic messenger turned 
lus steed's head, luul trotted oil". 

The travellers soon lilt the hieh road, and turned 
up a wilt! lurl" patii, not only inaccessible to car- 
riages, but even requiring great attention from horse- 
men. After nmch windini;, and some lloundering, 
they arrived at a light and very fanciful iron gate, 
which app;u"ently ojn-ned into u hlirnblK-ry. 

" 1 will take your horsi'.s here, gentlemen," said 
the guide ; and getting olf his horse, ho opened 
the gate. " Follow this patli, and you can meet 
with no diflieully.'' 'J'he prince and Vivian ac- 
cordingly dismoiuitcd ; and Uto guide inuuc- 



VIVIAN GREY 



119 



(Jiately, with the end of his v/hip, gave a loud thrill 
whistle. 

The path ran, for a very short way, through the 
shrubbery, whirh evidently was a belt encircling 
the groimls. From this the prince and Vivian 
emerged upon an ample lawn, which formed on 
the farthest side a terrace, by gradually sloping 
down to the margin of a river. It was enclosed on 
the other sides by an iron railing of the sanio pat- 
tern as the gate, and a great number of white 
pheasants were quietly feeding in its centre. Fol- 
lowing the path which skirted the lawn, they 
arrived at a second gate, which opened into a 
garden, in which no signs of the taste at present 
existing in Germany for the English system of 
-- pictuiesque pleasure-grounds were at all visible. 
The walk was bounded on both sides by tall bor- 
ders, or rather hedges of box, cut into the shape of 
battlements; the sameness of these turrets being 
occasionally varied by the immovable form of some 
trusty warder, carved out of yew or laurel. 
Raised terraces and arched walks, aloes and orange- 
trees, mounted on sculptured pedestals, columns of 
cypress, and pyramids of bay, whose dark foliage 
strikingly contrasted with the luarble statues, and 
the white vases shining in the sun, rose in all direc- 
tions in methodical confusion. The sound of a 
fountain was not wanting ; and large beds of the 
most beautiful flowers abounded ; hut in no instance 
did Vivian observe that two kinds of plants v/ere 
ever mixed together. Proceeding through a very 
lofty berccau, occasional openings, whose curving 
walks allowed effective glimpses of a bust or a 
statue, the companions at length came in sight of 
the house. It was a long, uneven, low buildin 



neck which agreed well with his beardless chin, 
and would not have misbecome a woman. In 
England we should have called his breeches buck- 
skin. They were of a pale yellow leather, and 
suited his large and spur-armed cavalry boot, which 
fitted closely to the legs they covered, reaching 
over the knees of the wearer. A riband round 
his neck, tucked into his waistcoat pocket, was 
attached to a small French watch. He swung in 
his right hand the bow of a violin ; and in the other, 
the little finger of which was nearly hid by a large 
antique ring, he held a white handkerchief strongly 
perfumed with violets. Notwithstanding the many 
feminine characteristics which I have ""noticed, 
either from the expression of the eyes, or the forma- 
tion of the mouth, the countenance of this individual 
generally conveyed an impression of the greatest 
firmness and energy. This description will not be 
considered ridiculously minute by those who have 
never had an opportunity of becoming acquainted 
with the person of so celebrated a gentleman as 
Mr. Beckf.nborff. 

He advanced to the prince with an air which 
seemed to proclaim, that as his person could not 
be mistaken, the ceremony of introduction was 
perfectly unnecessary. Bowing in the most cere- 
monious and courtly manner to his highness, Mr. 
Beckendorii" in a weak, but not unpleasing voice, 
said that he was honoured " by the presence of Mr. 
von Philipson." The prince answered his salu- 
tation in a manner equally ceremonious, and 
equally courtly ; for having no mean opinion of 
his own diplomatic abilities, his highness deter- 
mined that neither by an excess of coldness, nor 
cordiality on his part, should the minister gather 



evidently of ancient architecture. Numerous stacks the slightest indication of the temper in which he 
of tall and fantastically-shaped chinmeys rose over had attended the interview. You see that even 
three thick and heavy gables, which reached down j the bow of a diplomatist is a very serious busi- 



iiirther than the middle of the elevation, formin 
tJiree compartments, one of them including a large 
and modem bow-window, over which clustered in 
profusion the sweet and glowing blossoms of the 
clematis and the pomegranate. Indeed the whole 
front of the house was so completely covered with 
a rich scarlet creeper, that it was almost impossible 
to ascertain of what materials it was built. As 
Vivian was admiring a large white peacock, which, 
attracted by their approach, had taken the opportu- 
nity of unfurling its wheeling traui, a man came 
forward from the bow-window. 

I shall be particular in my description of his ap- 
pearance. In height he was about iive feet eight 
mches, and of a spare, but well-proportioned 
figure. He had very little hair, which was highly 
powdered, and dressed in a manner to render more 
remarkable the extraordinary elevation of his coni- 
cal and polished forehead. His long piercing 
black eyes were almost closed, from the fulness of 
tlieir upper hds. His cheeks were sallow, his nose 
acquiline, his mouth compressed. His ears, which 
were quite unco^'ered by hair, were so wonderfully 
small, that it would be wrong to pass them over 
unnoticed; as indeed were his hands and feet, 
which in form were quite feminine. He was 
dressed in a coal and waistcoat of black velvet, the 
latter part of his costume reaching to his thighs ; 
and in a button hole of his coat was a large bunch 
of tube-rose. A small part of his flannel waistcoat 
appeared through an opening in his exquisitely 
plaited shirt, tlie broad collar of which, though tied 
d with a wide black riband, did not conceal a 



" Mr. Beckendorff," said his highness, " my let- 
ters doubtless informed you that I should avail my- 
self of your permission to be accompanied. Let 
me have the honour of presenting to you my frieiid 
Mr. Grey, an English gentleman." 

As the prince .spoke, Beckendorff stood with his 
arms crossed behind him, and his chin resting upon 
his chest ; but his eyes at the same time so raised 
as to look his higliness full in the face. Vivian 
was so struck by his posture, and the expression 
of his countenance, that he nearly omitted to bow 
when he was presented. As his name was men- 
tioned, the minister gave him a sharp sidelong 
glance, and moving his head very gently, he invited 
ills guests to enter the house. The gentlemen 
accordingly complied with liis request. Passing 
through the bow-window, they found themselves 
in a well-sized room, the si.les of which were 
covered with shelves of richly bound books. 
There was nothing in the room which gave the 
slightest indication that the master of the library 
was any other than a private gentleman. Not a 
book, not a chair was out of its place. A purple 
inkstand of Sevre china, and a very highly-tooled 
morocco port-folio of the same colour, reposed on 
a ro.se-wood table, and that was all. No paper;., 
no despatches, no red tape, and no red boxes. 
Over an ancient chimney, lined with blue china 
tiles, on which were represented the most gro- 
tesque figures — cows playing the harp — monkeys 
acting monarchs — and tall figures all legs, flying 
with rapidiiy from pursuers who were all hea*l— ■ 
ir2 



IjO 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



over this chimney were suspendcil some curious 
{>iecc8 of antique armour, ninonq; whiclu an Italian 
«lac2;<'r, with a chiLsed and jewelled hilt, was the 
most remarkalile and the most jirecious. 

♦' Tliis," said Mr. BeckeiuiorlV. '• is my library." 
« "What a splendid poniard!" said the ))rince, 
who had no tas^te for books; and he immediately 
walked up to the chimney-piece. Beckendorll" 
followed him. and takiiiR down the admired wea- 
pon from its rcHlins^-jilace, proceeded to lecture on 
its virtues, its antiquity, and its beauty. Vivian 
seized this o})portunity of takino; a rapid phmee at 
the contents of his library. He anticipated inter- 
leaved copies of Machiavel. Vattel, and Mon- 
tesquieu ; and the liKhtcst works that he expected 
to meet with were the lyinij memoirs of some 
inlrifTuing cardinal, or the deluding apology of an 
exiled minister. To his surprise lie found that 
without an exception, the collection merelv con- 
sisted of poetry and romance ; and while his eye 
rapidly passed over, not only the great names of 
Germany, but also of Italy and of France, it was 
with pride that he remarked upon the shelves an 
English Shakspeare; and perhajs with still greater 
delight, a complete edition of the enchanted volumes 
of our illustrious Scott. Surprised at this most 
unexpected circumstance, Vivian looked with a 
curious eye on the uidettored backs of a row of 
mighty folios on a comer shelf; •'Thes=e," he 
tliought, " at least must be royal ordin:inccs, and 
collected state-papers." The sense of ])ro[irietv 
struggled for a moment with the ])assion of curi- 
oisity ; but nothing is more diHicult for the man 
who loves books, than to refrain from examining a 
volume which he fancies may be vniknown 
to him. From the jewelled dagger. Beckendorll' 
had now got to an enamelled breast-plate. Two 
to one he should not be ol)served ; and so, with a 
desperate pull. Vivian extracted a volume — it was 
an herl)al ! lie tried another — it was a collection 
of dried insects I He inmiediately replaced it, and 
staring at his host, wondered whether he really 
could be the Mr. Beckendorff of whom he had 
heairl so much. 

"And now," said Mr. Beckendorff, "I will show 
you my drawing-room." 

iie ofK'ucd the door at the further end of the 
library-, and introduceil them to a room of a very 
di)lerent character. The sun. which was shining 
vei7 brightly, lent additinnal brilliancy to the rain- 
bow-'.iiited birds of paradise, the crimson mackaws. 
and the green parrocpirts that glistened on the 
Bplendid India [»apcr, which covered not onlv the 
walls, but also the ceiling of the room. Over the 
Jire-piacc, a black frame. ])rojcctint; from the wall 
and mournfully coritnjsting with the general 
brilliant appearunce of the apartment, incloseil a 
|)icture of a U-autiful female ; and bending over its 
frame, and indeed partly shadowing the counte- 
nance, was the withered bratich of a tree. A 
h!iq>sicln>rd, and Bcveral ca»<'« of nnisical iiiKtru- 
inentM were placed in ililTeri-nt parts of the room ; 
and suspended by vitv broad black riiiands, from a 
w.dl "11 caeli side of the picture, wi-re a gnil.ir and 
a tambourine. On a Bofi of un\isnnl si/.e lay a 
(.'remona ; oiul as .Mr, BeckenilorlV passed the in- 
^lru^lent, he threw liy ili» "ide the bow, which he 
had hitherto carried in his hand. 

•' V\'« may nit wi-ll now take nomelhinir," oaid 
Mr. BeckenilorlV, when his gucala had sutlicicntly 



admired the room ; " my pictures are in my dining- 
room — let us go there." 

So saying, and armed this time, not only with 
his bow, but also with his violin, he retraced his 
steps through the library, and crossing a small pas- 
sage, which divided the house into two compart- 
ments, he opened the door into his dining-room. 
The moment that they entered the room, their ears 
were saluted, and indeed their si'nses ravished, by 
what ajipeared to be a concert of a thou.^and birds; 
vet none of the winged choristers were to be seen, 
and not even a single cage was visible. The room, 
which was verj- simply furnished, appeared at first 
rather gloomy ; for though lighted by three win- 
dows, the silk blinds were all drawn. 

" And now," said Mr. Beckendorff, raising the 
first blind, " you shall see my pictures. At what 
do you estimate this Breughel V 

The window, which was of stained green glass, 
gave to the landscape an effect similar to that ge- 
nerally produced by the artist mentioned. 'J'ho 
prince, who was already verj' puzzled by finding 
one who, at the same time, was both his host and 
his enemy, so perfectly different a character to w hat 
he had conceived, and who, being by temper sujier- 
slitious, considered that this preliminarj' false 
opinion of his was rather a had omen, — did not 
express any ver\' great a<lmiration of the callcry of 
Mr. Beckendorll": but A'ivian, who had no ambi- 
tious hopes or fears to affect his temper, and who 
was delinhted with the character with whom he 
had become so unexpectedly acquainted — good- 
naturedly humoured the fantasies of the minister ; 
and said that he ])referred his picture to any 
Breughel he had ever seeti. 

" I see you have a line taste," said Mr. Becken- 
dorir with a very .serious air, but in a most court- 
eous tone; " you shall see my Claiide !" 

The rich y<>llow lint of the second window gave 
to the fanciful garden all that was requisite to make 
it look Italian. 

"Have you ever been in Italy, sir?" asked 
Beckendorff". 

" I have not." 

" You have, Mr. von Philipson ?" 

" Never south of Germany." answered the 
prince, wlio was exceedingly hungry, and eyed, 
with a rapacious glance, the capital luncheon 
which he saw prepared for him. 

" Well then, when either of you go, you will of 
course not miss the Laggo Maggiore. Ga7e on 
Isola Bella at srmset, and you will not view as fair 
a scene as this ! .And now, Mr. von Philipson," 
said Mr. Beckendorff, "do me the favour of giving 
me your o|)inion of this Honthorst."' 

His highness would rather have given his opinion 
of the fine dish of stewed game which still smoked 
upon the table, but which he was mournfully con- 
vinced would not smoke long ; or of the large 
cucnnd)ers, of which he was parlicidarly foiid, and 
whii-h, amcmg many other vegetables, his amorous 
eye had already detected. " But,'* lhoU'4:lit he, 
" this is the last !" and so he ver\' warmly admired 
the elfecl produced by the tiaming panes, to which 
iiei'kendorff swore that no piece ever jiaiiited by 
(I'erard Honthorst, for brilliancy of colouring and 
bolilnefw of outline, coulil be ci>inpiired : " besides," 
ciinlinued Beckendorll", "mine are all animated 
pictures. Seeihal cypress, waving from the gentle 
brei'ze which is now stirring — and look! look 



VIVIAN GREY. 



151 



at this crimson peacock ! — look ! Mr. von Philip- 
son." 

"I am looking, Mr. von 1 beg pardon, 

Mr. Bcckendorff," said the prince, with great dig- 
nity — making this slight mistake in the name, 
either from being unused to converse with such 
low people as had not the nominal mark of nobihty, 
or to vent his spleen at being so unnecessarily kept 
from the refreshment which he so much required. 

" Mr. von PhiUpson," said Beckendorif, sud- 
denly turning round ; " all my fruits and all my 
vegetables, are from my own garden. Let us sit 
down and help ourselves." 

The only substantial food at table was a gi'eat 
dish of stewed game, which I believe I have men- 
tioned before. The prince seized the breast and 
wings of a young pheasant, Vivian attacked a fine 
tender hare, and BeckendorfT himself cut off the 
wing of a partridge. The vegetables and the fruits 
were numerous and superb; and there really ap- 
peared to be a fair prospect of the Prince of Little 
Lilliput making as good a luncheon as if the whole 
had been conducted under the auspices of Master 
Rodolph himself, — had it not been for the con- 
founded melody of the unseen vocalists, which, 
probably excited by the sound of the knives and 
plates, too evidently increased every momerit. But 
this inconvenience was soon removed by Mr. Bcck- 
endorff rising, and giving three loud knocks on the 
door opposite to the one by which they had enter- 
ed. Immediate silence ensued. 

" Clara will be here in an instant, to change 
your plate, Mr. von Philipson," said Bcckendorff, 
— " and here she is." 

Vivian eagerly looked up, not with the slightest 
idea that the entrance of Clara would prove that 
the mysterious picture in the drawing-room was a 
portrait ; but it must be confessed with a Ihtle 
curiosity to view the first specimen of the sex who 
lived under the roof of Mr. Eeckendorff. Clara 
was a hale old W'Oman, with rather an acid expres- 
sion of countenance ; very prim in her appearance, 
and evidently very precise in her manners. She 
placed a bottle, and two wine-glasses with long 
thin stems, on the table ; and having removed the 
game, and changed the plates, she disappeared. 

" Pray what wine is this, Mr. BeckendoriTl" 
eagerly asked the prince, with a coimtenance 
glowing with delight — and his highness was vulgar 
enough to smack his lips, which, for a prince, is 
really shocking. 

" I really don't know. I never drink wine." 

" Not know ! Grey, take a glass. What's your 
opinion? — I never tasted such wine in my life. 
Why, I do declare it is real Tokay I" 

" Probably it may be," said Mr. Beckendorff; 
'• I think it was a present from the emperor. I 
have never tasted it." 

" My dear sir, take a glass !" said the prince ; 
his natural kind and jovial temper having made 
him completely forget whom he was addressing, 
the business he had come upon, and indeed every 
thing else except the astounding circumstance that 
there was an individual in the room who refused 
to take his share of a bottle of real Tokay : — " My 
dear sir, take a glass." 

" I never drink wine ; I'm glad you like it, I 
have no doubt Clara has more." 

" No, no, no ! we must be moderate, w^e must be 
moderate," said the prince, who, though a great 
admirer of a good luncheon, had also a due respect 



for a good dinner, — and consequently had no idea 
at this awkward hour in the day of preventing 
himself from properly appreciating the future ban- 
quet. Moreover, his highness, taking into consi- 
deration the very piquant sauce with which the 
game had been dressed, and the marks of refine- 
ment and good taste which seemed to pervade 
every part of the establishment of Mr. Becken- 
dorif, did not imagine that he was much presum- 
ing, when he conjectured that there was a fair 
chance of his dinner being something very supe- 
rior. The prince, therefore, opposed a further 
supply of Tokay, and contented himself for the 
present with assisting his Gruyere with one of the 
very fine looking cucumbers — his favourite cucum- 
bers; which, though yet imtasted, had not, in spite 
of the wine, been banished from his memory. 

" You seem very fond of cucumbers, Mr. von 
Philipson," said Beckendorff. 

" So fond of tliem that I prefer them to any 
vegetable, and to most fruits. What is more cool- 
ing — more refreshing ! What — " 

*' I never eat them myself; but I'll tell you, if 
you like, what I think the best way of treating a 
cucumber." 

His highness was the most ready, and the most 
graceful of jnipils ; and Vivian could scarcely sup- 
press his laughter, when the prime minister, with 
a grave countenance, and in his peculiarly subdued 
voice, and somewhat precise mode of speaking, 
commenced instructing his political opponent upon 
the important topic of dressing a vegetable. 

" You must be careful," said Mr. Beckendorff, 
" to pick out the straightest, thinnest-skinned, most 
seedless cucumber that you can find. Six hours 
before you want to eat it, put the stalk in cold 
water on a marble slab — not the whole cucumber 
— that's nonsense. Then pare it very carefully, so 
as to take off all the green outside and no more. 
Slice it as thin as possible, spread it over your 
dish, and sprinkle it with a good deal of white pep- 
per, red pepper, salt, and mustard-seed. Mix some 
oil and common vinegar with a little Chili, and 
drown it in them. Open a large window very 
wide — and throw it all out !" 

It was quite evident that Mr. von Philipson was 
extremely disappointed, and perhaps a iittle of- 
fended at the vmexpected termination of Mr. Beck- 
endorff's lecture, to which he had listened with the 
most interested attention. As for Vivian Grey, he 
did not atlect to contain himself any longer, but 
gave way to a long and loud laugh — a laugh not 
so much excited by the manner in which Becken- 
dorff had detailed the desired information, although 
it was extremely humorous, as by the striking 
contrast which the speaker and the speech aflbrded 
to the conceptions which he and his companion 
had formed of their host during their ride. His 
rather boisterous risibility, apparently, did not 
offend Mr. Beckendorff, on whose upper lip, for 
an instant, Vivian thought he detected a smile or 
a sneer. It was, however, only for an instant; for 
the minister immediately rose from table, and left 
the room by the same door on which his three loud 
knocks had previously produced so tranquillizmg 
an effect. 

The sudden arrival and appearance of some new 
and unexpected guests through the very mysterious 
portal by which Mr. Beckendorif had vanished, not 
only were the source of fresh entertainment to our 
hero, but also explained the character of the apartr 



152 



D 'I S R A E L r S NOVELS. 



mrnt, ^\hirh, from its unceasincf melody, had so 
much excited his curiosity. These new guests 
were a erowd of pipinc; bullfinches, Virginia night- 
ingales, trained canaries, Java sparrows, and Indiiin 
lories; wliiih having liocu Treed from their cages of 
golden wire bv their foiul ma-iter, had fled, as was 
their cus^tom, from his superb a\iary to pay their 
respects and coni)>nmPuts at his daily levee. 

The table was immediately covered, and the 
prince immediately annoyed. Noticing diil he 
detest so much as the whole feathered race ; and 
now, as far as he could observe, he might as well 
have visited a bird-catcher as Mr. Beckendorfl'. The 
while pheasants, and the white i>cacock, could have 
been borne ; but as for the present intrusion, a man 
had better live in Noah's ark than in tiie lil<crties 
of an aviarv'. The prince was quite right; it was 
extremely annoying. A cou])le of bullfinches res- 
pectively perched on each of his shoulders, and 
commenced a most fhrilhng and Jacobinical hymn 
of hberty, in celebration of their release ; and an 
impudent little canary attacked his cucumber. As 
if this were not sufllcient to produce instantaneous 
insanity, a long-tailed scarlet lory lighted on his 
head, and commenced its usual fondling tricks, by 
rubbing its beak in the prince's hair, fluttering its 
wing on his cheek, and pecking his eyebrows. As 
it got more delighted, it shrieked its joy into his ear 
with such shrillness, that he started from his chair ; 
and the little favourite consequently slipping down, 
to save itself from falling, hung u[ion his lip by his 
beak. As soon as his highness had extricated 
himself from this unpleasant situation, the lory, 
making a perch on the back of his hair, regained 
its first position. 

Just as the prince was asking Vivian to hasten 
to his assistance, Mr. 15eckendorlV returned, — 
" Never mind, Mr. von Philipson,"' said the minis- 
ter, " never mind ; it only wants to make a nest, 
poor thing !" 

" But I do mind, Afr. Beckendorfl'; I detest birds, 
and this annoying little animal, I beg to inform you, 
is exceedingly troublesome." 

"Wheuqh !"' said the Prime Minister of Rcisen- 
berg, and the troulilesome lory flew to his shoulder. 
" I am glad to see that you like birds, sir," said 
Bcckeadorlf to Vivian; for our good hero, good- 
naturedly humouring the tastes of his host, was 
impartially dividing the luxuries of a peach among 
a crowd of gaudy and greedy little sparrows. "You 
shall see my favourites," continued Beckendorfl", 
i»nd tapping rather loudly on the table, he held out 
the forelinger of each hand. 'J'he two buUincb.cs, 
which were still ringing on the shoulder of the 
prince, recognised the signal, and inmiediately 
liantened to their perch. 

" .My dear!" trilled out wne little songster; and 
it raised its speaking eyes to its delinhled master. 

" My love !" warbled the other, marking its aflic- 
tion by looks e(|ually personal. 

Thes«' monosyrlaliles were rei)eated fifty times; 
at i-uch one Beckendorlf, with S|iarklirig eyes, and 
n coutUrnance railianl with ilclight, Iriumphaiilly 
looked round at Vivian, as if the frequent reitera- 
tion were a proof of the sincerity of the afli-cUon of 
thi"«e (>ini;nlar friends. 

At len^jtli, to the prince's pfrent relief, Mr. Beck- 
endorfl'B f'-;itliere<l friends having finishe*! their 
detuiert, were heni back to th<'ir cages, with a strict 
injunciioH not to trouble tlu-ir muster at [>re8«int 
with their voicea — un injunction which, to \ iviuii's 



great surprise, was obeyed to the letter; and when 
the door was closed, few persons in the world could 
have been persuaded tliat the next room was an 
aviary. 

" I am proud of my peaches, Mr. von Philipson," 
said Beckendorfl', recommending the fruit to his 
guest's attention ; then, rising from the table, he 
threw himself on the sofa, and began humming a 
tune in a very low voice. Presently he look up his 
Cremona, and u-^ing the violin as a guitar, accom- 
panied himself in a very beautiful air, but not in a 
more audible tone. While Mr. Beckendorfl" was 
singing, he seemed quite unconscious that any 
person was in the room ; and the prince, who de- 
tested music, certainly gave him no hint, either by 
his aj>probation or his attention, that he was listened 
to. Vivian, however, like most unhappy men, did 
love music with all his .spirit's strength ; and 
actuated by this feeling, and the interest which he 
began to talie in the character of Mr. Beckendorfl", 
he could not, when that gentleman had finished 
his air, refrain from very sincerely saying " encore !" 

Beckendorfl' stirted and looked around, as if he 
were for the first moment aware that any being had 
heard him. 

"Encore!" said he, with a kind sneer; "who 
ever could sing or play the same tlvyig twice ! 
Are you fond of music, sirl" 

" \cvy nnich so, indeed : I fancied I recognised 
that air. You are an admirer, I imagine, of Mozart 1" 

" 1 never heard of him : I know nothing of those 
gentry. But if you really like music, I'll play you 
something worth listening to." 

Mr. BeckendorflT began a beautiful air very 
adagio, gradually increasing the time in a kind of 
variation, till at last his execution became so won- 
derfully rapid, that ^'ivi;ln, surprised at the mere 
mechanical action, rose fron; his chair in order 
belter to examine the player's manaiiement and 
motion of his bow. Exquisite as were the tones, 
enchantuig as were the originality of his variations, 
and the perfect harmony of his composition, it was 
nevertheless extremely dilficult to resist laughing at 
the ludicrous contortions of his face and figure. 
Now, his body bending to the strain, he was atoi:e 
moment with his violin raised in the air, and the 
next instant with the lower nut almost resting upon 
his foot. At length, by well-proportioned degrees, 
the air died away into the original soft cadence ; 
and the player becoming completely entnuiced in 
his own pcrl'ormaiice, finished by sinking back on 
the sofa, with his bcw and violin raised over his 
head. \'ivian would not disturb him by his ap- 
plause. An instant aftir, Mr. Becktndorfl', throw- 
rng down tb(> instrument, rushed through an opened 
window into the garden. 

As soon as BeckeudorfTwas out of sight. Vivian 
looked at the prince; and his highness, elevntinff 
his evebrows, screwing up I: is moutli, and shrugg- 
ing his shoidders, altogether i)reBenled a very comi- 
cal jiicture of n puz'/.li-d man. 

" Well, my ilear friend," said he, " this is rather 
different to what we exj)ected." 

" \'ery difl'erent indeed ; but much more amus- 
ing." 

" Humph !" said the prinro, very slowly, " I do 
not think it exactly requiri*** a ghost to tell uk thai 
Mr. BeckendortV Is not in the habit of going to 
court. I don't know how he is accustomed to 
conduct himself when he is honoured by a visit 
from the grund-dulvc ; but I aiu quite sure, tliut 



VIVIAN GREY. 



15J 



<js rej^ards his treatment of myself, to say th« least, 
the incognito is very well observed." 

"Mr. von Philipson," said the gentleman of 
■U'hom they were .^pealcing, putting his head in at 
the window ; " you shall see my blue passion- 
flower. — We'll take a walk round the garden." 

The prince gave Vivian a look, which seemed to 
suppose they must go ; and accordingly they 
stepped into the garden. 

" You do :*iot see my garden in its glory," said 
Mr. BeckendorlT, stopping before the bow-window 
of the library; "this spot is my strong point; had 
you been here earlier in the year, you might have 
admired with me my invaluable crescents of tuhps 
— such colon; s ! such brilliancy ! so defined ! And 
last year I had three king-tulips ; their elegantly- 
formed creamy cups, I have never seen equalled. 
And then my double variegated ranunculuses ; my 
hyacinths of fifty bells, in every tint, single and 
double ; and my favourite stands of auriculas, so 
large and powdered, that the colour of the velvet 
leaves was scarcely discoverable ! The blue pas- 
sion-flower is, however, now very beautiful. You 
see that summer-house, sir," continued he, turn- 
ing to Vivian, " the top is my observatory ; you 
will sleep in that pavilion to-night, so you had bet- 
ter take notice how the walk winds." ^ 

The passion-flower was trained against the sum- 
mer-house in question. 

"There!" said Mr. Beckendorff, and he stood 
admiring with outstretched arms, " the latter daygi 
of its beauty, for the autumn frosts will soon stop 
its flower: Pray, Mr. von Philipson, are either you 
or your friend a botanist'?" 

" Why," said the prince, " I am a great admirer 
of flowers, but I catmot exactly say that — " 

" Ah ! I see you are no botanist. The flower of 
this beautiful plant continues only one day, but 
tHere is a constant succession from July to the end 
of the autumn : and if this fine weather continue — 
Pray, sir, how is the wind !" 

" I really cannot say," said the prince ; " but I 
tliink the wind is either — " 

" Ah ! do you know how the wind is, sir1" con- 
tinued BcckendorlV to Vivian. 

" I think, sir, that it is — " 

" Ah ! I see it's westerly. — W^ell ! if this weather 
continue, the succession may still last another 
month. You will be interested to know, Mr. von 
Philipson, that the flower comes out at the same 
joint with the leaf, on a peduncle near three inches 
long; round the centre of it are two radiating 
crowns ; look, look, sir ! the inner inclining towards 
the centre column — now examine this v\'ell, and 
I'll be with you in a moment." So saying, Mr. 
Beckendorflf, running with great rapidity down the 
walk, jumped over the railing, and in a moment 
was coursing across the lawn, towards the river, in 
a desperate chase after a dragon-fly. 

Mr. Beckendorff was soon out of sight; and after 
lingering half an hour in the vicinity of the blue 
passion-flower, the prince proposed to Vivian that 
ihey should quit the spot. " As far as I can ob- 
serve," continued his highness, "we might as well 
quit the house. No wonder that Bccken(lorff"'s 
power is on the wane, for he appears to me to be 
growing childish. Surely he could not always have 
been this frivolous creature!" 

" I really am so overwhelmed with astonish- 
ment," said Vivian, " that it is quite out of my pow- 
er to assist your highness in any supposition. But 
20 



I should recommend you not to be too hasty in 
your movements. Take care that staying here 
does not affect the position which you have taken 
up, or retard the progress of any measures on which 
you have determined, and you are safe. What 
will it injure you, if, with the chance of achieving 
the great and pati-iotic purpose to which you have 
devoted yoiu" powers and energies, you are subject- 
ed for a few hours to the caprices, or even rude- 
ness, of any man whatever. If Beckendorff be the 
character v\'hich the world gives him credit to be, 
I do not think he can imagine that you are to be 
deceived twice; and if he do imagine so, we are 
convinced that he will be disappointed. If, as yot 
have supposed, not only his power is on the wane, 
but his intellect also, four-and-twcnty hours will 
convince us of the fact; for in less than that time 
your highness will necessarily have conversation 
of a more important nature with him. I strenuously 
recommend, therefore, that we continue here to- 
day, althongh," added Vivian, smiling, " I have to 
steep in his o'bservatory." 

After walking in tlie garden about an hour, the 
prince and Vivian again went into the house, imag- 
ining that Becken-dorfT might have returned by 
another entrance; but he was not there. The 
prince was very much annoyed ; and Vivian, to 
annisc himself, had recourse to the library. Aft^T 
re-examining the armour, looking at the garden 
through the painted windows, conjecturing who 
miglit be the original of the mysterious picture, and 
what could be the meaning of the withered brancli, 
the prince was fairly worn out. The precise din- 
ner hour he did not knpw ; and notwithstanding 
repeated exertions, he had hitherto been unable to 
find the blooming Clara. He could not flatter him- 
self, however, that there were less than two hours 
to kill before the great event took place ; and so, 
quite miserable, and heartily wishing himself back 
again at Turriparva, he prevailed upon Vivian to 
throw aside his book, and take another walk. 

This time they extended their distance, stretched 
out as far as the river, and explored the adjoining 
woods ; but of Mr. Beckendorff they saw and heard 
nothing. At length they again returned : it was 
getting dusk. They found the bow-window of the 
hbrary closed. They again entered the dining- 
room ; and, to their sui'prise, found no preparations 
for dinner. This time the prince was more fortu- 
nate in his exertions to procure an interview with 
Madam Clara, for tkat lady almost immediately 
entered the room. 

" Pray, my good madam," inquired the prince ; 
" has your master returned T' 

" Mr. Beckendorff is in the library, sir," said the 
old lady, very pompously'. 

" Indeed ! we don't duie in this room, then ?" 

" Dine, sir I" said the good dame, forgetting her 
pomposity in her astonishment. 

" Yes — dine," said the prince. 

" La ! sir ; Mr. Beckcndorfi" never takes any thing 
after noon meal." 

" Am I to understand, then, that we are to have 
no dinner !" asked his highness, angry and agi- 
tated. 

" Mr. Beckendorff never takes any thing after 
his noon meal, Isir; but I'm sure if you and your 
friend are hungry, sir, I hope there's never a want 
in this house." 

" My good lady, I am hungry, very hungry in- 
deed; and if your master, I mean Mr von that 



154 



D'ISRAJ]LrS NOVELS. 



is Mr. Bccljpndorfl'. has such a bad appetite that he 
can satisfy him^eil" with piclcintr, once a day, the 
l'rra«t of a phex'ant ; why. it' ho expert liis friends 
to be wiiliupr, or even iiMe to live on siieli fare, — 
the least that I ean say is, tliat he is very mueh 
mistaken ; and so, then-fore, my pood friend (Jrey, 
I think we had better order our horse-s, and be ofl"." 
" No oeeacion fur that, I hope," said Mrs. Clara, 
rather alarmed at the prince's passion ; " no want, 
I trust, ever liere, sir; and I make no doubt you'll 
have dinner a-i soon as possible; and so, sir, I hope 
yiiu'll not be hasty."' 

■' Hasty ! I have no wish to be hasty ; but as for 
disarranging the whole economy of the house, and 
petting up an extemporaneous meal for me — I can- 
not think of it. Mr. Bccken<!orlV niay live as he 
likes, and if I stay here, I am contented to live as 
he does. I do not wish him to chanpc liis habits 
forme, and I shall take care tluit, after to-day. there 
will be no necessity for liis doiiic; so. However, 
absolute hunger can make no compliments ; and 
therefore I will thank you, my good madam, to let 
me and my friend have the remains of that cold 
game, if they be still in existence, on which wc 
lunched, or, as you term it, took our noon meal this 
morning ; and which, if it were your own cooking. 
Mrs. Clara, I a'^surc you, as I observed to my friend 
at the time, did you infinite credit." 

The prince, although his gentlemanly feeling 
had, in spite of his hunger, dictiUcd a deprecation 
(if Mrs. Clara's making a dinner merely for himself, 
still thought that a seasonable and deserved compli- 
ment to the lady might assist in bringing about a 
result, which, notwithstanding his politeness, he 
verv' nnich desired; and that was the production 
of another specimen of her culinan,- accomplish- 
ment-s. Having behaved, a.s he considered, with 
such moderation and dignifie^l civility, he was, it 
nuist be conlessed, rather astounded, when Mrs. 
(-'lara, duly acknowledging his coni])liment by her 
courtesj-, was sonry to infonn him that she dnred 
give no refn shment in this house, without Mr. 
BeekendorlV's s]iecial order. 

" Special order ! why ! surely your master will 
not grudge me the cold leg of a pheasant V 

" Mr. Beckendorfl'is not in the habit of grudging 
any thing," answered the house-keeper, with of- 
teiiiled majesty, 

•• 'riien why should he object ?" asked the prince. 

" ]\1r. IJeekendorlTis the best judge, sir, of the 
propriety of his own regulations.'' 

" Well, well !' said Mvian, more interested for 
liis friend than himself, " there is no dilliculty in 
asking Mr. Ueckend»rfV." 

'• iSone in the least, sir," answered the house- 
keeper, " when he is awake." 

" Awake !" siiid the prince, " why ! is he asleep 
now V 

" Yes, sir, in the library." 

" Aiul how long will lie Iw asleep ?" n»-ked the 
prince, with great eagerness. 

" It is uncertain ; he may be asleep for hours — 
be may wake in five minutes; all I can do is to 
watch." 

" Rut, surely in n caw like the present, you ean 
w.ike your niasl<T ?" 

" I could 111)1 wake Mr. BeckendorfT. sir, if tlu< 
hoiiHc were on fire. No one ean ent<'r the room 
when he is ahlei-p." 

'• Tlir-n how can you possibly know when he is 
awake." 



" I shall hear his violin immediately, sir." 
" Well, well ! I suppose it must be so. Grey, I 
wish we were in Turriparxa, that is all I know. 
Men of my .station have no bu-iness to be paying 
visits to the sons of the Lord knows who ! peasants, 
shoiTi-keepers, and pedacrosues !" 

The Prince of Little Lilliput thought that man- 
kind were solely created to hunt and to fight ; and 
unless you could spear a boar or owned a commis- 
sion, you were not included in his list of proper 
men. We smile at what we cmsidcr the narrow- 
minded ideas of a fierman prince ; yet, perhaps, 
if we inquire, we .shall find that mankind, on an 
average, are influenced in all countries by the same 
feelings, and in the same degree ; and the defini- 
tion of a gentknitm by a hero of St. James-street, 
if not exactly similar, will not be less unwise and 
less ridiculous, than the Prince of Little Lilliput's 
description of a proper man. An oflicer in the 
guards once told me, that no person was a gentl«>- 
man. who was not the son of a man who had 
twenty thousand a year landed property. Con- 
vinced that his declaration was sincere. I respected 
his prejudices, and did not dispute his definition. 
I should have behaved the same, had I been in 
Africa, and had a Hottentot dandy declared, tliat 
no person was to be visited who dand to devour 
the smoking entrails of a sheep in less than a cou- 
ple of mouthfuls. 

As a fire was blading in the dining-room, which 
Mrs. Clara infonned them Mr. BeckendorfT never 
omitted havincr every night in tlie year, the prince 
and his friend imagined that they were to remain 
there, and they consequently did not attempt to 
disturb the slumbers of Mr. BeckendorfT. Resting 
his feet on the hobs, his highness, for the fiftieth 
time, declared that he wished he had never left 
Turriparva ; and just when Vivian w.as on the point 
of giving up, in despair, the hope of consoling him, 
Mrs. Clara entered, and ]>rocceded to lay the clotli. 

"Your master is awake, theni" asked the 
prince, very quickly. 

" Mr. BcckendorfThasbeen long awake, sir ! and 
dinner will be ready immediately." 

His highness's countenance brightene<1, and in 
a short time the supper ajipearing. the prince .again 
fascinated by Mrs. Clar.»'s cookery and Mr. Becken- 
dorlT's wine, forgot his chagrir., and ri'gained his 
temper. 

In about a couple of hours Mr. BeckendorfT en- 
tered. 

" I hope that Clara has given you wine yoti 
like, Mr. von Philipson ?" 

" liXcellrnt, my dear sir ? the same bin, I'll an- 
swer for that." 

Mr. BeckendorfT had his violin in his hand ; but 
his dress was niuch changed. His great Knits Ink- 
ing ])ulle(i elT, exhibiting the while silk stm-kings 
which he invariably wore ; and his coat had given 
place to the easier covering of a very long and 
b.indsoine brocade dressing-gown. He drew a 
chair round the fire, between the prince nndVivi- 
II n. It was a late hour, and the room was only 
lighted by the glimmering coal.>>. for the f1nine« had 
biiig died awiiy. Mr. BcckeiidoriT sat for some 
time without s)>eaking, ga/iiig very earnestly on 
the decaying embers, Iiiileed, before many mi- 
nutes had elapsed, complete silence prevailed, for 
both the endeavours of the prince, and of Vivian, 
to promote conversation had been uiiMieeessfiil. 
.\t length the master uf the hout>e turned rouiul to 



VIVIAN GREY. 



155 



the prince, and pointing to a partirular mass of 
coal, said, " I think, Mr. von Philipson, that is the 
completest elephant I ever saw. We will ring 
the hidli for some coals, and then have a game of 
whiit." 

Tiie prin'^e was so surprised by Mr. Becken- 
dorfl's remark, that he was not sufficiently struck 
by the strangeness of his proposition; and it was 
only when he heard Vivian professing his igno- 
rance of the game, that it occurred to hiin that to 
play at whist was hardly the object for which he 
had travelled from Turriparva. 
•' " An Englishman not know whist !" said Mr. 
BeckendorfT: "Ridiculous! — you do know it. 
You're thinking of the stupid game they play 
here, of Boston whist. Let us play ! Mr, von 
Fhilipson, I know, has no objection." 

" But, my good sir," said tlie prince, " although 
previous to conversation I rnay have no objection to 
join in a little amusement, still it appears to me 
that it has escaped your memory that whist is a 
game which requires the co-operation of four per- 
sons." 

" Not at ail ! I take dummy. I'm not sure if it 
is not the finest way of playing the game." 

The table was arranged, the lights brought, the 
cards produced, and the Prince of Little Liliiput, 
greatly to his surprise, found himself playing whist 
with Mr. Beckendorir. Nothing could be more 
dull. The minister would neither bet nor stake ; 
and the immense interest which he took in every 
card that was played, most ludicrously contrasted 
with the rather sullen looks of the prince, and the 
very sleepy ones of Vivian. Whenever Mr. Beck- 
endorif played for dummy, he always looked wilh 
the most searching eye into the next adversary's 
face, as if he would read his cards in his features. 
The first rubber lasted an hour and a half — three 
long games, which Mr. Beckendorff, to his triumph, 
hardly won. In the first game of the second rub- 
ber Vivian blundered ; in the second he revoked ; 
and in the third, having^ieglected to play, and be- 
ing loudly called upon, and rated both by his part- 
ner and Mr. Beckendorff, he was found to be asleep. 
Beckendorff threw down his hand with a loud dash, 
which roused Vivian from his slumber. He apo- 
logized for his drowsiness ; but said that he was so 
extremely sleepy that he must retire. The prince, 
who longed to he wilh Beckendorff alone, winked 
ipprobation of his intention. 

'•Well!" said Beckendorff, "you spoiled the 
rubber. I shall ring for Clara. Why you are all 
80 fond of going to bed, I cannot understand. I 
have not been to bed these thirty years." 

Vivian made his escape ; and Beckendorff, pity- 
ing his degeneracy, proposed to the prince, in a 
tone which seemed to anticipate that the oiler would 
meet with instantaneous acceptation — double dum- 
my ; — this, however, was too much. 

" No more cards, sir, I thank you," said the 
prince ; ''if, however, you have a mind for an hour's 
conversation, I am quite at your service." 

'■ I am obliged to you — I never talk — good night, 
Mr. von Philipson." ' 

Mr. Beckendorff left the room. His highness 
fould contain himself no longer. He rang the 
bell. 

" Pray, Mrs. Clai-a," said he, " where are ray 
horses V 

'■ Mr. Beckendorff will have no quadrupeds with- 
in a mile of the house, except Owlface." 



" How do you mean 1 — let me see the man 
servant." 

" 'i'he household consists only of myself, sir." 

" Why ! where is my luggage, then 1" 

" 1'hat has been brouglit up, sir ; it is in your 
room." 

" I toll you, I must have my horses." 

" It is quite impossible to-night, sir. I think, sir, 
you had better retire ; Mr. Beckendorff may not be 
home again these six hours." 

" What ! is your master gone outl" 

" Yes, sir, he is just gone out to take his ride." 

" Why ! where is his horse kept, then !" 

" It's Owlface, sir." 

" Owlface, indeed ! what, is your master in the 
habit of riding out at night V 

" Mr. Beckendorff rides out, sir, just when it 
happens to suit him." 

" it is very odd I cannot ride out when it hap- 
pens to suit me! However, I'll be off to-morrow; 
and so, if you please, show me my bed-room at 
once." 

" Your room is the library, sir." 

" The library ! why, there's no bed in the li- 
brary." 

" We have no beds, sir ; but the sofa is made 
up." 

" No beds ! well ! it's only for one night. You 
are all mad, and I am as mad as you for coming 
here." 



CHAPTER XXIL 

The morning sun peeping through the window 
of the little summer-house, roused its inmate at aji 
early hour ; and finding no signs of Mr. Becken- 
dorff and his guest having yet arisen from their 
slumbers, Vivian took the opportunity of strolling 
about the gardens and the grounds. Directing his 
way along the margin of the river, he soon left the 
lawn, and entered some beautiful meadows, whose 
dewy verdure glistened in the brightening beams of 
the early sun. Crossing these, and passing through 
a gate, he found himself in a rural road, whose 
lotty hedge-rows, rich with all the varieties of wild 
fruit and flower, and animated with the cheering 
presence of the busy birds chirping from every 
bough and spray, altogether presented a scene 
which greatly reminded him of the soft beauties of 
his own countrj'. With some men, to remember 
is to be sad ; and unfortunatelj' for Vivian Grey, 
there were few objects which with him did not 
give rise to associations of a most painful nature. 
Of what he was thinking as he sat on a bank with 
his eyes fixed on the ground, it is needless to in- 
quire. He was roused from his re very by the sound 
of a trotting horse. He looked up, but the wind- 
ing road prevented him at first from seeing the 
steed, which evidently was approaching. The 
souiiil came nearer and nearer ; and at length, turn- 
ing a corner, Mr. Beckendorff came in sight He 
vs'as mounted on a ver}^ strong built, rough, and 
particularly ugly pony, with an obstinate mane, 
which, defying the exertions of groom or ostler, fell 
in equal divisions on both sides of his bottle neck * 
and a large white face, which, combmed with its 
blind, or blinking vision, had earned for it the 
euphonious and complimentary title of Owlfac«{ 



156 



P ' I S R A E L r S NOVELS. 



Both master and steed must have travelled hard nnd 
far, for both were covered with dut;t aiui mud from 
top to toe — from mane to hoof. Mr. Beekeiidorff 
seemed .suqirised al meeting Vivian, and pulled uj> 
his pony as he reaehcd him. 

" .An early riser, I see, sir. \\'here is Mr. von 
Phil i} .son ?" 

" 1 have not yet seen him, and imagined that 
both he and yourself had not yet risen." 

" Hum ! how many is it to noon ?" asked Mr. 
Beekendorfi', who always spoke astronomieaily. 

"More than four, I imagine." 

" Pray, do you prefer tlie country about here to 
Turr;n;irva !" 

" Hoth, I think, arc very beautiful." 

" You live at Turriparva ]" asked Mr. Bccken- 
dorfl". 

" When I am there," answered Vivian, smiling, 
■who was too jiractised a head to be pumped even 
by Mr. BeckendorH". 

" Pray. ha,s it l<een a fine summer at Turriparval" 

" It has been a fine summer, I believe, every- 
where." 

" I am afraid Mr. von rtiilipson finds it rather 
dull here." 

" I am not aware of it." 

" He seems a ve — rj' ? — " said Beekendorff, 
looking keenly in his companion's face. But Vi- 
vian did not supply the desired phrase ; and so the 
minister w;is forced to finish the sentence himself — 
" a very — gentlemanly sort of man V A low bow 
was the only response. 

" I trust, sir, I may indulge the hope," continued 
Mr. Beckendorfl". " that you will honour me with 
your company another day." 

" You are most exceedingly obliging, sir." 

" Mr. von I'hilipson is fond, I think, of a coun- 
try life !" said lietkendorll 

" .Most men are, I think, sir." 

" I suppose he has no innate objection to live 
OCca.«ionally in a city 1" 

" Few men have. 1 thii.K, sir." 

" You |:robal)ly have known him lone ?" 

" Not long enough to wisli our acquaintance at 
an end." 

•• Hum !" 

They proceeded in silence for about five minutes, 
and then Beckendorlf again turned round, ami this 
time with a direct ijuestion. 

"I wonder if Mr. von Philipson can make it 
convenient to honour me with his company an- 
other day. Can you tell mc V 

" I think the best per.son to inform of that, sir, 
would be his hi^;liness himself," said \'ivian, using 
his fricnd'.s title jpurposely to show Mr. Beckendorlf 
now very ridiculous he considered his jiresent use 
of the incr)gnito. 

*' You think so, sir. do you ?" answered Eccken- 
JorfT, very sarca.slically. 

'I'hey hail now arrived at the gate by which 
Vivian had reached the iloor. 

" Your colirKe, sir," said .Mr. neckenflorfl', " lies 
that way. I we, like myself, you are no great 
talker. We fhall meet at breakl'ast." So raying, 
the minister net spum to bis [tony, an4 wufi soon 

out of siljilt. 

When N'ivian reached the house, ho found the 
1k)W window ol the hbrary thrown open ; and as 
tic approii'bcd, he saw Mr. lUxkendorH' enter the 
room and bow to the prince. His hi^'bnc-s had 
paiMed u moiit excellent iii^hl, in sjiilti of nut sleep- 



ing in a bed ; and he wa.s at tliis moment commenc- 
ing a most delicious breakfast. His ill-huiuour had 
consequently all vanished. He had made up his 
ndnd that Beckendorlf was a mailman ; and al- 
though he had given up all tlie secret and Haltering 
hopes which he had dared to entertain when the 
interview was first arranged, he nevertheless did 
not regret his visit, which on the wliole had been 
verj' amusing, and had made him acquainted with 
the person and habits, and. a.s he believed, the intel- 
lectual powers of a man with whom, most probably, 
he should soon be engaged in open hostility. Vi- 
vian took his seat at the breakfast table, and Beek- 
endorff stood conversing with them with his bat k 
to the fire-place, and occasionally, during the 
pauses of conversation, pulling the .strings of his 
violin with his fingers. It did not escape Vivian's 
observation that the niinister was parliculaily 
courteous, and even attentive to his aighness ; 
and that ho endeavoured by his quick, and more 
communicative answers, and occasionally by a 
stray observation, to encourage the good humour 
which was visible on the cheerful counteuujice of 
the prince. 

"Have you been long up, Mr. BeckendorffV 
asked the prince ; for his host had resuuied his 
dressing-gown and slipjiers. 

" I generally see the sun rise." 

" And yet you retire late ! — out riding last night, 
I undcrstiind !"' 

'• I never go to bed." 

" Indeed I" said the prince. " V/ell, tor my 
part, without my regular rest I am nothing. Have 
you breakfasted. Air. Beekendorff!" 

•■ Clara will bring my brcakfa.st immediately." 

The dame accordingly soon appeared, liearing a 
tray with a ba.sin of boiling water, and one \ery 
large thick biscuit. This, Mr. Beekendorff having 
well soaked in tlie hot fluid, e.igerly devoured ; and 
then talvin? up his violin, amused himself until his 
guests had finished their breakfast. 

When Vivian bad endtil his meal, he left the 
prince and Mr. Beckeiidorfl' alone, delcrniined that 
his presence should not be the occasion of the 
minister any longer retarding the con:nicncenient 
of bu^iness. The prince, who by a jirivate ghuieo 
had been prepared for his departure, imminJiately 
took the opportunity of .asking .Mr. Beekendorff, in 
a very decisive tone, whether he might flatter him- 
self that he couli! command his present attention to 
a subji-el of great importunee. Mr. Bci-kciidorfl" 
said that he was aUxays at Mr. von Philipson's 
service ; and draw invj a chair opposite him, the 
prince and Mr. Beclvcndorff now sat on each sulo 
of the fire-place. 

" Ilem !" said the prince, clearing hi.< throat; 
atid he looked at Mr. Beekendorff, who sat with 
his heels clii.se together, his ti^es out square, liia 
Imiids resting on his knee.s which, as well as hia 
elbows, were turned out, his shoulders bent, hit 
heail reclined, and his eyes i;l inciug. 

•• Hem !" said tlie J'rince of l.iitle I.illiput. " In 
compliance, .Mr. Beekendorff, with your wish, de- 
velojied in the conunuiiication n'ceiveil by me on 
the — insU, I a.sseiited in my answer to the nrranpe- 
nient tlien pro|)o8ed ; the object of which wvs, to 
use your own words, to fa<'ilitale the occurrence 
of aii oiul interchange of the sentiments of various 
parlies' intereslrd in certain ]>roceedini;s, by wliich 
interchange it was iintici|>ated that the mutual in- 
tcicstii might be respeeti\ely considered and finailv 



VIVIAN GREY. 



157 



arranged. Prior, Mr. Beckendorff, to either of us 
going into any detail upon those points of probable 
discussion, which will, in all likelihood, form the 
fundamental features of this interview, I wish to 
recall your attention to the paper which I had the 
honour of presenting to his royal highness, and 
which is alluded to in your communication of the 
— inst. The principal heails of that document I 
have brought with me alnidged in this paper." 

Here the prince handed to Mr. Beckendoiif a 
MS. pamphlet, consisting of about sixty foolscap 
sheets closely written. The minister bowed very 
graciously as he took it from his highness's hand ; 
and then, without even looking at it, he laid it on 
the table, 

" You, sir, I perceive," continued the prince, 
" are acquainted with its contents ; and it will, 
therefore, be unnecessary for me at present to expa- 
tiate upon their individual expediency, or to a-rgue 
for their particular adoption. And, sir, when we 
observe the progress of the human mind, when we 
take into consideration the quick march of intellect, 
and the wide expansion of enlightened views and 
liberal principles — when we take a bird's-eye view 
of the histoiy of man from the earliest ages to the 
present moment, I feel that it would be folly in me 
to conceive for an instant, that the measures 
developed and recommended in that paper, will not 
finally receive the approbation of his royal high- 
ness. As to the exact origin of slavery, Mr. Beck- 
endorff, I confess that I am not, at this moment, 
prepared distinctly to speak. That the divine 
author of our religion was its decided enemy, I am 
informed, is clear. That the slavery of ancient 
times was the origin of the feudal service of a 
more modern period, is a point on which men 
of learning have not precisely made up their minds. 
With regard to the exact state of the ancient Ger- 
man people, Tacitus affords us a great deal of most 
interesting information. Whether or not, certain 
passages which I have brought with me marked in 
the Germania, are incontestable evidences that our 
ancestors enjoyed or understood the practice of a 
wise and well regulated liberty, is a point on which 
I shall be happj' to receive the opinion of so distin- 
guished a statesman as Mr. Beckeudorff, In step- 
ping forward, as I have felt it my duty to do, as 
the advocate of popular rights and national privi- 
leges, I am desirous to prove that I have not become 
the votary of innovation and the professor of revo- 
lutionary doctrines. The passages of the Roman 
author in question, and an ancient charter of the 
Emperor Chai'lemagne, are, I consider, decisive 
and sufficient precedents for the measures which I 
have thought proper to sanction by my approval, 
and to sup])ort by my influence. A minister, Mr. 
Beckendorff, must take care that in the great race 
of politics, the minds of his countrymen do not 
leave his own behind them. We must never forget 
the powers and capabilities of man. On this very 
spot, perhaps, some centuries ago, savages clothed 
in skins were committing cannibalism in a forest. 
W e must not forget, I repeat, that it is the business 
of those to whom Providence has allotted the 
responsible possession of power and influence — that 
it is their diity^, our duty, Mr. Beckendorff — to be- 
come guardians of our weaker fellow-creatures — 
tliat all power is a trust — that we are accountable 
fir its exercise — that from the people, and for the 
people, all springs, and all must exist ; and that, 
unless we conduct ourselves witli the requisite 



wisdom, prudence, and propriety, the whole system 
of society will be disorganized ; and this country, 
in particular, fall a victim to that system of coiTup- 
tion and misgovemment, which has already occa- 
sioned the destruction of the great kingdoms men- 
tioned in the Bible ; and many other states be&ides 
— Greece, Rome, Carthage, &c." 

Thus ended the peroration of an harangue con- 
sisting of an incoherent arrangeiuent of imper- 
fectly-remembered facts, and misunderstood prin- 
ciples; all gleaned by his highness from the 
enlightening articles of the Reisenberg journals. 
Like Brutus, the Prince of Little Lilliput paused 
for a reply. 

" Mr. von Philipson," said his companion, when 
his highness had finished, " you speak like a man 
of sense." Having given this answer, Mr. Beck- 
endorff rose from his seat, and walked straight out 
of the room. 

The prince, at first, took the answer for a com- 
phment; but Mr. Beckendorff not returning, he 
began to have a veiy i'aint idea that he was neg- 
lected. In this uncertainty, he rang the bell for 
his old friend Clara. 

" Mrs, Clara! where is your master 1" 
" Just gone out, sir," 
" How do you mean 1" 
" He has gone out with his gun, sir." 
" You are quite sure he has gone outi" 
" Quite sure, sir. I took him his coat and boots 
myself." 

" I am to understand, then, that your master has 
gone outi" 

" Yes, sir, Mr. Beckendorff has gone out. He 
will be home for his noon meal." 

" That is enough !— Grey !" hallooed the indig- 
nant prince, darting into the garden ; " Grey ! 
Grey ! where are you. Grey ]" 

" Well, my dear prince," said Vivian ; " what 
can possibly be the matter?" 

" The matter ! insanity can be the only excuse ; 
insanity can alone account for his preposterous 
conduct. We have seen enough of him. The 
repetition of absurdity is only wearisome. Pray 
assist me in getting our horses immediately." 

" Certainly, if you please ; but remember you 
brought me here as your friend and counsellor. 
As I have accepted the trust, I cannot help being 
sensible of the responsibility. Before, therefore, 
you finally resolve upon departure, pray let me bo 
fully acquainted with the circumstance which has 
impelled you to this sudden resolution." 

" Willingly, my good friend, could I only com- 
mand my temper ; and yet to fall into a passion 
with a madman is almost a mark of madness: but 
his manner and his conduct are so provoking and 
so puzzling, that I cannot altogether repress my 
irritability. And that ridiculous incognito ! why 
I sometimes begin to think that I really am Mr. 
von Philipson ! An incognito, forsooth ! for 
what? to deceive whom? His household appa- 
rently only consists of two persons, one of whom 
has visited me in my own castle ; and the other is 
a cross old hag, who would not be able to compre- 
hend my rank if she were aware of it. But to the 
point ! When you left the room, I vras deter- 
mined to be trifled with no longer, and I asked him 
in a firm voice, and very marked manner, whether 
I might command his immediate attention to very 
important business. He professed to be at my 
service. I opened the affair by taking a cursory, 




168 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



yet definite review of flie principles in which my 
political conduct had orit^iniitcd, and on wliich it 
was fonndi'd. I flattered myself that I had pro- 
duced an impression. Sometimes, my dear Grey, 
we are in n belter cue for these expositions than at 
<ithers, and to-day I was really unusually felicitous. 
My meniorv never deserted me. I was, at the 
Rime time, luminous and jirofound ; and while I 
was Ruided h\ the philosophical spirit of the |)re- 
sent day. I showed by siy various reading, that I 
respected the experience of antiquity. In short, I 
was perfectly satisfied with myself; and with the 
exa-pfion of one sinE;lc point about the oritrin of 
slavery, whicli unfortunately got entangled with 
tlie feudal system, I could not have got on better 
had 8i<vers iiimself been at my side. Nor did I 
spare Mr. BeckendorlV; but, on the contrary', my 
good fellow, I said a few things which, had he 
been in his senses, must, I imagine, have gone 
home to his feelings. Do you know, I finished liy 
drawing his own character, and showing the in- 
evitalije eifects of his ruinous policy: and what do 
you think he did !" 

" Left you in a passion?" 

"Not at all. He seemed very much stmck by 
what I had raid, and apparently understood it. I 
have heard that in some species of insanity the 
patient is pcrtectly able to comprehend every thintr 
addressed to him. though at that point his sanity 
ceases, and he is unable to answer or to act. This 
must be BeckcndorlV's case ; fi^r no sooner had I 
finislied, than he rose up immediately, and saying 
tliat I spoke like a man of sense, he abruptly 
<iuitted Uie room. The housekeeper says he will 
not be at home again till that infernal ceremony 
lakes place, called the noon meal. Now do not 
you advise me to be olTas soon as possible !" 

" It will require some deliberation. Pray did 
j-ou not speak to him last night ?" 

" Ah ! I forsot that I had not been able to speak 
to you since then. \Vell I last night, what do you 
think he did ? When you were gone, he had the 
insolence to congratulate me on the opportunity 
Llien nfiijrded of ])layinir double dummy ; and 
when I declined his proposition, but said that if he 
wislud to have an hour's conversation I was at his 
service, he very coolly told me that he never talked. 
. and bade me pood night ! Did you ever know 
sucli a madman 1 He never goes to bed. I only 
had a sofa. How the deuse did you sleep V 

" Well, and safely, concidering that I was in a 
finmnier-lipuse without lock or bolt." 

" \\ ill ! I nerd not ask you now as to your 
o|iinion <>{ our inunediately getting olV. We shall 
have, however, souic troulile about our horses, for 
ne will not allow a quadru|>ed near the house, ex- 
cept some monster of an animal that he rides iiim- 
wlf ; and, by fSt. Ifidiert ! I cannot find out where 
our slei'iU are. \V'hat shall wedo !" Uul \'iviaii 
did not answer, ''(irey," con(inue<l his highness. 
" what are you thinking of? Why don't you 
answer ?" 

" Your highnesfl must not go," said Vivian, 
iiliakiii); hii^ liead. 

" Not !;« ! why so, my good fellow?" 
" I)e|w'iid upon it, you are wrong about Becken- 
dorfl". 'J'hal lie is a humorist, there is no dcuM; 
but it uppeiirs to mc to Im^ e(|ually cleat, mat Ins 
queer liiil'ilx luiH sinttular mode of lile are not of lati- 
«do|iCion. Wbat he is now, he must have lic<!n 
UiCM ten, pcrhupi ibcso twenty ycara, pcrhapi* 



more. Of this there are a thousand proof? about 
us. As to tlie overpowering cause which has 
made him the character he appears at present, it is 
needless for us to inquire. I'robably some inci- 
dent in his private life, in all likelihood connected 
with the mysterious picture. Let us be satisfied 
with the elTect. If the case'be as I state it, in his 
private life and habits Ueckcndorff must have been 
equally incomprehensible and equally singular at 
the very time that, in his public capacity, he was 
producing such brilliant residts, as at the present 
moment. Now, then, can we believe him to be in- 
sane ? I anticipate your objections. I know you 
will enlarge upon the evident absurdity of his in- 
viting his political opponent to his house, for a 
grave consultation on the most important affairs, 
and then treating him as he has done you ; when 
it must be clear to him that you cannot be again 
duped, and when he must feel that were he ta 
amuse you for as many weeks as he has days, your 
plans and your position would not be injuriously 
adected. Be it so. Probably a humorist like 
Eeckendorff cannot, even in the most critical mo- 
ment, altogether restrain the bent of his capricious 
inclinations. However, my dear j)rince, I will lay 
no stress upon this point. My opinion, indeed my 
conviction is, that BeckendoriT acts t'roni design. 
I have considered his conduct well ; and I have ob- 
served ail that you have seen, aiul more than yon 
have seen, and keenly. Depend upon it, thai 
since you assented to the interview, Becken- 
dorfl'has been obliged to shift his intended position 
for negotiation. Some of the machinery has gone 
wrong. Fearful, ifhe had postponed your visit, that 
you should imagine that he was only again amusing 
you, and consccpiently listen to no future overtures, 
he has allowed you to attend a conference for 
which he is not prepared. That he is making 
desperate exertions to bring the business to a point, 
is my firm ojiinion ; and you would perhaps agree 
%vith me, were you as convinced ns I imi, that since 
we parted last night our'host has been to Keiscn- 
herg and back again." 

" To Heisenbcrg. aaid hack again !" 
" Ay ! I rose this morning at an early hour, and 
imagining that both you and BeckendorlV had not 
yet made your appearance, I cscajH-d froni the 
grounds, intending to *'x;lore part of the surrotmd- 
ing country. In my stroll I came to a narrow 
winding road, whicii I am convinced lies in the 
dirc<'tion towards Heisenberg ; there, for sduic rea- 
son tr other, I loitered more than an h'^nt, and 
very probably should ha\e been too late for brcuk- 
fist. had I not k^en recalled to myself by the ap- 
proach of a horseman. It was BeckendorlV, covered 
with dust and mud. Hish<>rsc hail U en evidently 
hard ridden. 1 did not think nnich of k at the 
time, because I supposed he mii-ht have l)cen out 
for three or four hours, and hard workcxl, but I ne- 
verlhehss was struck by his appearance; and 
when you meri'ioned that he went out riding at a 
late h>ur last night, it inunediatdy occurred to rae, 
that had he come home at one or two o'clock, it 
was not very probable that he would have gono 
out again at four or Cwc. I have no doubt that 
my conjecture is correct — Bpckendorlf Ims Iteen at 
Keisenberg." 

" You have placed this bu'^^iness in a new and 
important light," said the prince, his expiring 
hopes reviving; "what, tlicn, do you udvLse n»«> 
to do ?" 



VIVIAN GREY. 



159 



" To be quiet. If your own view of the case be 
right, you can act as well to-morrow or the next 
day as this moment ; on the contrary, if mine be 
the correct one, a moment may enable Beckendorff 
himself to bring affliirs to a crisis. In either case, 
I should rccommentl you to be silent, and in no 
manner to allude any more to tlie object of your 
visit. If you speak, you only give opportunities to 
Beckendorfi' of ascertaining your opinions and your 
incHnations ; and your silence, after such frequent 
attempts on your side to promote discussion upon 
business, will soon be discovered by him to be 
systematic. This will not decrease his opinion of 
your sagacity and firmness. The first principle 
of negotiation is to make your adversary respect 
you." 

After long consultation, the prince determined to 
follow Vivian's advice ; and so firmly did he ad- 
here to his purpose, that when he met Mr. Becken- 
dorff at the noon meal, he asked him, with a very 
unembarrassed voice and manner, " what sport he 
had had in the morning?" 

The noon meal again consisted of a single dish, 
as exquisitely dressed, however, as the preceding 
one. It was a splendid haunch of venison. 

" This is my dinner, gentlemen," said Becken- 
dorfi' ; " let it be your luncheon : I have ordered 
your dinner at sunset." 

After having eaten a slice of the haunch, Mr. 
EeckendorfF rose from table, and said, " We v/ill 
have our wine in the drawing-room, Mr. von 
Philipson, and then you will not be disturbed with 
my birds." 

He left the room. 

To the drawing-room, therefore, his two guests 
soon adjourned. Tliey found him busily employed 
with his pencil. The prince thought it must be a 
chart or a fortification at least, and was rather sur- 
prised when Mr. Beckendorff asked him the mag- 
nitude of Mirac in Bootes : and the prince con- 
fessing his utter ignorance of the subject, the 
minister threw aside his unfinished planisphere, 
and drew his chair to them at the table. It was 
with great pleasure that his highness perceived a 
bottle of his favourite Tokay ; and with no little 
astonishment he observed, that to-day, there were 
three wine-glasses placed before them. They were 
of peculiar beauty, and almost worthy, for their 
elegant shapes and great antiquity, of being in- 
cluded in the collection of the Duke of Schoss 
Johannisberger. 

" Your praise of ray cellar, sir," said Mr. Beck- 
endorff, very graciously, " has made me turn wine- 
drinker." So saying, tbe minister took up one of 
the rare glasses and held it to the light. His keen, 
glancing eye, detected an almost invisible cloud on 
the side of the delicate glass, and jerking it across 
him, he flung it into the farthest corner of the room 
— it was shivered into a thousand pieces. He took 
up the second glass, examined it very narrowly, 
and then sent it, v/ith equal force, after its compa- 
nion. The third one shared the same fate. He 
rose and rang the bell. 

" Clara !" said Mr. Beckendorff, in his usual 
tone of voice, " some clean glasses, and sweep 
away that litter in the corner." 

" We is mad, then I" thought the Prince of 
liitlle Lilliput, and he shot a glance at his compa- 
nion, wliich Vivian could not misunderstand. 

After exhausting their bottle, in which they 
were a-ssisted to the extent of one glass by their 



host, who drank Mr. von Philipson's health with 
cordiality, they assented to Mr. Beckendorff 's pro- 
position of visiting his fruitcry. 

To the prince's great relief, dinner-time soon 
arrived ; and having employed a couple of hours 
on that meal very satisfactorily, he and Vivian ad- 
journed to the drawing-room, having previously 
pledged their honour to each other, that nothing 
should again induce them to play dummy whist. 
Their resolutions and their promises were needless. 
Mr. Beckendorff, who was sitting opposite the fire 
when they came into the room, neither by word 
nor motion acknowledged that he was aware of 
their entrance. Vivian found refuge in a book ; 
and the prince, after having examined and re-ex- 
amined the brilliant birds that figured on the 
drawing-room paper, fell asleep upon the sofa, 
Mr. Beckendorff took down the guitar, and ac- 
companied himself in a low voice for some time ; 
then he suddenly ceased, and stretching out his 
legs, and supporting his thumbs in the arm-holes 
of his waistcoat, he leaned back in his chair, and 
remained perfectly motionless, with his eyes fixed 
upon the picture. Vivian, in turn, gazed upon this 
singular being, and the fair pictured form which 
he seemed to idolize. Was he, too, unhappy ■* 
Had he, too, been bereft in the hour of his proud 
and perfect joy 1 Had he, too, lost a virgin 
bride'] — His agony overcame him, the book fell 
from his hand, and he groaned aloud! Mr. Beck- 
endorfi" started, and the prince awoke. Vivian, 
confounded, and unable to overpower his emotions, 
uttered some hasty words, explanatoiy, apologeti- 
cal, and contradictory, and retired. In his walk to 
the summer-house, a man passed him. In spite of 
a great cloak, Vivian recognised him as their mes- 
senger and guide; and his ample mantle did not 
conceal his riding-boots, and the spurs which glis 
tened in the moonlight. 

It was an hour past midnight when the door of 
the summer-house softly opened, and Mr. Becken- 
dorff entered. He started when he found Vivian 
still undressed, and pacing up and down the little 
chamber. The young man made an effort, when 
he witnessed an intruder, to compose a counte- 
nance whose agitation could not be concealed. 

" What, are you up again 1" said Mr. Becken- 
dorff. " Are you ill?" 

" Would I were as well in mind as in body ! I 
have not yet been to rest. We cannot command 
our feelings at all moments, sir ; and at this, espe- 
cially, I felt that I had a right to consider myself 
alone." 

" I most exceedingly regret that I have disturbed 
you," said Mr. Beckendorfi", in a very kind voice, 
and in a maiuier which responded to the sympathy 
of his tone. '• I thought that j'ou had been long 
asleep. There is a star which I cannot exactly 
make out. I fancy it must be a comet, and so I 
ran to the observatory ; but let me not disturb you," 
and Mr. Beckendorff was retiring. 

" You do not disturb me, sir. I cannot sleep • 
— pray ascend." 

"O, no! never mind the star. But if you really 
have no inclination to sleep, let us sit down and 
have a little conversation ; or perhaps we had bettei 
take a stroll. It is a very warm night." As he 
spoke, Mr. Beckendorff gently put his arm withm 
Vivian's, and led him down the steps. 

"Are you an astronomer, sir?" asked Becken 
dorfd 



160 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



"I can trll iho Great Bear from the Little Dog; 
but I confess lliut I look upon tlic bUre rullicr iii a 
pot'lJcal tiian a scientific sjiirit." 

" Hum ! I confess I do not." 

" There arc nioiiieiit*." continued Vivian, "when 
I cannot refrain from beiieviiij^that these my^l' rious 
luminaries have more inlluence over our fortunes 
than modern times are disposed to believe. I feel 
that I am getting less sceptical, perhaps I should 
say more credulous, every day ; but sorrow makes 
us sujjerstitious." 

" 1 discard all such fantasies," said Mr. Eecken- 
dorll"; '"they only tend to enervate our mental ener- 
gies, and paralyze all human exertion. It is the 
belief in these, and a thousand other deceits I could 
mention, which teach man that he is not the master 
of his own mind, but the ordained victim, or the 
chance sport of circumstances; that makes millions 
{v.Lss through life unimpressive as shadows ; and 
has gained for tliis existence the stigma of a vajiity 
which it does not deserve." 

" I wish that I could think as you do," said 
Vivian ; " but the experience of my life forbids me. 
\\'ithin only these last two years, my career has, in 
80 many instances, indiciiled that I am not the 
master of my own conduct; that, no longer able to 
resist the conviction which is hourly impre.sscd on 
me. I recognise in every contingency tlie preordi- 
nation of my fate." 

'• A delusion of the brain !" said BeckcndorlT, very 
quickly. " Kate, destiny, chance, particular and 
special provi^Ience — idle words ! Dismiss them all, 
sir I A man's fate is his own temper ; and accord- 
ing to that will he his opinion as to the particular 
manner in which the course of events is regulated. 
A consistent man beUevcs in destiny — a capricious 
man in chance." 

'■ But, sir, what is a man's temper 1 It may be 
changed every hour. I started in life with very dif- 
ferent feelings to those which I profess at this mo- 
ment. 'VA'ilh great deference to you, I imaj^ine that 
you mistake the elVect for the causx ; for surely tem- 
}>er is not the origin, but the result of those circum- 
btanccs of which we arc all the creatures."' 

" Sir, I deny it. Man is not the creature of cir- 
cumstances. Circumstances are the creatures of 
men. We arc free agents, and man is more power- 
ful than matter. I recognise no intervening influ- 
ence between that of the established course of 
nature and my own mind. Truth may be distorted 
— may be stifled — be suppressed. The invention 
of cunning deceits may, and in some instances does, 
prevent man from «'xercising his own powers, 'i'hey 
have made him responsible to a realm of shadows, 
and a suitor in a court of shades. He is ever dread- 
ing authority which <locs not exist, and fearing the 
«><-currcnce of penalties which there are none to 
enforce. Hut the mind that dares to extricate itself 
from these vulijar prijndices. Unit proves its loyalty 
to its Creator by devoting all its adoration to his 
glury — such a K|iirit as this becomes a mnster-mind, 
and ttjat mnster-mind will invariably find that cir- 
cumstances are its slaves." 

"Mr. UeckendorlV, yours is a very Mt\ jihiloso- 
phv. of which I, myself, was once a votary. How 
hiiccessful in my service, you may judge by finding 
me B wnndi-rer." 

"Sir! \niir present age is the age of error: your 
whiile ^virin is foudiled on n fallacy: yon iH'licve 
lliat a ni.m's temper can ciiange, I deny it. If 



you have ever seriously entertained the ^isws which 
I profess; if, as you lead me to suppose, you have 
dared to act upon them, and failed , sooner or later, 
whatever may be your present conv-iction and your 
present feelings, you will recur to your original 
wi^hes and your original pursuits. With a mind 
experienced and matured, you may in all probability 
he successful ; and then, I su])pose, stretching your 
legs in your easy chair, you will at the same moment 
be convinced of your own genius, and recognisa 
your oivn destiny." 

" With regard to myself, Mr. BeckcndorlT, I am 
convinced of the crroneousness of your views, li 
is my opinion, that no one who has dared to think, 
can look i:]ion this world in any other than a 
mournful sj)irit Young as I am, nearly two years 
have elapsed since, disgusted with the world of 
politics. I retired to a foreign solitude. At length, 
with passions subdued, and, as I flatter myself, with 
a mind matured, convinced of the vanity of all 
human aflliirs, I felt emboldened once more partially 
to mingle with my species. Bitter as my lot had 
been, as a philosojiher, I had di.-eovered the origin 
of my misery in my own unbridled passions; and, 
tranquil and subdued. I now trusted to pa.ss through 
life as certain of no fresh sorrows, as I was of no 
fre.sh joys. And yet, sir, I am at this moment 
sinking under the infliction of unparalleled misery 
— inisery which I feel I have a right to believe was 
undeserved. But why expatiate to a stranger on 
sorrow which must be secret ? I deliver myself up 
to my remorseless fate." 

" \\'hai is grief?" said Mr. Beckendorff; — " if it 
be excited by the fear of some contingency, instead 
of grieving, a man should exert his energies, and 
prevent its occurrence. If, on the contrary, it be 
caused by an event, that which has been occa- 
sioned by any thing human, by the co-operation 
of human circumstances, can be. and invariably is, 
removed by the samo means. Grief is the agony 
of an instant ; the iiululgcnce of grief the blunder 
of a life. Mix in the world, and in a month's time 
vou will speak to me very dilVerenlly. A young 
man, vou meet with disjippointment, — in spite of 
all vour exalted notions of your own powers, you 
immediately sink under it. If your belief of your 
I>owers were sincere, you should have proved it by 
the manner in which you struggled against adver- 
sity, not merely by the mode in wliich you lal»onred 
for advancement. The latter is but a very inferior 
merit. If in fact yon wish to succee<I, success. I 
rejjeat, is at your command. Vou talk to me of 
your experience; and do yon think that my senti- 
mcnt.s are the crude opinions of an unpractised 
man ? t^ir I I am not fond of conversing with any 
person ; and, therefore, far from being inclineil to 
maiiilnin an argument in n spirit of insincerity, 
merely for the sake of a. victory of words. Mark 
what I sny ; it is truth. IS'o minister ever yet fell 
but from ills own ineflicicnf-y. If his downfall be 
occasioned, as it generally is. by the intrigues of 
one of his own creatures, his downfuil is merited for 
having Iwen tlte dupe of a tool, which, in all pro- 
bability, he should never have empIoye4l. If befall 
through the open attacks of his political opponents, 
his downfall is equally deserved, for having occa- 
sioned by his impo!i( y the formation of a party ; for 
havini: allowed il to be formed ; or for not having 
crushed it when formed. No conjunclure can pos- 
sibly occur, however fearful, however tremendous it 



VIVIAN GREY. 



161 



may appear, from which a man, by his own ener- 
gy, may not extricate himself — as a mariner by 
the rattling of his cannon can dissipate the impend- 
ing water-spout !" 



CHAPTER XXIir. 

It was on the third day of the visit to Mr. Beck- 
endorft", just as that gentleman was composing his 
mind after his noon meal with his favourite Cre- 
mona, and in a moment of rapture raising his in- 
strument high in air, that the door was suddenly 
dashed open, and Essper George rushed into the 
room. The intruder, the moment that his eye 
caught Vivian, ilew to his master, and seizing him 
by the arm, commenced and contmued a loud shout 
of exultation, accompanying his scream the whole 
time by a kind of quick dance ; which, though not 
quite as clamorous as the Pyrrhic, nevertheless 
completely drowned the scientific harmony of Mr. 
Beckendorff. 

So perfectly astounded were the three gentlemen 
by this unexpected entrance, that some moments 
elapsed ere either of them found words at his com- 
mand. At length the master of the house spoke. 

" Mr. von Philipson, I beg the favour of being 
informed who this person is ]'' 

The prince did not answer, but looked at Vivian 
in great distress ; and just as our hero was about to 
give Mr. Beckendorff the requisite information, 
Essper George, taking up the parable himself, 
seized the opportunity of explaining the mystery. 

'• Who am 1 1 — who are you ? I am an honest 
man, and no traitor ; and if all were the same, why 
then there would be no rogues in Reisenberg, and 
no lone houses in woods and by-places to wheedle 
young lords to. Who am 1 1 — a man. There's an 
arm ! there's a leg ! Can you see through a wood 
hy twilight 1 if so, yours is a better eye than mine. 
Can you eat an unskimied hare, or dine on the 
haunch of a bounduig stag 1 if so, your teeth are 
sharper than mine. Can you hear a robber's foot- 
step when he's kneeling before murder ] or can you 
listen to the snow falling on midsummer's day 1 if 
so, your cars are finer than mine. Can you run 
with a chamois 1 — can you wrestle with a bear ? — 
can you swim with an otter 1 — if so, I'm your 
match. — How many cities have you seen ? — how 
many knaves have you gulled? — what's the ave- 
rage price of lawyer's breath in all the capitals of 
Christendom 1 — which is dearest, bread or justice ] 
— Why do men pay more for the protection of life, 
than life itself? — who first bought gold with dia- 
raands ? — Is cheatery a staple at Constantinople as 
it is at Vienna 1 — and what's the difference between 
a Baltic merchant and a Greek pirate! Tell mc 
all this, and I will tell you who went in mourning 
in the moon at the death of the last comet. Who 
um I, indeed !" 

The agony of the prince and Vivian, while 
Easper George with inconceivable rapidity address- 
ed to Mr. Beckendorff these choice queries, was 
inconceivable. Once Vivian tried to check him, 
but in vain. He did not repeat his attempt, for 
he was sufficiently employed in restraining his own 
agitation, and keeping his own countenance ; for in 
spite of the mortification and anaer that Essper's 
appearance had excited in him, still an unfortunate 
but innate taste for the ludicrous, did not allow bim 
21 



to be perfectly insensible to the humour of the 
scene. Mr. Beckendorff listened very quietly till 
Essper had finished — ^he then rose. 

" Mr. von Philipson," said he, " as a personal 
fivour to yourself, and to my own great incon- 
venience, I consented that in this interview you 
should be attended by a friend. I ilid not reckon 
upon your servant, and it is impossible that I can 
tolerate his presence for a moment. You know 
how I live, and that my sole attendant is a female. 
I allow no male servants within this house. Even 
when his royal highness honours me with his 
presence, he is unattended. I desire that I am 
immediately released from the presence of this 
buffoon." 

So saying, Mr. Beckendorff left the room. 

" Who are you !" said Essper, following him, 
with his back bent, his bend on bis chest, and his 
eyes glancing. The imitation was perfect. 

As soon as Mr. Beckendorff had retired, the 
prince raised his eyes to heaven, and clasped his 
hands with a look of great anguish. 

" Well. Grey ! here's a business. What is to 
be done V 

"Essper," said Vivian, "your conduct is inex- 
cusable, the mischief that you have done irreparable, 
and your punishment shall be most severe." 

" Severe ! Why, what day did your highness 
sell your gratitude for a silver groschen ? Severe ! 
Is this the return for finding you out, and saving 
you from a thousand times more desperate gang 
than that baron at Ems ! Severe ! Severe indeed 
will be your lot when you are in a dungeon in 
Reisenberg Castle, with black bread for roast veni- 
son, and sour water for Rhenish ! Severe, in- 
deed." 

" Why, what are you talking about 1" 

" Talking about ! About bloody treason, and 
arch traitors, and an old scoundrel who lives in a 
lone lane, and dares not look you straight in the 
face. V^hy, his very blink is enough to hang him 
without trial ! Talking about ! About a young 
gentleman, whom, if he were not piy master, no 
one, with my leave, should say Vvfas not as neat a 
squire as ever kissed a maid instead of going to 
church." 

" Essper, you will be so good as to drop all this 
gesticulation, and let this rhodomontade cease im- 
mediately ; and then in distinct terms inform his 
highness and myself of the causes of this unpa- 
ralleled intrusion." 

The impressiveness of Vivian's manner produced 
a proper effect ; and except that he spoke some- 
what atfectedly slow, and ridiculously ])recise, 
Essper George delivered himself with great clear- 
ness. 

" You see, your highness never let me know 
that you were going to leave, and so, when I found 
that you didn't come back, I made bold to speak 
to Mr. Arnelm when he came home from hunting; 
but I couldn't get enough breath out of him to slop 
a ladybird on a rose-leaf. I didn't much like it, 
your honour, for I was among strangers, and so 
were you, you know. Well, then I went to Mas- 
ter Rodolph : he was very kind to mc, seeing me 
in low spirits, and thinking me, I suppose, in love, 
or in debt, or that I had done some piece of mis- 
chief, or had something or other preying on my 
mind ; he comes to me, and says, ' Essper,' said ho 
— you rejnember PvLxster Rodolph's voice, yuur 
highness?" 

o 3 



1G2 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Go on, ijo on — to the point. Never let me 
hear Master Kodoljih's name ajain." 

'■Yes, your highness! Well, well ! he said to 
me, ' Come atul iline with me in my room;' says 
I, ' I will.' A good otlor should never be refused, 
unless we have a better one at the same time. 
\Vhereuj)on, after dinner, Master Rodolph said to 
me — ' We'll have a bottle of Burgundy for a treat.' 
You see, sir, we were rather sick of the Khenish. 
Well, your hiu'hness, we were free with the wine ; 
and M;ister Kodolph, who is never easy, except 
when he knows ever\' thing, must be trying, you 
see, to get out of me what it was that made me 
so down in the mouth. I, seeing this, thought I'd 
put ofV the secret to another bottle ; which being 
produced, I did not conceal from him any longer 
what was making me so low. ' Rodolph,' said I, ' I 
don't like my young master going out in this odd 
way : he's of a temper to get into scrapes, and I 
should like very much to know what he and the 
prince (saving your highncss's presence) are after. 
They have been shut up in that cabinet these two 
nights, and though I walked by the door pretty 
often, devil a bit of a word ever came through 
the key-hole ; and so, you see, — Rodolph,' said I, 
'it requires a bottle or two of Burgundy to keep 
my spirits up.' Well, your highness, strange to 
say, no sooner had I spoken, than Master Rodolph, 
— he has been very kind to me — very kind indeed 
— he put liis head across the little table — we dined 
at the little table on the right hand of the room as 
you enter — " 

" (io on." 

"I am going on. Wv]\ ! he put his head across 
the little table, and said to me in a low whisper, 
and cocking his odd-looking eye at the same time; 
' I tell you what, Esspcr, you're a damned sharp 
fellow !' and so, giving a shake of his head, and 
another wink of his eye, he was quiet. I smelt a 
rat, but I didn't begin to pump directly, but after 
the third bottle — ' Rcdolph,' said I, ' with regard to 
your last observation, (for we had not spoken lately, 
Burgundy being too tat a wine for talking,) we are 
both of us damned sharp fellows ; I dare say now, you 
and I arc thinking of the same thing.' ' IS'o doubt 
of-it,' said Rodolph. And so, your highness, he 
agreed to tell mc what he was thinking of, on con- 
dition that I should be equally frank afterwards. 
^V ell, your highness, he told me that there were 
sad goings on at Turrii)arva." 

'•'rhe dense !" said the [-rince. 

" Let him t«'ll his story," said \'ivian. 

"Sad goings on at Turriparva ! He wished tliat 
his highness would hunt more, and attend less to 
politics ; and then he told me quite confidentially, 
that hi« highness the prince, and heaven knows 
how many other princes besiiles, had leagued 
togelher, anil were going to dethrone the grand- 
dukc-. and that his master was to be rnadi- king, and 
he, Maslrr liodol|'h, j)rime minister. Hearing all I 
thin, anil duly allowing for a tale over a bottle, 1 ' 
made no doubt, as I fuid to be the case, that your 1 
highni'sn W!w being led into some mischief; and as ' 
I know that conspiracies are always unsuccessful, 
Tvc done my best to save my master; and 1 be- 
Mceh you, upon my knees, my darling sir, to get out 
of the scrape as soon as you jiossilily can." Hrre ' 
Hhsimt (leorge threw himself at X'ivian's feel, and 
entreated him in the most earnest terms, to quit 
Uic house innnediatcly. 

" Was ever any thing to ak^urd and mischiev- 



ous !" ejaculated the prince ; and then he conversed 
viilh Vivian for some time in a whisper. " Essper," 
at lenp^th Vivian said, "you h.ave committed one 
of the most perfect and most injurious blunders 
that you could possibly perpetrate. The mischief 
which may result from your imprudent conduct is 
incalculable. How long is it since you have thought 
proper to regulate your conduct on the absurd false- 
hoods of a drunken steward? His highness and 
myself wish to consult in private ; but on no ac- 
coimt leave the house. Now mind me ; if 3-ou 
leave this house without my permission, you forfeit 
the little chance which remains of being retained 
in my service." 

" Where am 1 to go, sir?" 

" Stay in the passage." 

" Suppose (here he imitated Beckendorff) comes 
to me." 

" Then open the door, and come into this room." 

Essper looked very doubtful, and rather disap- 
pointed. He quitted the room, and the prince ajid 
Vivian thought themselves alone; but Essper sud- 
denly opened the door, and said in a loud and very 
lamentable tone, with a most rueful expression of 
countenance — " 0, my young master ! beware ! 
beware !" 

" Well," said the prince, when the door was at 
length shut; " one thing is quite clear. He does 
not know who Beckendorff is." 

" So far satisfactory ; but I feel the force of your 
highness'^ observations. It is a most puzzling case. 
To send him back to Turriparva would be mad- 
ness: the whole afl'air would be immediately re- 
vealed over another bottle of Burgundy with Master 
Rodolph : in fact, your highness's visit would be a 
secret to no one in the country : your host would 
be soon discovered, and the evil consequences are 
incalculable. I know no one to send him to at 
Reisenberg ; and if I did, it appears to me, that 
the same objections equally apply to his proceeding 
to that city as to his returning to Turriparva. 
What is to be done ! Surely, some demon must 
have inspired him. We cannot now reijuest Beck- 
cndortl' to allow him to stay here ; and if we did, 
I am convinced, from his tone and manner, that 
nothing could induce him to comply with our 
wish. The only course to be pursued is certainly 
an annoying one ; but as far as I can judge, it is 
the only mode by which very serious mischief can 
be prevented. Let me proceed forthwith to Rei- 
senberg with Essper. Placed immediately under 
my eye, and solemnly adjured by me to silence. I 
think I can answer, particularly when I give him a 
gentle hint of the station of Beckendorfl", for his 
preserving the confidence with which it will now 
be onr policy partially to intrust him. It is, to say 
the least, awkward and distressing to leave you 
alone, but what is to be done ? It does not apjvar 
that I can now be of any materi.il service to you. 
I have assisted you as much, and more than we 
could reasonably have supposed it would have been 
in my power to have done, by throwing sonie light 
upon the character and situation of BeckendorflT, 
VA'ith the clue to his conduct, which my chance 
meeting with him yestenlay morning has afforded 
us, the only point for your highness to detemiiiie 
i«, as to the length of time you will resolve to wait 
(or his cominunicatiiin. .\s to your linal agree- 
ment together, with your highness's settled views 
nnd decided purinise, idl the dilViculty of negotia- 
tion will be on his side. \\ halcvcr, my dear 



VIVIAN GREY. 



163 



prince," continued Vivian, with a very significant 
voice and very marked emphasis ; " whatever, my 
dear prince, may be your secret wishes, be assured 
that to attain them in your present negotiation, 
you have only to he firm. liCt nothing divert you 
from your purpose, and tlie termination of this in- 
terview must be gratifying to you." 

The Prince of Little LilUput was very disinclined 
to part with liis shrewd counsellor, who had already 
done him considerable service ; and he strongly op- 
posed Vivian's proposition. His opposition, how- 
ever, like that of most other persons, was unaccom- 
panied by any suggestion on his part ; and as both 
agreed that something must be done, it of course 
ended in the prmcc's being of opinion that Vivian's 
advice must be followed. Hanng once come to a 
resolution, it was always a rule with Vivian Grey 
to carry it into efiect as quickly as possible ; and he 
therefore suggested that they should immediately 
go to Beckendorfl', and inform him of the result of 
their consultation. The prince was really very 
much affected by tliis sudden and unexpected part- 
ing with one for whom, thougli he had known him 
for so short a time, he began to entertain a very 
sincere regard. "I owe you my hfe," said the 
prince ; " and perhaps more than my life ; and here 
we are about suddenly to part, never to meet again. 
I wish I could get )'ou to make Turriparva your 
home. You should have your own suite of rooms, 
yoiu- own horses, your own servants; and never 
feel for an instant that you were not master of all 
around you. In truth," continued the prince, with 
great .earnestness, " I wish, my dear friend, you 
would really think seriously of this. You know 
j'ou could visit Vienna, and even Italy, and yet 
return to me. Max would be delighted to see you : 
he loves you already, and Sievers and his library 
would be at your command. Agree to my proposi- 
tion, my dear friend." 

" I cannot express to your highness how sensible 
I am of your kindness. Your friendship I sincerely 
value, and shall never forget ; but I am too unhappy 
and unlucky a behig to burden any one with my 
constant presence. Adieu ! or will you go with me 
to Beckendoriri" 

" 0, go with you by all means! But," said the 
prince, taking a ruby ring of great antiquity off his 
finger, "I should feel happy if you would wear this 
for my sake." 

The prince was so much affected at the thought 
of partmg with Vivian, that he could scarcely speak. 
Vivian accepted the ring with a cordiality which 
the kind-hearted donor deserved; and yet our hero 
unfortunately had had rather too much experience 
of the world, not to be aware that, most probably, in 
less than another week his affectionate friend vvoidd 
not be able to recall his name under an hour's 
recollection. Such are friends ! The moment that 
we are not at their side, we are neglected ; ai:d the 
moment that we che, we are forgotten ! 

They found Mr. Beckendorff in his library. In 
apprizing Mr. Beckendorff of his intention of im- 
mediately quitting his roof, Vivian did not omit to 
state the causes of his sudden departure. These 
not only accounted for the abruptness of his move- 
ment, but also gave Beckendorff" an opportunity of 
preventing its necessity, hy allowing Essper to 
remain. But the opportunity was not seized by 
Mr. Beckendorff. The truth was, that gentleman 
had a particular wish to see Vivian out of his house. 
In allowing the Prince of liittle Lilliput to be at- 



tended during the interview by a friend, Becken- 
dorff had prepared himself for the reception of some 
brawny jagd junker, or some thick-headed cham- 
berlain, who he reckoned would act rather as an 
encumbrance than an aid to his opj)oncnt. It was 
with great mortilicalion, therefore, that he found 
him accompanied by a shrewd, experienced, wary, 
and educated Englishman. A man like Becken- 
dorff soon discovered that Vivian Grey's was no 
common mind. His conversation with him, of the 
last night, had given him high notions of his 
powers: and the moment that Beckendorff saw 
Essper George enter the house, he determined that 
he should be the cause of ^'ivian leaving it. There 
was also another and weighty reason for Mr. Beck- 
endorff desiring that the Prince of Little Lilliput 
should at this moment be left to himself. 

" Mr. Grey will ride on to Eeisenberg imme- 
diately," said the prince ; "and, my dear friend, you 
may depend upon having your luggage by the day 
after to-morrow. I shall be at Turriparva early to- 
morrow morning, and it will be my first care." 

This was said in a very loud voice, and both 
gentlemen watched Mr. Beckendorfi's countenance 
as the information was given ; but no emotion was 
visible. 

" Well, sir, good morning to you," said Mr. 
Beckendorff; " I am very sorry you are going. 
Had I known it sooner, I would have given you a 
letter. If you are likely to travel much, I would 
recommend you to wear flannel waistcoats. Perhaps 
you do wear them. Mr. von Philipson," said 
Beckendorff, "do me the favour of looking over 
that paper." So saying, Mr. Beckendorff" put some 
official report into the prince's hand ; and while 
his highness' attention was attracted by this sudden 
request, Mr. Beckendorff laid his finger on Vivian's 
arm, and said, in a lower tone, " I shall take care 
that you find a powerful friend at Reisenberg !" 



BOOK THE SEVENTH. 



CHAPTER I,' 

As Vivian left the room, Mr. Beckendorff was 
seized with an unusual desire to converse with the 
Prince of Little LiUiput, and his highness was con- 
sequently debarred the consolation of walking with 
his friend as far as the horses. At the little gale 
Vivian and Essper encountered the only male at- 
tendant who was allowed to approach the house of 
Mr. Beckendorff. As Vivian cfuiclly walked liis 
horse up the rough turf road, he could not refrain 
from recurring to his conversation of the previous 
night ; and when he called to mind the adventures 
of the last six days, he had new cause to wonder 
at, and perhaps to lament over, his singular fate. 
In that short time he had saved the life of a power- 
ful prince, and been immediately signaled out, 
without any exertion on his part, as the object of 
that prince's friendship. The moment he arrives 
at his castle, by a wonderful contingency, he be- 
comes the depository of important state secrets, and 
assists in a consultation of the utmost importance 
with one of the most powerful ministers in Europe. 
And now the object of so much friendship, confi- 
dence, and honour, he is suddenly on the road to 
the capital of the state of which his late host is the 
pnme minister, and his fneud the cliief subject. 



1(11 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



without oven the convenience of a common letter 
of introduciion: nnd with no prospect of ^^cwing 
with even the usual advaiitupes of a common tra- 
veller, one of the most interesting of European 
courts. 

W hen he had proceeded ahout halfway up the 
turf lane, he found a private road to his right; 
wiiich, with that spirit of adventure for which 
Englishmen are celebrated, he immediately resolved 
Tnust not only lead to Reisenberg, but also carry 
him to that city much sooner than the regular high 
road. Ho had not advanced far up this road before 
he came to the gate at which he had parted with 
Beckendorfl' on the morning that gentleman had 
roused him so unexpectedly from his revery in a 
f^een lane. He was suq^rised to find a horseman 
dismounting at the gate. Sinick by this singular 
circumstance, the appearance of the stranger was 
not unnoticed. He was a tall and well-propor- 
tioned man, and as the traveller passed he stiired 
A ivian so full in the face, that our hero did not fail 
t.i remark his very handsome coimtenance, the 
expression of which, however, was rather vacant 
and unpleasing. He was dressed in a riding-coat, 
exactly similar to the one always worn by Beckcn- 
dorlFs messenger ; and had \'ivian not seen him so 
distinctly, he would have mistaken him for that 
person. The stranger was rather indillerently 
mounted, and carried his cloak and a small port- 
manteau at the back of his saddle. 

" I suppose it is the butler." said Essper George, 
who now spoke for the first time since his dismissal 
from the room. Vivian did not answer him ; not 
because he entertained any angry feeling on account 
of his exceedingly unpleasant visit. By no means : 
— it was impossible for a man like Vivian Grey to 
cherish an irritated feeling for a second. The 
Emperor Augustus, (I quote from rny last school 
theme ;) the Emperor Augustus had a habit, when- 
ever he was on the point of fallin? into a passion, 
of repeating his alphabet. It was then the fashion 
for emperors to be somev.hat more erudite than 
they are at present. Whether the Roman's recipe 
for keeping his temper could be jjursued by some 
modem emperors, or many private persons that I 
could mention, is a point on which I do not feel 
qualitied to decide. Saying the al))habct, for in- 
stance, accurately in the lantruacre of Thibet, where 
the characters are of two kinds — the uchem and 
the tttiiin — and consist principally of arbitrary 
guttural and nasal sounds, would be no joke. My 
plan to mrxlenite a tenijMT is much briefer than 
that of imp<'rial Caisar. Vou have onlv to repeat 
nine letters, and spell human lift ; and if there be 
n man who can -grieve or rairo when any thing so 
inexpressibly ludicrous is recalled to his attention, 
why then he deser\'eH to live all his life in a vol- 
cano, and Kinilf high-dried cayenne instead of 
pounded tobacco. 

Unt Vivian Grey did not exchange n sj'llable 
with Essper (ieorRC, merely bi-cause he was not in 
the humour to x|M'ak. He could not refrain from 
inuiiing on the ningular events of the last ffw days; 
and, above all, the chnracl.r of Deckendorfl' piir- 
licutarly engrojtHed his Mi'-dilalion. 'J'heir extranr- 
dinnry convrrsation of the precedini; ni;,'Iil excited 
in luM mitiil ni'w feelings nf wonder, and revived 
emotiouM which he thouuht were deaii, or everhwt- 
jiiirly «l"rm»nl. .Apparently, the philoso[)hy on 
which iJeckendorlV had reifiiluted his e\tniordinar>' 
career, and by which he Ind arrived at his almost 



unparalleled pitch of greatness, was exactly the 
same with which he himself, A'ivian Grey, had 
started in life ; which he had found so fatal in its 
consequences : which he believed to be so vain in 
its principles. How was this ! What radical 
error had he committed] It required little con- 
sideration. Thirty, and more than thirty years had 
passed over the head of Beckendorfi', ere the world 
felt his power, or indeed was conscious of his ex- 
istence. A deep student, not only of man in detail, 
but of man in groups — not only of individuals, but 
of nations — BeckendorfT had hived up his ample 
knowledge of all subjects which could interest his 
fellow-creatures ; and when that opportunity, which 
in this world occurs to all men, occurred to Be/:k- 
endorfl", he was prepared. With acquirements 
equal to his genius, BcckendorlT depended only 
upon himself, and succeeded. Vivian Grey, with a 
mind inferior to no man's, dashed on the stage, in 
years a boy, though in feelings a man. Brilliant 
as might have been his genius, his acquirements 
necessarily were insufficient. He could not depend 
only upon himself; a consequent necessity arose to 
have recourse to the assistance of others ; to inspire 
them with feelings which they could not share 
and humour and manage the petty weakness which 
he himself could not experience. His colleagues 
were, at the same time, to work for the gratification 
of their own private interests, the most palpable of 
all abstract things ; and to carrj' into execution a 
great purpose, which their feeble minds, interested 
only by the first point, cared not to comprehend. 
The unnatural combination failed ; and its origina- 
tor fell. To believe that he could recur again to 
the hopes, the feelings, the pursuits of his boyhood, 
he lelt to be the vainest of delusions. It was the 
expectation of a man like Beckendorff — whose 
career, though dillicult, though hazardous, had 
been uniformly successful — of a man who mistook 
cares for grief, and anxiety for sorrow. 

The travellers entered the citv' at sunset. Pro 
ceeding through an ancient and unseemly town, 
full of long, narrow, and ill-paved streets, and black 
uneven built houses, they ascended the hill, on the 
top of which was situated tlie new and Residence 
town of Reisenbcrg. The proud palace, the white 
squares, the architectural streets, the new churches, 
the elegant opera house, the splendid hotels, and 
the gay public gardens full of bust.s, vases, and sta- 
tues, and surrounded by an iron railing cast out of 
the cannon taken from both sides during the war. 
by the Reisenbcrg troops, and now f >rmed into 
pikes and fasces, glittering with gilded heads — all 
these shining in the setting sun, produced an ell'ect 
which, at any time, and in any place, would have 
liecn beautiful and striking: but on the present oc- 
casion were slill moi-e so, from the remarkable con- 
trast they alli)rded to the ancient, cloomy, and filthy 
town through which Vivian had jvist jtasscd ; anil 
where, Iroin the lowness of its situation, the sun 
had already set. There w.aa as much difVerenco 
between the old and new town of Rcisenlierg, as 
between the old barbarous margrave ajid the new 
I and noble grand-duke. 

\ man is never sooner domesticated than in a 
first-rate hotel, particularly on the Continent; 
' where, in fact, life is never d<imestic, and where din- 
I in,' evi-rj- day as yo»i do at a table li'hote, at which 
[ half of the resiMVlable housekeepers in the city at- 
tend, you feel from this circumstance that there 13 
I no mode of life to be preferred to the one that your 



VIVIAN GREY. 



165 



situation oWii^es you to adopt. In London it is 
sometimes (iitrerent; and a man retiring, after his 
daily lounge, to his solitary meal at Long's or Ste- 
vens's, is apt sometimes to feel lonely, particularly 
wiien he bas not an engagement for the evening, 
oi his claret is not in the most superb condition. 

Clarkt, bright claret ! solace of the soul, and 
the heart's best friend ! How many suicides hast 
thou prevented ! liow many bruised spirits and 
breaking hearts has thy soft and soothing tiow as- 
suaged and made whole ! Man, do thy worst — 
and woman, do thy best — one consolation ahvays 
remains. Long bills and libels, a duel and a dun, 
a jealous woman and a boring man are evils, and 
the worst — as also are a rowing father and a surly 
son, pert daughters and manceuvring mothers. 
Some dislike old maids, few dishke young ones. 
Few have a partiality for taxes; but this is a nation- 
al grievance, and if judiciously arranged, does not 
press upon the individual. Sermons on Sunday 
are proper and pleasant, if not over long. I only 
know one man who loves a losing card. Poetry 
also is endurable, particularly if it be a tragedy, and 
make us laugh. A rabid poetaster, foaming over a 
critique, none can tolerate. Yet bills and slander, 
duels, duns, and dungeons, and bores and green- 
eyed dames, disorganized families, old maids and 
cold maids, and grinding taxes, sermons and trage- 
dies; and bards and cards, all can be borne if we 
may only forget their noise and nonsense in the 
red glories of thy oblivious stream ! By stream, I 
mean the stream of claret. From the length of the 
sentence, it might be misunderstood ; and if any 
one, in our chill winter clime, at any time lind this 
liquor lie cold within its accustomed receptacle, 
why, after every third glass, let him warm it with 
one of Cogniac. 

" Chill winter clime" is, after all, a vulgar error, 
and merely brought in to round the period. Our 
atmosphere, like our taste, has of late much improv- 
ed ; and it is probable, that when our present monarch 
has concluded his architectural labours by perfectly 
banishing brick from all outward appearance, 
our climate proportionately improving, an Italian 
sky may illumine our palaces of stucco. By 
which phrase I do not mean to sneer at modern 
London. Some wiseheads laugh at our plaster, 
and talk of our unhappy deficiency in marble. I 
wish to know which of the boasted cities of the 
European continent is built of this vaunted marble ] 
As for myself, the only difference that I ever ob- 
served between our own new streets and the eleva- 
tion of foreign cities, is, that our stucco being of a 
much superior quality, and kept in a much superior 
condition, produces a general eifect which their 
cracked and peeling walls never can. But we are 
the victims of smoke, and the Italians have a mag- 
nificent climate ! True ! they have a sky like 
Bclshazzar's purple robe, and a sea blue enoudi to 
make a modern poet a bedlamite. They have a 
land covered with myrtle, and glittering with aloes, 
and radiant with orange, and lemon, and citron 
trees, 'riiey have all these, and a thousand other 
glories besides. The Italians live in a garden of 
Eden ; but it is a paradise which they will never 
forfeit by plucking the golden fruit. All their re- 
ligion consists in confession, and all their food in 
macai'oni. What can you expect from such a peo- 
ple '.' A length of time elapses before the action oi 
the air atfects their stucco ; but when it is atl'ected, 
it is never renovated. The boasted palladiiun pa- 



laces are all of stucco, and look like the lonely and 
dilapidated halls of Irish lords. 

The result of midnight promenades, whether phi- 
losophical or poetical, analytical or amatory, is usu- 
ally the same — a cold ; and as Vivian Grey sat 
shivering in his chair on the evening of his arrival 
at Reisenberg, he sent Mr. Beckendorff and his 
theory, his politics, his philosophy, and his sum- 
mer-house, to the devil, with a most hearty impre- 
cation. It is astonishing how a little indisposition 
unfits us for meditation. Man with a headache, a 
cold, or a slight spasm, is not exactly in the humour 
to pile Ossa upon Pelion, and scale the skies. The 
perfectibility of the species seems never at a more 
woful discount than on a morning after a debauch ; 
and ourselves never less like reasoning animals 
than when suifering under indigestion. Nothing is 
more ludicrous than a philosopher with the tooth- 
ache, — except jjerhaps a poet with the gout. 

Essper George, who, in a much more serious ill- 
ness, had already proved himself to Vivian the most 
skilful of nurses, was now of infinite use. Though, 
having the greatest contempt for the power and pro- 
fessors of medicine when in perlect health, Vivian, 
now that he was indisjioscd, was (juite ready to ac- 
cept the proffered assistance of the first quack who 
presented himself The lamllord of the hotel had 
a lelation who, since the war, had given up his pro- 
fession of farrier, and commenced that of physician. 
This disciple of Esculapius was speedily introdu- 
ced to our hero, as the first physician at Reisen- 
berg; and judging by his appearance that his pa- 
tient w.as a man of blood,«he proceeded to prescribe 
for him the remedies usually applied to a first-rate 
courser. This indeed was the grand and sole prin- 
ciple of Dr. von Hoofstettein's pharmacopoeia. Con- 
sidering his present patients as horses, he arranged 
them in classes according to their station in society. 
A substantial burgher, went for a stout cavalry 
charger; a peasant, for a sutler's hack; a lawyer 
or ignoble official, was treated as attentively as the 
steed of an oid-de-camp ; and the precedent for a 
recipe for a prime minister, might be found in that 
of his former general's crack charger. Prime mi- 
nisters, however, were persons whom Von Hootstet- 
tein seldom had the pleasure of killing; for he was 
not the court-physician. Seeing that Vivian had a 
cold and slight fever, he ordered him a very recher- 
che mash, and wished him good morning. Essper 
George saved our hero from a dose strong enough 
to have reduced a cart-horse to a lady's jennet ; and 
by quickly extricating liis master from the fatal grasp 
of this Galen of fetlocks, whose real origin he sus- 
pected from the odd manner in which he felt a 
pulse, his action strangely resembling a delicate ex- 
amination of a hoof — Essper, perhaps, prevented 
the history of Vivian Grey from closing with the 
present chapter. 

On the second day after his arrival at Reisenberg, 
Vivian received the following letter from the Prince 
of Little Lilliput. His luggage did not accompany 
the epistle. 

" Mk. von Grky. 
" Mr DKAB FiiiENH, — By the time you have 
received this, I shall have returned to Turripar- 
va. My visit to a certain gentleman was pro- 
longed for one day. I never can convey to 
you by words the sense I entertain of the value 
of your friendship, and of your services ; I trust 
that time will atlbrd me opportunities of tesU 



166 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



fying it liv my actions. I return home by the 
same mail l>y which we came ; you remember how 
excellent the road was, as indcoJ are all the roads 
in Reisenbcrg ; that must be confessed by all. I 
fear that the mo»t partial admirers of the old regime 
eannot say as much for the convenience of tra- 
velling in the time of our fathers. — Good roads are 
most excellent things, and one of the first marks of 
civilization and prosperity. The Emperor Napo- 
leon, who, it must be confessed, was alter all no 
common mind, was celebrated for his road.s. You 
have doubtless adinired the Route Napoleon on the 
Khine, and if you travel into Italy, I am informed 
that you will be equally, and even more struck by 
the passage over the Simplon, and the other Italian 
roads. Kcisenberg has certiiinly kept pace with 
the spirit of tlie tune; nobody can deny that; and 
I confess to you, that the more I consider the sub- 
ject, it appears to me that the happiness, prosperity, 
and content of the state, are the best evidences of 
the wisdom and beneficent rule of a government. 
Many things are very excellent in theory, which are 
quite the reverse in practice, and even ridiculous. 
And while we should do our utmost to promote 
tlie cause and uphold the interests of rational liber- 
ty, still, at the same time, we should ever be on our 
guard against the cnide ideas and revolutionary 
systems of tho.'-e who are quite inexperienced in 
that sort of particular knowledge which is necessary 
for all statesmen. Nothing is so easy as to make 
things look fine on paper, — we should never forget 
that : there is a great difference between high 
sounding generalities, ai»I laborious details. Is it 
reasonable to expect that men who have passed their 
lives dreaming in colleges and old musty studies, 
should be at all calculated to take the head of af- 
fairs, or know what measures those at the head of 
affairs ought to adopt ? — I think not, A certain 
personage, who, by-the-by, is one of the most clear- 
headed, and most perfect men of business that I 
ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with ; a 
real practical man, in short ; he tells me that Pro- 
fessor Skyrocket, whom you will most likely see at 
Reisenbcrg, wrote an article in the Military Quar- 
terly llcview wliicli is published there, on the ]no- 
bable expenses of a war between Austria and Prus- 
sia, and forgot the commissariat altogctlicr. Did 
you ever know any thing so riiliculous ? What 
business have such fellows to meddle with affairs 
of state ? They should certainly be put down : 
that I think none can deny. A liberal spirit in 
government is certaiidy n most excellent thing : but 
we must always remember that liberty may dege- 
nerate into licentiousness. Liberty is certainly an 
excellent thing. — that all admit; but, as a certain 
person very well observed, so is physic, and yet it 
is not to be given at all times, but only when the 
frame is in a state to reijuire it. I'eople may be as 
un[)reparcd fur a wi.-w? and dis<Teelu»e of lik-rty, lus 
a vulgar jjcrson may be for the management of a 
great estate unex|)ectedly inherited: there is a 
preatdeal in this, and in my opinion there are eases 
III which to f )rcc libiTly down a people's throat, 
i- pri'senting them, nut with a blessing, but a curse. 
I shall send your luggaije on iimnediately. It is 
very prulndile that I may lie in town at tlu" end of 
the week, fir n hliorl lime. I wii-h much to see, 
und to ciiiiMult you, and therefore hope Umt you 
will not leave Heiwiilierg before you ««U! 

" Vour faithful and oliliged friend, 

" Little Lilliput." 



Two days after the receipt of this letter, Essper 
George ran into the room with greater animation 
than he was usually accustomed to exhibit in the 
chamber of an invalid ; and with a mucli less so- 
lemn physiognomy than he had tliought proper to 
assume since his master's arrival at Keisenberg. 

''Lord, sir ! whom do 3'ou think I have just met 1" 

" Whom 1" asked Vivian with eagerness, for, as 
is always the case when such questions arc asked 
us, he was thinking of everj' person in the world 
except the right one. It might be 

'• To think that I should see him !" continued 
Essper. 

" It is a man then," thought Vivian ;— " w ho is 
it at once, Essper ?" 

" I thought your highness would not guess ; it 
will quite cure you to hear it — Master Rodolph !" 

" Master Rodolph !" 

" Ay ! and there's great news in the wind." 

" Which, of course, you have confidentially ex- 
tracted from him. Pray let us have it." 

" The Prince of Little Lilliput is coming to 
Reisenberg,'' said Essper. 

" Well ! I had some idea of that before," said 
Vivian. 

" O ! then your highness knows it all, I sup- 
pose," said Essper, with a look of great disappoint- 
ment. 

" I know nothing more than I have mentioned," 
said his master. 

" What ! does not your highness know that the 
prince has come over ; that he is going to live at 
court : and be, Heaven knows what ! that he is to 
carry a staff every day before the grand-duke at 
dinner, stuffed out with padding, and covered with 
orders; does not your highness know that 1" 

" I know notiiing of all this ; and so tell me in 
plain German what the case is." 

" Well, then," continued Essper ; " I suppose 
you do not know that his highness the prince is to 
be his excellency the grand-marshal — that unfor- 
tunate, but principal ollicer of state, having re- 
ceived his dismissal yesterday : they are coining 
up innnediately. Not a moment is to be lost : 
which seems to me very odd. Master Rodolph is 
arranuing every thing ; and he has this morning 
purchased from his master's predecessor, his palace, 
furniture, wines, and ]iictures; in short, his whole 
establishment : the lute grand-marshal consoling 
himself for his loss of oflice. and revenging him- 
self on his successor, by selling him his property 
at a hundred per ccJit. jirofit. H"wever, Maste? 
Rodolph seems quite contented with his bargain , 
and your luggage is come, sir. His hitihness, the 
jirince, will be in town at the end of the week; 
and all the men are to be put in new livery. Mr. 
Arnelm is to be his liigi\ness's chaudierlain ; and 
\'on Neuwied iiKUiter of the horse. So you see, 
sir, you were right; and that old puss in boots was 
no traitor, afier all. I'pon my s<^ul, I «lid not 
much believe your highness, until I heard ail this 
good news." 



ClIAPTKR II. 

.AnoiT a week aftir his arrival at ReisenlH^rg. as 
Vivian was at breakfast, the door opened, and Mr. 
Sievrrs eiilered. 

" I tlid not think that our next meeting would 
bo in liii.s city," siiid Mr. Sicvcrs, Biinling. 



VIVIAN CREY. 



167 



" His highness, of course, informed me of your 
arrival," said Vivian, as he greeted him very cor- 
dially. 

" Yon, I understand, are the diplomatist whom 
I am to thank for finding myself again at Reisen- 
berg. Let me, at the same time, express my gra- 
titude for your kind offices to me, and congratulate 
you on the brillianoy of your talents for negotia- 
tion. Little did I think when I was givin? you, 
the other day, an account of Mr. Beckendorff, that 
the information would have been of such service 
to you." 

" I am afraid you have nothing to thank me for ; 
though certainly, had the othce of arranging the 
terms between the parties devolved on me, my first 
thoughts would have been for a gentleman for 
whom I have so much regard and respect as Mr. 
Sievers." 

" Sir I I feel honoured : you already speak like a 
finished courtier. Pray, what is to be your office V 

" I fear Mr. Beckendorff" will not resign in my 
favour ; and my ambition is so exalted, that I can- 
not condescend to take any thing under the pre- 
miership." 

" You are not to he tempted hy a grand>marshal- 
ship?" said Mr. Sievers, with a very peculiar look. 
" You hardly expected, when you were at Tur- 
riparva, to witness such a rapid termination of the 
patriotism of our good friend. -I think you said 
you have seen him since your arrival : the inter- 
view must have been piquant!" 

" Not at all. I immediately congratulated him 
on the judicious arrangements which had been con- 
cluded ; and, to relieve his awkwardness, took some 
credit to myself for having partially assisted in 
bringing about the result. The subject was not 
again mentioned, and I dare say never will be." 

" It is a curious business," said Sievers. " The 
prince is a man who, rather than have given me 
up to the grand-duke — me, with whom he was not 
in the slightest degree connected, and who, of my 
own accord, sought his hospitality — sooner, I repeat, 
than have delivered n\e up, he would have had his 
castle razed to the ground, and fifty swords through 
his heart ; and yet, without the slightest compunc- 
tion, has this same man deserted, with the greatest 
coolness, the party of which, ten days ago, he was 
the zealous leader. How can you accyjunt for this, 
except it be, as I have long suspected, that in poli- 
tics there positively is no feeling of honour ? 
Every one is conscious that not only himself, but 
his colleagues and his rivals, are working for their 
own private purpose ; and that however a party 
may apparently be assisting in bringing about a 
result of common benefit, that nevertheless, and in 
fact, each is conscious that he is the tool of another. 
With such an understanding, treason is an expect- 
ed aflfair ; and the only point to consider is, who 
shall be so unfortunate as to be the deserted, in- 
stead of the deserter. It is only fair to his high- 
ness to state, that Beckendorff' gave him incontest- 
able evidence that he had had a private interview 
with every one of the mediatised princes. They 
were the dupes of the wily minister. In these ne- 
gotiations he became acquainted with their plans 
and characters, and could estimate the probability 
of their success. The golden bribe, wdiich was in 
turn dandled before the eyes of all, had been 
always reserved for the most powerful — our frfend. 
His secession, and the consequent desertion of his 
relatives, destroy the party forever ; while, at the 



same time, that party have not even the consola- 
tion of a good conscience to uphold them in their 
adversity ; but feel that in case of their clamour, 
or of any attempt to stir up the people by their 
hollow patriotism, it is in the power of the minister 
to expose and crush them forever." 

" AH this," said Vivian, "makes me the more 
rejoice that our friend has got out of their clutches 
he will make an excellent grand-marshal ; anc 
you must not forget, my dear sir, that he did nof 
forget you. To tell you the truth, although I did 
not flatter myself that I should benefit during my 
stay at Reisenberg by his influence, I am not the 
least surprised at the termination of our visit to Mr. 
Beckendorff'. I have seen too many of these affairs, 
not to have been quite aware the whole time, that 
it would require very little trouble, and very few 
sacrifices on the part of Mr. BeckeudorflT, to quash 
the whole cabal. By-thc-by, our visit to him was 
highly amusing-; he is a most singular man." 

"He has had, nevertheless," said Sievers, "a 
very difficult part to play. Had it not been for you, 
the prince would have perhaps imagined that he 
was only being trifled with again, and terminated 
the interview abruptly and in disgust Having 
brought the grand-duke to terms, and having arrang- 
ed the interview, Beckendorff of course imagined 
that all was finished. The very day that you 
arrived at his house, he had received despatches 
from his royal highness recalling his promise, and 
revoking Beckendorff's authority to use his unli- 
mited discretion in this business. The difficulty 
then was to avoid discussion with the prince, with 
whom he was not prepared to negotiate ; and at 
the same time, without letting his highness out of 
his sight, to induce the grand-duke to resume hi 
old view of the case. The first night that you 
were there, Beckendorff' rode up to Reisenberg — 
saw the grand-duke ; was refused, through the in- 
trigues of Madame Carolina, the requested autho- 
rity — and resigned his power. When he was a 
mile on his return, he was summoned back to the 
palace ; and his royal highness asked, as a favour 
from his tutor, four-and-twenty hours' considera- 
tion. This Beckendorff granted, on the condition 
that, in case the grand-duke assented to the terms 
proposed, his royal highness should him.self be the 
bearer of the proposition ; and that there should be 
no more written promises to recall, and no more 
written authorities to revoke. The terms were hard, 
but Beckendorff was inflexible. On the second 
night of your visit, a messenger arrived with a de- 
spatch, advising Beckendorff of the intended arri- 
val of his royal highness on the next morning. 
The ludicrous intrusion of your amusing servant 
prevented you from being present at the great 
interview, in which I understand Beckendorff', for 
the moment, laid aside all his caprices. Our friend 
acted with great firmness and energy. He would 
not be satisfied even with the personal pledge and 
written promise of the grand-duke, but demanded 
that he should receive the seals of office within a 
week ; so that, had the court not been sincere, his 
situation with his former party would not have been 
injured. It is astonishing how very acute even a 
dull man is, when his own interests are at stake ! 
Had his highness been the agent of another per- 
son, he would most probably have committed a 
thousand blunders, — have made the most disad- 
vantageous terms, or perhaps have been thoroughly 
duped. Self-interest is the finest eye-water." 



168 



D'lSR^iiLi'S NOVELS. 



" And what says Madame Carolina to all this ?" 

" O ! according to custom, she has changed 
aheady, and thinks the whole business most ad- 
mirably arranged. His highness is her grand 
favourite, and my little pupil Max, her pet. I 
think, however, on the whole, the boy is fondest 
&f the grand-duke ; whom, if you remember, he 
was always informing you in confidence, that he 
intended to assassinate. And as for your obedient 
servant," said 8ievers, bowing, " here am I once 
more the Aristarchus of her coterie. Her friends, 
by-the-by, view the accession of the prince with no 
pleased eyes ; and, anticipating that his juncture 
with the minister is only a prelude to their final 
dispersion, they are compensating for the approach- 
ing tennination of their career, by unusual violence 
and fresh fervour — stinging like mosquitos before a 
storm, conscious of their impending destruction 
from tire clearance of the atmosphere. As for 
myself, I have nothing more to do with them. 
Liberty and philosophy are very fine words ; but 
until I find men are prepared to cultivate them 
both in a wiser spirit, I shall remain quiet. I liave 
no idea of being banished and imprisoned, because 
a parcel of knaves are making a vile use of the 
truths which I disseminate. In my opinion, phi- 
losophers have said enough ; now let men act. 
But all this time I have forgotten to ask you how 
you like Reisenberg." 

" I can hardly say : with the exception of yes- 
terday, when I rode Max routid the ramparts, I 
have not been once out of the hotel. But to-day 
I feel so well, that if you are disposed for a lounge, 
I should like it above all things." 

" I am quite at your service ; but I must not 
forget that I am the bearer of a message to you 
from his excellency the grand-marshal. He wishes 
you to join the court-dinner to-day, and be pre- 
sented — " 

'• IJeally, my dear sir, an invalid — " 
Well ! if you do not like it, you must make 
your excuses to him ; but it really is the plcasantest 
way of commencing your acquaintance at court, 
and only allowed to distinguees ; among which, as 
you are the friend of the new grand-marshal, you 
are of course considered. No one is potted so 
much as a political apostate, except, perhaps, a re- 
ligious one ; so at present we are all in high fea- 
ther. You had better dine at the palate to-day. 
Every thing quite easy ; and, by an agreeable 
relaxation of state, neither swords, bags, nor trains, 
are necessary. Have you seen the palace 1 I sup- 
pose not ; we will look at it, and then call on the 
prince." 

The gentlemen accordingly left the hotel ; and 
proceeding down the principal street of the New 
Town, they came into a very large square, or 
Place d'Armes. A couple of regiments of infantry 
were exercising in it. 

" A specimen of our standing army," said Sievers. 
" In the war time this little state brought thirty 
thousand highly disciplined and well appointed 
troops into the field. This efficient contingent 
was, at the same time, the origin of our national 
prosperity, and our national debt. For we have a 
national debt, sir ! I assure you we are very 
j)roud of it, and consider it the most decided sign 
of benig a great people. Our force in times of 
peace is, of course, very nuicli reduced. We have, 
however, still eight thousand men, who are per- 
fectly unnecessary. The most curious thing is, 



that, to keep up the patronage of the court, and 
please the nobility, though we have cut down our 
army two-thirds, we have never reduced the num- 
ber of our generals : and so, at this moment, 
among our eight thousand men, we count about 
forty general oflicers, being one to every two hun- 
dred privates. We have, however, which perhaps 
you would not suspect, one military genius among 
our multitude of heroes. The Count von Sohn- 
speer is worthy of being one of Napoleon's mar- 
shals. Who he is, no one exactly knows : some 
say an illegitimate son of Beckendorfi'. Certain it 
is, that he owes his nobility to his sword ; and as 
certain it is that he is to be counted among the 
very few who share the minister's confidence. 
Von Sohnspeer has certainly performed a thou- 
sand brilliant exploits ; yet, in my opinion, the not 
least splendid day of his life, was that of the battle 
of Leipsic. He was on the side of the French, 
and fought against the allies with desperate fury. 
When he saw that all was over, and the allies tri- 
umphant, calling out ' Germany forever !' he 
dashed against his former friends, and captured 
from the flying Gauls a hundred pieces of cannon. 
He hastened to the tent of the emperors Vvith his 
blood-red sword in his hand, and at the same time 
congratulated them on the trixnnph of their cause, 
and presented them with his hard-earned trophies. 
The manoeuvre was perfectly successful ; and the 
troops of Reisenberg, comphmented as true Ger- 
mans, were pitied for their former unhappy fate in 
being forced to fight against their fatherland, and 
were immediately enrolled in the allied army : as 
such, they received a due share of all the plunder. 
He is a grand genius, young \Iaster von Sohn- 
speer." 

" O, decidedly ! Quite wortiiy of being a com- 
panion of the fighting bastards of ihe middle ages. 
This is a fine square !" 

" Very grand indeed ! Precedciits for some of 
the architectural combinations could hardly be 
found at Athens or Rome ; nevertheless tlie gene- 
ral effect is magnificent. Do you admire this plan 
of making every elevation of an order consonant 
with the purpose of tVie building 1 See! for in 
stance, on the opposite side of the square is the 
palace. The Corinthian order, vi'hich is evident in 
all its details, suits well the character of the struc- 
ture. It accords with royal pomp and elegance — 
with fetes and banquets, and interior magnificence. 
On the other hand, what a happy contrast is 
afl'orded to this gorgeous structure, by the severe 
simplicity of this Tuscan Palace of Justice. The 
School of Arts, in the farthest corner of the square, 
is properly entered through an Ionic portico. Let 
us go into the palace. Here, not only does our 
monarch reside, but, an arrangement which I much 
admire, here are deposited, in a gallery worthy of 
the treasures it contains, our very superb collection 
of pictures. They are the private property of his 
royal highness ; but, as is usually the case under 
despotic princes, the people, equally his property, 
are flattered by the collection being styled the 
' Public Gallery.' We have hardly time for the 
pictures to-day ; let us enter this hall, the contents 
of which, if not as valuable, are to me more in- 
teresting — the Hall of Sculi'tuhe. 

" Germany, as you must be aware, boasts no 
chef-d'ieuvres of ancient sculpture. In this re- 
sj)ect, it is not in a much more dei)lorable situation 
than, I believe, England is itself ; but our grand- 



VIVIAN GREY. 



169 



duke, with exceilent taste, instead of filling a room 
with uninteresting busts of ancient emperors, or 
any second-rate specimens of antique art, which 
are sometimes to be purchased, has formed a col- 
lection of casts from all the celebrated works of 
antiquity. These casts are of great value, and 
greater rarity. 

" There," said Mr. Sievers, pointing to the 
Venus de Medicis, " there is a goddess, whose di- 
^'inity is acknowledged in all creeds. It is com- 
monly said, that no cast of this statue conveys to 
you the slightest idea of the miraculous original. 
This I deny : the truth is, that the plaster figures 
which everywhere abound under the title of the 
Venus de Medicis, are copies five hundred times 
repeated, and of course all resemblance is lost. It 
would be lost in a great measure, were the original 
a dancing Faun or a fighting Gladiator. 1"he in- 
calculable increase of difficulty in transferring the 
delicate traits of female beauty, need not be expa- 
tiated on. Of this statue the whole of the right 
arm, a portion of the left, and some other less im- 
portant parts, are restorations. But who cares for 
this? VVho, in gazing on the Venus, dwells on 
anything but the body? Here is the magic I 
Here is to be discovered the reason of the universal 
fame of this work of art ! We do not consider the 
Venus de Medicis as the personification of a 
sculptor's dream. Her beauty is not ideal." 

Mr. Sievers did not stop here in his criticism on 
the Venus de Medicis, but fully demonstrated, 
which has never yet been done, the secret cause of 
the fame of this statue. His language, though 
highly philosophical, might, however, be misin- 
terpreted in this precise age ; and as this work is 
chiefly written for the entertainment of families, I 
have been induced to cut out the most instructive 
passage in the book. 

" And this, of course, is a very fine castl" asked 
Vivian. 

" Admirable ! It was presented by the Grand- 
duke of Tuscany to his royal highness, and is, of 
course, from the original. See, now ! the Belvi- 
dcre Apollo ; an inferior production, I think, to the 
Venus — [lerhaps a copy. Yet, in that dilated nos- 
tril, that indignant lip, and that revengeful brow, 
wc recognise Uie indomitable Pythius •, or, rather, 
perhaps, the persecutor of the miserable Niobe. 
The director of the gallery has made, with great 
discrimination, the unhappy rival of Latona the 
object to which the god of the silver bow points his 
avenging arm. The Niobe is a splendid jiroduc- 
tion. Some complain of her apparent indilierence 
to the fate of her ofl'spring. But is not this in 
character ? To me, the figure appears faultless. 
Even as I now gaze on her, the mother and the 
marble are still struggling ; and, rooted to the groinid 
by her overwhelming afiiiction, she seems weeping 
herself into a statue. I have often thought that 
some hidden meaning lurked under the dark legend 
of Niobe. Probably she and her family were the 
first victims of priestcraft. Come, my dear fellow, 
as protestants, let us, though late, pay our tribute 
of respect to the first herelic." Here Mr. Sievers 
bowed with great solemnity before the statue. 

" I will now show you," resumed Mr. Sievers 
" four works of art, which, if not altogether as ex- 
quisite as those we have examined, nevertheless, for 
various reasons, deserve our attention. And let us 
stop before this dying man. This statue is gene- 
lally known by the title of the Dyhig Gladiator. 
22 



According to Winkclman, he is a dying herald : 
either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by Qldi 
pus ; or Cepreas, herald of Euritheus, killed by the 
Athenians •, or Anthemocritus, herald of the Athe- 
nians, killed by the Megarcnses ; or, in short, any 
other herald who ever happened to be killed. Ac- 
cording to another antiquary, he is a Spartan 
shield-bearer ; and according to a third, a barba- 
rian. What an imagination it requires to be a 
great antiquary !" said Mr. Sievers, shrugging his 
shoulders. 

" I think this statue is also supposed to be a 
copy," said Vivian. 

" It is ; and the right arm is altogether by Michel 
Angelo, the ablest restorer that ever existed. He 
was deeply imbued with the spirit of antiquity, 
though himself incapable of finishing a single work. 
Had he devoted himself to restoration, it had been 
better for posterity, 

" This," continued Mr. Sievers, pointing to a 
kneeling figure, " is a most celebrated work ; and 
one of which you have doubtless heard. It gene- 
rally is known by the name of the Knife-grinder ; 
though able judges have not yet decided whether 
it be a representation of that humble artizan, or of 
the flayer of Marsyas, or the barber of Julius Csesar. 
I never can suificiently admire these classical anti- 
quaries ! They are determined to be right : see, 
for instance, that heroic figure ! The original is in 
the Louvre, and described in the catalogue of the 
French savans as a statue of ' Jason, othenvise 
Cincinnatus.' What a yiity that it did not occur to 
Plutarch to write a parallel between two characters 
in which there is, in every respect, such a striking 
similarity I"' 

" What are these horses'!" said Vivian. " They 
surely are not the Elgm !" 

" O, no !" said Mr. Sievers; " as an Englishman, 
you should know better. These are casts of the 
Elgin marbles presented to his royal highness by 
the King of England. The exquisite tact, and 
wise liberality with which your accomplished mo- 
narch has dissen>inated sets of these casts among 
the principal galleries of Europe, has made the 
Continent at length believe that it is no longer high 
treason in your country to admire a picture or a 
statue. The horses which you have remarked are, 
I assure you, veiy celebrated beasts ; although, for 
my part, I confess that their beauty is not to me 
very evident. Either the ancients had no concep- 
tion how to mould a horse, or their breeds were 
poor. These are casts from the famous brazen 
steeds of Venice, in front of the church of St. 
Mark's. They were given by the Emperor of Aus- 
tria. That the originals are antique, there is no 
doubt: I will not trouble you with my opinion as 
to their nation. Ivcarn, however, from lar deeper 
scholars than myself, that they are either Roman or 
Grecian — either Roman of the reign of Nero, or 
Grecian of the isle of Chios, or of the work of 
Lysippus. All these opinions are developed and 
supported by ponderous dissertations in quarto ; and 
scarcely a year escapes without these brazen beasts 
giving rise to some controversy or other. O ! these 
antiquaries ! Count Cicognara, the President of 'he 
Venetian Academy, has lately summed up the 
merits of the long agitated question, and given it 
as his opinion, that to come to a final and satisfac- 
tory result, we must search and compare all the 
horses, of all the cabinets of all Europe. What 
subhme advice about nothing .' ! I am tireJ < 



170 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



these fellows. In my opinion, tliis little Cupid of 
Dennecker i& worth all St. Marli's together. It is 
worthy of being placed by the Venus. When you 
were at Frankfort, you saw his Ariadne T" 

" I'es ! at Betliniann's, and a delightful work it 
is. Ease and grace are produced by an original but 
most involved attitude, and that is the triumph of 
art." 

Th.e hour of court-dinner at Reisenberg was two 
o'clock ; about which time, in England, a St. James's 
man tirst remembers the fatal. necessity of shaving; 
though, by-the-by, this allusion is not a happy one, 
for in this country shaving is a ceremony at present 
fiomewhat obsolete. Were the celebrated Packwood 
now living, he would have as much chance of 
making a fortune by the sale of his instruments in 
this rctined city, as at a settlement of blue baboons. 
At two o'clock, however, our hero, accompanying 
the grand-marshal and Mr. Sievers, reached the 
})alace. In the saloon were assembled various 
guests, chiefly attached to the court. Immediately 
after the' arrival of our party, the grand-duke and 
Madan.e Carolina, followed by their chamberlains 
and ladies in waiting, entered. The little Prince 
Maximilian strutted in between his royal highness 
and his f;dr consort, having hold of a hand of each. 
The urchin was very much changed in appearance 
since Vivian first saw him ; he was dressed in the 
complete unifonn of a captain of Royal Guards ; 
having been presented with a commission on the 
day of his amval at court. A brilliant star glittered 
on his scarlet coat, and paled the splendour of his 
golden epaulets. The duties, however, of t!ie 
princely captain were at present confined to the 
pleasing exertion of carrying the bon-bon box of 
Madame Carolina, the contents of which were 
chiefly reserved for his own gratification. In the 
grand-duke, Vivian was not surprised to recognise 
the horseman whom he had met in the private road 
on the morning of his departure from Mr. Becken- 
dortf's; his conversation with Sievers had prepared 
him for this. Madame Carolina was in appearance 
Parisian of the highest order. I am not in a 
humour for a laboured description, at whicli, very 
probably, few will grieve. The phrase I have used 
will enable the judicious reader to conceive all that 
is necessary. " Parisian of the highest order," — 
that is to say, an exquisite figure and an indescribable 
tournure, an invisible foot, a countenance full of 
esprit and intelligence, without a single regular 
feature, and large and very bright black eyes. Ma- 
dame's hair was of the same colour, and arranged 
in the most eflfective manner. Her cachemere 
would have graced the Feast of Roses, and so en- 
grossed your attention, that it was long before you 
observed the rest of her costume, in which, however, 
traces of a creative genius were immediately visible : 
in short, Madame Carolina was not fashionable, but 
fashion herself. In a subsequent chapter, at a ball 
which I have in preparation, I will make up for tliis 
brief notice of her costume, by publishing her court- 
dress. For the sake of my fair readers, however, I 
will not j)ass over the ornament in her hair. The 
como which supported her elaborate curls was invi- 
sible, except at each end, whence it threw out a 
large Pysche's wing of the finest golden web, the 
eyes of which were formed of precious garnets en- 
circled with turquoises. Let Mr. Hamlet iumie- 
diatcly introduce tliis ornament, and make his for- 
tune by the " Carolina Comb." 

The ro}al party made a progress round the circle, 



to which the late lamented Mr. Nichols could have 
done more justice than mysplf. M^dsme Carolina 
first presented her delicate and faintly rouged cheek 
to the hump-backed crown prince, who did not raise 
his eyes from the ground as he performed the ac- 
customed courtesy. One or two royal relatives, 
who were on a visit at the palace, were honoured by 
the same compliment. The grand-duke bowed in 
the most gracious and giacefid manner to every in- 
dividual ; and his lady accompanied the bow by a 
speech, which was at the same time personal and 
piquant. The first great duty of a monarch is to 
know how to bow skilfully ! nothing is more diffi- 
cult, and nothing more important. A royal bow 
may often quell a rebellion, and sometimes crush a 
conspiracy. It should, at the same time, be both 
general and individual ; equally addressed to the 
company assembled, end to every single person in 
the assembly. Our own king bows to perfection. 
His bow is eloquent, and will always render an 
oration on his part perfectly unnecessary ; which is 
a great point, for harangues are not regal. Nothing 
is more undignified than to make a speech. It is 
from the first an acknowledgment that you are under 
the necessity of explaining, or conciliatmg, or con- 
vincing, or confuting ; in short, that you are not 
omnipotent, but opposed. Every charlatan is an 
orator, and almost every orator a charlatan. But I 
never knew a quack or an adventurer who could 
bow well. It requires a dignity which can only re- 
sult from a consciousness of high breediug, or a 
high moral character. The last cause, of course, 
will never inspire the charlatan ; and for the first, I 
never met a scoundrel, however exalted his situa- 
tion, who in his manners was a perfect high-bred 
gentleman. He is either ridiculously stiff, pompous 
and arrogant, or his base countenance is ever gilt by 
an insidious, curming, conciliatory smile, which 
either is intended to take you in, or, if habitual, 
seems to imply, " What a confounded clever fellow 
I am ; how I understand human nature ; how skil- 
fully I adapt myself to the humours of mankind ; 
how I sneak with a smile into their bosoms !" 
Miserable knaves ! these fellows are invariably 
overbearing and tyrannical to their inferiors. They 
pass their mornings in cringing to a minister, and 
then go home and bully their butler. 

The bow of the Grand-duke of Reisenberg was 
a first-rate bow, and always produced a greaf sen- 
sation with the people, particularly if it were fol- 
lowed up by a proclamation for a public fete or 
fire-works ; th'en his royal highness's popularity 
was at its height. But Madame Carolina, after 
having by a few magic sentences persuaded the 
whole room that she took a peculiar interest in the 
happiness of every individual present, has reached 
Vivian, who stood next to his friend tlie gTand~ 
marshal. He was presented by that great officer, 
and received most graciously. For a moment the 
room thought that his royal highness was about to 
speak ; but he only smiled. Madame Carolina, 
however, said a great deal ; and stood not less than 
five minutes, comphmenting the English nation, 
and particularly the specmien of that celebrated 
peojile who now had the honoiu' of being presented 
to her. No one spoke more in a given time than 
Madame ('arolina; and as, while the eloquent 
words fell from her deep red lii)s, her bright eyes 
were mvariably fixed on those of the ptu-son sha 
addressed, what she did say, as invariably, was 
very efi'ective. Vivian had only time to give a nod 



VIVIAN GREY. 



171 



of recognition to his friend Max, for tlie company, 
arm-in-arm, now formed into a proces.sion to the 
(linin;^ saloon. Vivian was parted from tlie grand- 
marshal, who, as the highest officer of state present, 
followed immediately after the grand-duke. Our 
hero's companion was Mr. Sievers. Although it 
was not a state dinner, tiie party, from being 
swelled by the suites of the royal visiters, was nu- 
merous; and as the court occupied the centre 
of the table, Vivian was too distant to listen to the 
conversation of madame, who, however, he well 
perceived, from the animation of her countenance 
and the eloquent energy of her action, was delighted 
and delighting. The grand-duke spoke little ; but 
listened, like a lover of three days, to the accents 
of his accomplishea consort. The arrangement 
of a German dinnei promotes conversation. The 
numerous dishes are at once placed upon the table ; 
and when the curious eye has well examined their 
contents, the whole dinner, untouched, disappears. 
Although this circumstance is rather alarming to a 
novice, his terror soon gives place to self-congratu- 
lation, when he finds the banquet re-appear, each 
dish completely carved and cut up. A bottle 
of wine being placed, to each guest, your only 
business is, at the same time, to refresh both your 
body and your mind, by gratifying your palate and 
conversing with your neighbour. W^ould that this 
plan were adopted in our own country ! 

And now, having placed them at dinner, I will, 
for once in my life, allow the meal to pass over 
without reporting the conversation ; for I have a 
party in the evening which must not be slurred 
over ; and if my characters may not sometimes be 
dumb, I fear the plot, which all this time is gra- 
dually developing, will stand a chance of being 
neglected. Therefore imagine the dinner over. 

" Not being Sunday," said Mr. Sievers, " there 
is no opera to-night. We are to meet again, I be- 
lieve, at the palace, in a few hours, at Madame 
Carolina's soiree. In the mean time, you had 
better accompany his excellency to the public gar- 
dens ; that is the fashionable drive. I shall go 
home and smoke a pipe." 

Let us pass over the drive v/ithout a description 
— why should it be described 1 The circle of the 
Pubhc Gardens of Reisenberg exhibited exactly, al- 
though upon a smaller scale, the same fashions and 
the same frivolities, the same characters and the 
same affectations, as the Hyde Park of London, or 
the Champs Elysecs of Paris, the Prater of Vienna, 
the Corso of Rome or Milan, or the Cascine of 
Florence. There was the female leader of ton, 
hated by her own sex, and adored by the other, and 
ruling both — ruling both by the same principle 
of action, and by the influence of the same quality 
which creates the arbitress of fashion in all countries 
— by courage to break through the conventional 
customs of an artificial class, and by talents to 
ridicule all those who dare follow her innovating 
example — attracting universal notice by her own 
singularity, and at the same tune conciliating the 
support of those from whom she dares to differ, by 
employing her influence in preventing others from 
violating their laws. The arbitress of fashion is 
one who is allowed to be singular, in order that she 
may suppress singularity ; she is exempted from 
all laws; but, by receiving the dictatorship, she 
ensures the despotism. Then there was that mys- 
terious being, whose influence is perhaps even 
more surprising than the dominion of the female 



despot of manners, for she wields a power which 
can be analyzed and comprehended, — I mean the 
male authority in coats, cravats, and chargers ; 
who, without fortune and without rank, and some- 
times merely through the bold obtrusion of a fan- 
tastic taste, becomes the glass of fishion, in which 
even royal dukes and the most aristocratic nobles 
hasten to adjust themselves; and the mould by 
which the ingenious youth of a whole nation is 
enthusiastically formed. There is a Brummell in 
every country. 

Vivian, who, after a round or two with the 
grand-marshal, had mounted Max, was presented 
by the young Count von Bcrnstorff, the son of the 
grand-chamberlain, to whose care he had been 
specially commended by the prince, to the lovely 

Countess von S . The examination of this 

high authority was rigid, and her report satisfac- 
tory. When Vivian quitted the side of her britchska, 
half a dozen dandies immediately rode up to learn 
the result; and, on being informed, they simulta- 
neously cantered on to young Von Bernstorff, and 
requested to have the honour of being introduced 
to his highly interesting friend. All these exqui- 
sites wore white hats lined with crimson, in conse- 
quence of the head of the all-influential Emilius 
von Aslingen having, on the preceding day, been 
kept sacred fi-om the profaning air by that most 
tasteful covering. The young lords were loud in 
their commendations of this latest evidence of Von 
Aslingen's happy genius, and rallied, with a most 
unmerciful spirit, the unfortunate Von Bemstoiif 
for not having yet mounted the all-perfect chapeau. 
Like all Von Aslingen's introductions, it was as 
remarkable for good taste as for striking singularity: 
they had no doubt it would have a great run; ex-. 
actly the style of thing for a hot autumn ; and it 
suited so admirably with the claret-coloured riding- 
coat, which madame considered Von Aslingen's 
chcf-d'oBuvre. Inimitable Von Ashngen ! As 
they were in these raptures, to Vivian's great de- 
light, and to their great dismay, the object of their 
admiration appeared. Our hero was of course 
anxious to see so interesting a character ; but he 
could scarcely believe that he, in fact, beheld the 
ingenious introducer of white and crimson hats, 
and the still happier inventor of those chef-d'cBUvres, 
claret-coloured riding-coats, when his attention was 
directed to a horseman who wore a peculiarly high, 
heavy black hat, and a frogged and furred frock, 
buttoned up, although it was a most sultry day, to 
his very nose. How singular is the slavery of 
fashion ! Notwithstanding their mortification, the 
unexpected costume of Von Aslingen appeared 
only to increase the young lords' admiration of his 
character and accomplishments, and instead of feel- 
ing that he was an insolent pretender, whose fame 
originated in his insulting their tastes, and existed 
only by their sufferance, all cantered away witU ' 
the determination of wearing on the next day, even 
if it were to cost them each a calenture, furs enough 
to keep a man warm during a winter party at St. 
Petersburg, — not that winter parties ever take 
place there; on the contrary, before the winter 
sets in, the court moves on to Moscow ; which, 
from its situation and its climate, will always, in 
fact, continue the real capital of Russia. 

The royal carriage, drawn by six horses and 
backed by three men-servants, who would not have 
disgraced the fairy equipage of Cinderella has now 
left the gardens. 



172 



D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. 



CHAPTER III. 

Madame Carolina lielil her soiree in her own 
private apartments; the grand-duke himself appear- 
ing in t!ie capacity of a visiter. The company was 
very numerous and very brilliant. Kis royal iiigh- 
ness, surrounded by a select circle, dignified one 
corner of the saloon : Madame Carolina at the 
other end of the room, in the midst of poets, philo- 
sophers, and politicians, in turn decided upon the 
most interesting and important topics of poetry, 
])hilosophv, and politics. Boston, and zwicken, 
and whisit, interested some ; and puzzles, and other 
ingenious games, others. A few were above con- 
versing, or gambling, or guessing; s\;perior intelli- 
gences, who would be neither interested nor 
amused; — among these, Emilius von Aslingen 
was the mostyjrominent; he leaned against a door, 
in full uniform, with his vacant eyes fixed on no 
object. The others were only awkward copies of 
an easy original ; and among these, stiff or stretch- 
ing, lounging on a chuisr-loiii^uf, or posted against 
the wall, Vivian's quick eye recognised more than 
one of the unhappy votaries of white hats lined 
with crimson. 

When Vivian made his bow to the grand-duke, 
he was surprised by his royal highness coming 
forward a few steps from the surrounding circle, 
and extending to him his hand. His royal high- 
ness continued conversing with him for upwards 
of a quarter of an hour ; expressed the great plea- 
sure he felt at seeing at his court a gentleman of 
whose abilities he had the highest opinion ; and 
after a variety of agreeable compliments — compli- 
ments are doubly; agreeable from crowned heads — 
the grai'.d-duke retired to a game of Boston with 
liis royal visiters. Vivian's reception made a great 
sensation through the room. Various rumours 
were immediately afl(iat. 

" Who can he beV 

" Don't you know 1 — ! most curious story ! 
killed a hoar as big as a bona.ssus, which was 
ravaging half Reisenbcrg, and saved the lives of his 
excellency the grand-marshal and his whole suhc." 

" What is that about the grand-marshal, and a 
boar as big a.s a bonassus? Quite wrong — natural 
son of BeckcndoriT — know it for a fact — don't yon 
see he is being introduced to Von Sohiispccrl — 
brothers, you know — managed the whole business 
about the leagued princes — not a son of Becken- 
dorff, only a particular friend — the son of the lat!> 

General , I forget his name exactly — killed at 

Lcipsic, you know — that famous general, what 
was his 'lume ? — that very famous general — don't 
you know '! Never mind — vv( 11 ! he is his son' — 
father particular friend of Beckendorlf — college 
friend — brought up tlie orphan — very handsome 
of him ! — ihey say he does handsome things some- 
. times." 

" Ah ! well — I've heard so t.;o — and so this 
young niiiii is to be tlie new under-secretary ! 
very much a;iprove.d by the Countess of S ." 

" No, it can't be ! — your story is quite wrong. 
He is an Englishman." 

"An Englibhman ! no !'' 

" Yes, he is. I had it from niadamc — liigh rank 
jncog. — going to Vienna — secret mission." 

"yomcthing to do with Greece? of course in- 
«lependence recognised .'" 

" O ' certuinly — jiay a tribute to the Porte, and 
griverticd by a hospodar. Admirable arrangement ! 



have to support their own government and a 
foreign one besides !" 

It was with great pleasure that Vivian at length 
observed Mr. Sievers enter the room, and extricat- 
ing himself from the enlightened and enthusiastic 
crowd, who were disserting round the tribunal of 
madame, he hastened to his amusing iViend. 

" Ah ! my dear sir, how glad I am to see you I 
I have, since we met last, been introduced to your 
fashionable ruler, and some of her most lashionable 
slaves. I have been honoured by a long conversa- 
tion with his royal highness, and have listened to 
some of the most eloquent of the Carolii:a coterie. 
\A hat a Babel ! there all are, at the same time, 
talkers and listeners. To what a pitch of perfec- 
tion may the ' science' of conversation be carried ! 
My mind teems with original ideas to which I can 
annex no definite meaning. What a variety of 
contradictory theories, which are all apparently 
sound I I begin to suspect that there is a great 
difference between reasoning and reason !" 

'• Your suspicion is well founded, my dear sir," 
said Mr. Sievers ; " and I know no circumstance 
which would sooner prove it, than listening for a 
few minutes to this little man in a snull'-coloured 
coat, near me. But I will save you from so ter- 
rible a demonstration. He has been endeavouring 
to catch my eye these last ten minutes, and I have 
as studiously avoided seeing him. Let us move," 

" Willingly : who may this fear-inspiring mon- 
ster heV 

" A philosopher," said Mr, Sievers, " as most of 
us call ourselves here : that is to say, his profession 
is to observe the course of nature ; and if by 
chance he can discover any slight deviation of the 
good dame from the path which our ignorance has 
marked out as her only track, he claps his hands, 
cries ihfDiict ! and is dubbed ' illustrious' on the 
spot. Such is the world's reward for a great dis- 
covery, which generally in a twelve-month's time 
is found out to be a blunder of the philosopher, 
and not an eccentricity of nature. I am not un- 
derrating those great men who, bj' deep study, or 
rather by some mysterious inspiration, have pro- 
duced comiiinations, and cfiiscted results, which 
have materially assisted the progress of civilization 
and the security of our happiness. No, no! to 
them be due adoration. Vv'ould that the reverence 
of posterity could be some consolation to these 
great spirits, for negl(;ct and persecution when they 
lived ! I have invariably observed of great natural 
philosophers, that if they lived in former ages they 
were persecuted as magicians, and in periods which 
profess to be more enlightened, they have always 
been ridiculed as quacks. The succeeding century 
the real quack arisi-s. He ado[its and developes 
the suppressed, and despised, and forgotten disco- 
very of his unfortunate };redecessor ; and fame 
trumpets this resurrection-man of science with as 
loud a blast of ra])ture, as if, instead of being 
merely the accidental animator of the corpse, he 
were the cunning artist himself, who had devised 
and executed the miraculous machinery which the 
other had only wound u[>." 

"Let us sit down on tins sofa. I tnink we 
have escapo'd from your brown-coated liiend." 

•' Ay ! I forgot we were speaking of him. He 
is, as the phrase goes, a philosopher. To think 
that a student of butterflies and beetles, a nice ob- 
server of the amorous passions of an ant, or the 
caprices of a cockchafer, should bear a tillo once 



VIVIAN GREY. 



1ml 



consecrated to those lights of nature who taught 
us to be wise, and free, and eloquent. Philosophy ! 
I am sick of the word." 

" And this is an entomologist, I suppose V 
" Not exactly. He is about to publish a quarto 
on the Villa Pliniana on the Lake of Como. Sir 
Philosopher, forsooth ! has been watching for these 
eight months the intermittent fountain there ; but 
though his attention was quite unlike his subject, 
no ' discovery' has taken place. Pity that a freak 
of nature should waste eight months of a philo- 
sopher's life ! Though annoyed by his failure, my 
learned gentleman is consoled by what he styles, 
' an approximation to a theory ;' and solves the 
phenomenon by a whisper of the evening winds." 
" But in this country," said Vivian, " surely you 
have no reason to complain of the want (^ moral 
philosophers, or the respect paid to them. The 
country of Kant — of — " 

" Yes, yes ! we have plenty of metaphysicians, 
if you mean them. Watch that lively-looking 
gentleman, who is stuffing kalte schale so vora- 
ciously in the corner. The leader ©f the idealists 
— a pupil of the celebrated Ficlite ! To gain an 
idea of his character, know that he out-herods his 
master ; and Fichte is to Kant, what Kant is to 
the unenlightened vulgar. You can now form a 
slight conception of the spiritual nature of our 
friend who is stuffing kalte schale. The first 
principle of his school is to reject all expressions 
which incline in the slightest degree to substan- 
tiality. Existence is, in his opinion, a word too 
absolute. Beins^, principle, essence, are terms 
scarcely sufficiently ethereal, even to indicate the 
subtile shadows of his opinions. Some say that he 
dreads the contact of all real things, and that he 
makes it the study of his life to avoid them. Mat- 
ter is his great enemy. When you converse with 
him, you lose all consciousness of this world. My 
dear sir," continued Mr. Sievers, " observe how 
exquisitely nature revenges herself upon these capri- 
cious and fantastic children. Believe me, nature 
is the most brilliant of wits ; and that no repartees 
that were ever inspired by hate, or v^'ine, or beauty 
ever equalled the calm effects of her indomitable 
power upon those who are rejecting her authority 
You understand me ? Methinks that the best an- 
swer to the idealism of Mr. Fichte is to see his 
pupil devouring kalte schale !" 

"And this is really one of your great lights'!" 
" Verily ! his works are the most famous, and 
the most unreadable, in all Germany. Sui-clyyou 
have heard of his 'Treatise on Man V A treatise 
on a subject in which every one is interested, 
written in a style which no one can understand. 

" I could point you out," continued Mr. Sievcrs, 
" another species of idealist more ridiculous even 
than this. Schelling has revived pantheism in Ger- 
many. According to him, on our death our identity 
is lost forever, but our internal qualities become 
|)art of the great whole. I could show you also, 
to prove my impartiality, materialists more ridi- 
culous than both these. But I will not wcarj' 
you. You asked me, however, if, in Germany, 
we had not philosophers. I have pointed them out 
to you. My dear sir, as I told you before, philo- 
sophy is a term which it is the fashion for every 
one to assume. We have a fellow at Reiscnberg 
who always writes 'On the Philosophy' of some- 
thing. He has just published a volume ' On the 
Philosophy of Pipe-heads !' We have even come 



to this ! But considering the term philo.tnphy as 
I do myself, and as I have reason to believe you 
do, I am not rash when I say, that in Germany 
she has no real votaries. AH here are imitating 
to excess the only ])art of the ancient philosophy, 
which is as despicable as it is useless. The ever 
inexplicable enigma of the universe is what the 
modern Germans profess to solve ; the ring which 
they ever strive to carry off in their intellectual 
tilts. In no nation sooner than in Germany, can 
you gain more detailed information about every 
other world except the present. Here, we take 
nothing for granted; an excellent preventive of 
superficialness ; but as our premises can never be 
settled, it unfortunately happens that our river of 
knowledge, though very profound, is extremely 
narrow. While we are all anticipating immortality, 
we forget that we arc mortal. Believe me, that 
the foundations of true philosophy are admissions. 
We must take something for granted. In morals, 
as well as in algebra, we must form our calcula- 
lations by the assistance of unknown numbers. 
Whatever doubts may exist as to the causes of 
our being, or the origin of our passions, no doubt 
can exist respecting their results. It is those re- 
sults that we must regulate, and it is them that we 
should study. For the course of the river, which 
is visible to all, may be cleared or changed ; but 
the unknown and secret fountain — what profits it 
to ponder on its origin, or even to discover its site, 
or to plumb its unfathomable and mysterious wa- 
ters 1 V/hen I find a man, instead of meditating 
on the nature of our essence and the principle of 
our spirit, — on which points no two persons ever 
agreed — developing and directing the energies of 
that essence and that spirit, energies which all feel 
and all acknowledge ; when I find a man, instead of 
musing over the absolute principle of the universe, 
forming a code of moral principles by which this 
single planet may be regulated and harmonised ; 
when I find him, instead of pouring forth obscure 
oracles on the reunion of an inexplicable soul with 
an unintelligible nature, demonstrating the indis- 
soluble connexion of private happiness and public 
weal, and detailing the modes by which the inte- 
rests of the indispensable classes of necessary 
society may at the same time be considered and 
confirmed, I recognise in this man the true philo- 
sopher; I distinguish him from the dreamers who 
arrogate that title ; and if he be my countryman, I 
congratulate Germany on her illustrious son." 

'• You think, then," said Vivian, " that posterity 
will rank the German metaphysicians v\ith the 
latter Platonists 1" 

" I hardly know — they are a body of men not 
less acute, but I doubt whether they will be as 
celebrated. In this age of print, notoriety is more 
attainable than in the age of manuscript ; but last- 
ing fame certainly is not. That tall thin man in 
black, that just bowed to me, is the editor of one 
of our great Reisenbcrg reviews. The journal he 
edits is one of the most successful periodical pub- 
lications ever set afloat. Among its contributors 
may assuredly be classed many men of eminent 
talents ; yet to their abilities the surprising success 
and influence of this work is scarcely to be ascribed : 
it is the result rather of the consistent sjjirit which 
has always inspired its masterly critiques. One 
principle has ever regulated its management : it is 
a simple rule, but an effective one — every author is 
reviewed by his personal enemy. You may iiiva ■ 
y2 



174 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



gine the point of the critique ; but you would 
hardly credit, if I were to mform you, the circula- 
tion of the review. You will tell me that you are 
Kot surprised, and talk of the natural appetite of 
our species for malice and slander. Be not too 
quick. The rival of this review, both in influence 
and in sale, is conducted on as simple a princiijle, 
but not a similar one. In this journal every author 
is reviewed by his personal friend — of course, 
perfect panegyric. Each number is flattering as a 
lover's tale, — every article an eloge. What say 
you to thirf] These arc the influential literary 
and political journals of Reisenbcrg. There was 
yet another ; it was edited by an eloquent scholar ; 
all its contributors were, at the same time, brilliant 
and profound. It numbered among its writers 
some of the most celebrated names in Germany ; 
its critiques and articles were as impartial as they 
were able — as sincere as they were sound ; it 
never paid the expense of the first number. As 
philanthropists and admirers of our species, my 
dear sir, these are gratifying results ; they satisfac- 
torily demonstrate, that mankind have no innate 
desire for scandal, calumny, and backbiting; it 
only proves that they have an innate desire to be 
gulled and deceived. 

" The editor of the first review," continued Mr. 
Sievers, " is a very celebrated character here. He 
calls himself a philosophical historian. Professing 
the greatest admiration of Montesquieu, this lumi- 
nous gentleman has, in his ' History of Society in all 
Nations and all Ages,' produced one of the most 
ludicrous caricatures of the ' Esprit des Loix,' that 
can be possibly imagined. The first principle of 
these philosophical historians is tn^encra/'ze. Ac- 
cording to them, man, in every nation and in every 
clime, is the same animal. His conduct is influ- 
enced by general laws, and no important change 
ever takes place in his condition through the agen- 
cy of accidental circumstances, or individual exer- 
tion. All, necessarily, arises by a uniform and 
natural process, which can neither be eilectually 
resisted, not prematurely accelerated. From these 
premises our philosophical historian has deduced a 
most ingenious and agreeable delineation of the 
progress of society from barbarism to refinement. 
With this writer, recorded truth has no charms, and 
facts have no value. They are the consequence 
of his theory ; and it is therefore easier for him, at 
once, to imagine his details, than to give himself 
the troLible of collecting them from dusty chronicles, 
or original manuscripts. With these gencralizers, 
man is a machine. Accident and individual cha- 
racter, the two most powerful springs of revolution, 
are not allowed to influence their theoretic calcula- 
tions ; and setting out, as they all do, with an 
avow ed opinion of what man ouglu to be, tli' y have 
no difliculty in providing what, in certain situations, 
he has bcen„ and what, in singular situations, he 
ever niust be." 

•' We have no want of these gcntiy in my 
country," said Vivian ; " although of late years this 
mode of writing history has become rather un- 
fashionable. The English are naturally great lovers 
of detail. They like a Gerard Dow better than a 
Poussin ; and in literature, in spite of their philoso- 
phical historians, their old chronicles are not yet 
obsolete. Of late, indeed, even the common people 
have (exhibited a taste for this species of antique 
fitcrature." 

'• The genius and delightful works of tlie Che- 



valier Scott, (the Germans always use titles, and 
speaking even of their most illustrious men, never 
omit their due style, — as ' the Baron von GiJthe,' 
the ' Baron von Leibnitz,') of the Chevalier Scott,' 
continued Mr. Sievers, " has in a great measure re- 
vivcd this taste. You are of course aware that he 
has influenced the literatures of the Continent 
scarcely less than that of his own country: he is 
the favourite author of the French, and in Germany 
we are fast losing our hobgoblin taste. When I 
first came to Reisenberg, now eight years ago, the 
popular writer of fiction wa# a man, the most pro- 
bable of whose numerous romances was one in 
which the hero sold his shadow to a demon, over 
the dice-box; then married an unknown woman in 
a church-yard ; afterwards wedded a river nymph ; 
and having committed bigamy, finally stabbed him- 
self, to^nable his first wife to marry his own father. 
He and his works are quite obsolete ; and the star 
of his genius, with those of many others, has paled 
before the superior brilliancy of that literary comet, 
Mr. von Chronicle, our great historical novelist. 
Von Chronicle is one of those writers who never 
would have existed had it not been for the Cheva- 
lier Scott : he is a wonderful copyist of that part of 
your countrymen's works which is easy to copy, 
but without a spark of his genius. According to 
Von Chronicle, we have all, for a long time, been 
under a mistake, and your great author among us. 
We have ever considered that the first point to be 
studied in novel writing, is character : miserable 
error! It is cos/imte. Variety of incident, novelty, 
and nice discrimination 6f character ; interest of 
story, and all those points which we have hitherto 
looked upon as necessary qualities of a fine novel , 
vanish before the superior attractions of variety of 
dresses, exquisite descriptions of the cloak of a 
signor, or the trunk-hose of a serving-man. 

"Amuse yourself while you arc at Reisenbcrg, 
by turning over some volumes which every one is 
reading ; Von Chronicle's last great historical novel. 
The subject is a magnificent orre — Rienzi — yet it 
is strange that the hero only appears in the first and 
the last scenes. You look astonished. Ah ! I 
see you are not a great historical novelist. You 
foi-get the effect which is pi-oduced by the contrast 
of the costiune of Master Nicholas, the notar}' in 
the quarter of the Jews, and that of Rienzi, the tri- 
bune, in his robe of purple, at his coronation hi the 
Capitol. Conceive the circct, the contrast. With 
that coronation, Von Chronicle's novel terminates ; 
for, as he well observes, after that, what is there in 
the career of Rienzi which would afford matter for 
the novelist? ]Vothing! All that afterwards occurs 
is a mere contest of passions, and a development 
of character; but where is a procession, a triumph, 
or a marriage ? 

" One of Von Chronicle's great characters in this 
novel is a cardinaL It was only last night that I 
was fortunate enough to have the beauties of the 
work pointed out to me by the author himself. Ke 
errtrcated, and gained my permission, to read to me 
whathe himself considered ' the greatscene;' I settled 
myself in my chair, took out my handkerchief, and 
prepared my mind for the worst. While I was an- 
ticipating the terrors of a heroine, he intr'oduced me 
to his cardinal. Thirty pages were devoted to tire 
description of the prelate's costume. Although 
clothed in pui"ple, still, by a skilful adjustment of 
the drapery, Von Chronicle managed to bring in 
six other petticoats, I thought this beginning 



VIVIAN GREY. 



175 



would neve' finish, but to my surprise, when he 
hid got t'j the seventh petticoat, he shut his book, 
and le.ming over the table, asked me what I thought 
of his ' great scene 1' ' My friend,' said I, ' you are 
not only the greatest historical novelist that ever 
lived, but that ever vnll live.' " 

" I shall certainly get Rienzi," said Vivian ; " it 
seems to me to be an original work." 

" Von Chronicle tells me that he looks upon it 
as his master-piece, and that it may be considered 
as the highest point of perfection to which liis sys- 
tem of novel-writing can be earned. Not a single 
name is given in the work, down even to the rabble, 
for which he has not contemporary authority ; but 
what he is particularly proud of, are his oaths. 
Nothing, he tells me, has cost him more trouble 
than the management of the sweaiing; and the 
Romans, you know, are a most profane nation. The 
great ditHculty to be avoided, was using the ejacu- 
lations of two diflerent ages. The ' 'sblood' of the 
sixteenth century must not be confounded with the 
'zounds' of the seventeenth. Enough of Von 
Chronicle ! The most amusing thing," continued 
Mr. Sievers, " is to contrast this mode of writing 
works of fiction, with the prevalent and fashionable 
method of writing works of history. Contrast the 
' Rienzi' of Von Chronicle, with the ' Haroun Al 
Raschid' of Madame Carolina. Here we vvrite 
novels like history, and history like novels : all our 
facts are fancy, and all our imagination reality." 
So saying, Mr. Sievers rose, and wishing Vivian 
good night, quitted the room. He was one of those 
prudent geniuses who always leg,ve off with a 
point. 

Mr. Sievers had not left Vivian more than a 
minute, when the little Prince Maximilian came up 
and bowed to him in a very condescending manner. 

Our hero, who had not yet had an opportunity of 
speaking with him, thanked him cordially for his 
handsome present, and asked him how he liked the 
court. 

'■ O, delightful ! I pass all my time with the 
grand-duke and madamc;" and here the young 
apostate settled his military stock, and arranged the 
girdle of his sword. " Madame Carohna," con- 
tinued he, " has commanded me to inform you that 
she desires the pleasure of your attendance." 

The summons was immediately obeyed, and 
Vivian had the honour of a very long conversation 
with the interesting consort of the grand-duke. He 
was, for a considerable time, complimented by her 
enthusiastic panegyric of England ; her original 
ideas of the character and genius of Lord Byron ; 
her veneration for Sir Humphrey Davy, and her ad- 
miration of Sir Walter Scott. Not remiss was 
Vivian in paying, in his happicstmanner, due com- 
pliments to the fair and royal authoress of the 
Court of Charlemagne. While she spoke his native 
tongue, he admired her accurate English ; and 
while she professed to have derived her imperfect 
knowledge of his perfect language from a study of 
its best authors, she avowed her belief of the impos- 
sibility of ever speaking it correctly, without the 
assistance of a native. Conversation became more 
interesting. Madame Carolina lamented Vivian's 
indisposition, and fearing that he had not been 
jtroperly attended, she insisted upon his seeing the 
court physician. It was in vain he protested that he 
was quite well. She, convinced by his looks, insisted 
upon sending Dr. von Spittergen to him the next 
morning. 



When Vivian left the palace, he was not un- 
mindful of an engagement to return there the next 
day, to give a first lesson in English pronunciation 
to Madame Carolina, 



CHAPTER IV. 

Ox the morning after the court dinner, as Vivian 
was amusing himself over Von Chronicle's last 
new novel, Essper George announced Dr. von 
Spittergen. Our hero was rather annoyed at the 
kind interest which Madame Carolina evidently 
took in his convalescence. He was by no means 
in the humour to endure the affectations and per 
fumes of that most finical of prigs, a court phy- 
sician ; but so important a personage could scarcely 
he refused admission, and accordingly Dr. von 
Spittergen entered the room. He was a very tall, 
and immensely sfout man, with a small head, 
short neck, and high shoulders. His little quick 
gray eye saved his countenance from the expression 
of sullen dullness, which otherwise would have 
been given to it by his very thick lips. His dress 
was singular, and was even more striking from the 
great contrast which it atforded to the costume 
which Vivian had anticipated. There was no 
sword, no wig, no lace rullles, no diamond ring. 
The tail of his dark mixture coat nearly reached 
the ground ; its waist encircled his groin, and the 
lappets of his waistcoat fell over his thighs. He 
wore very square-toed shoes, and large- silver 
buckles, and partridge-coloured woollen stockings 
were drawn over the knees of his black pantaloons. 
Holding in one hand his large straw hat, and in 
the other a gold-headed cane as big as Goliath's 
spear, without any preliminaiy, he thus addressed, 
in a loud voice, his new patient : — 

" Well, sir ! what is the matter with you 1" 

" Pray be seated, doctor. The honour of this 
visit — very sensible — " 

" Never sit down." 

As Vivian, rather confounded by the unex- 
pected appearance and manners of his visiter, did 
not immediately answer. Dr. von Spittergen again 
spoke. 

" Well, sir I have you got any thing to say to 
me?" 

" Really, doctor, you are so very kind ! unne- 
cessarily so. — I am not quite well — that is, not 
exactly quite well ; perhaps a little cold — nothing 
more." 

" Li/Ik cold, indeed ! Why, what would you 
have, yoiuig man ; — the plague 1" 

" Dr. von Spittergen," thought Vivian, " is evi- 
dently one of those mild practitioners, who are of 
opinion, that Learning is never so«lovely as when 
Brutality is her handmaid ; and that Skill is never 
so respected, as when she not only cures but dis- 
gusts you." 

" Ah !" continued the doctor ; " I suppose you 
got this cold by forgetting to wear your gloves one 
day. Gloves are the origin of every disease. 
Nobody can expect to be well, who ever covers the 
palm of his hand." 

" Well, doctor, I confess I do not ascribe my 
present indisposition to encouraging the glove ma 
nufaetory of Reisenherg." 

' ' Pish ! what should you know about it, su- ^ ' 



176 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" ! nothing. Do not be alarmed that I am ' 
about to destroy a favourite theory." 

" Pish ! young men liave ahvay.s something to 
say ; never to the purpose. Show your teeth, sir ! 
I don't want to see your tongue : show your teeth 
— all pidled out at five years old 1 — suppose you 
luiow nothing about it : well ! if they were not, 
there is no chance for you ; — you will be an inviilid 
all your life." 

" Well, doctor !" said Vivian, with imperturba- 
ble good humour; "however crazy may be my 
bodv, I still trust, with your good assistance, to 
reach a very advanced period." 

" You do, do you 1 I don't think you will ; 
there's nothing of you ; no stamina : — see what 
can be done, though." Here the good doctor rang 
the bell. 

" Kelner ! go and ask your master for his list of 
medicines." 

" Sir !" said the astonished waiter at the Grand 
Hotel of the Four Nations — " Sir !" 

'• What, are you deaf! — GS, and bring the list 
directly." 

" I don't know what you mean, sir." 
" How long have you lived here V 
" Three days, sir." 

" Pish ! — go, and tell your master what I said." 
The waiter accordingly departed; and the master 
of tlie house, bowing and smiling, soon appeared 
in his own person, 

" I beg your pardon, doctor," said he ; " but it 
was a new hand who answered your bell ;" and so 
saying, the good gentleman delivered to Dr. von 
Spittergen the carte des vins. 

" Stop here a moment, my friend !" said Von 
Spittergen, " while I prescribe for this young man." 
He began reading — " Vins de Bourgogne — pish ! 
Clos de Vougeot — Mousseux — Chambcrtin — St. 
George — Richebourg — pish ! vins do Bordeaux — 
Lafitte — Margaux — Hautbrion — Leonville — Me- 
doc — Sauterne — Barsac — Preignac — Grave — pish! 
pish! pish! pish! — Cotes du Rhone — paille — 
rouge — grille — St. Peray — pish! pish! pish! — 

Champagne — p — i — s — h ! Vins du Rhine — 

drank too much of them already — Porto-Porto — 
Ah ! that will do — Give him a pint at two — Let 
him dine at that hour, en particulier — and not at 
the table d'hote — Give him a pint, I say, with his 
dinner, and repeat the dose before he goes to bed. 
Voung man, I have done for you all that human 
skill can — I have given you a very powerful medi- 
cine, but all medicine is trash — Are you a horse- 
man 1 — you are ! very well ! I will send my 
daughter to you — good morning !" 

Vivian duly kept his appointment with Madame 
Carolina. The chamberlain ushered him into a 
library, where Madame Carolina was seated at 
a large table covered with books and manuscripts. 
Her costume, and her countenance were equally 
engaging. Fascination was ahke in her smile 
and her sash — her bow and her buckle. What a 
delightful pupil to perfect in English pronuncia- 
tion ! Madame pointed, with a pride pleasing to 
Vivian's feelings as an Englishman, to her shelves, 
graced with the most eminent of English writers. 
Madame Carolina was not like one of those ad- 
mirers of English literature which you often meet 
on the Continent: people who think that Bcattie's 
Minstrel is our most modern and fashionable poem ; 
that the Night Thoughts arc the masterpiece of 
our literature ; and that Richardson is our only 



novelist. O, no ! — Madame Carolina would no! 
have disgraced May Fair. She knew Chikle 
Harold by rote, and had even peeped into Don 
Juan. Her admiration of the Edinburgh and 
Quarterly Reviews, was great and similar. To a 
Continental liberal, indeed, even the toryism of the 
Quarterly is philosophy ; and not an under-secre- 
tary ever yet massacred a radical innovator, with 
out giving loose to some sentijnents and sentences, 
which are considered rank treason in the meridian 
of Vienna. 

After some conversation, in which madame 
evinced great eagerness to gain details about the 
persons and manners of our most eminent literary 
characters, she naturally began to speak of the 
literary productions of other countries; and in 
short, ere an hour was passed, Vivian Grey, instead 
of giving a lesson in English pronunciation to the 
consort of the Grand-duke of Reisenberg, found 
himself listening, in an easy chair, and wdth folded 
arms, to a long treatise by that lady de V Esprit de 
Conversation. It was a most brilliant dissertation. 
Her kindness in reading it to him was most parti- 
cular ; nevertheless, for unexpected blessings we 
are not always sufficiently grateful. 

Another hour was consumed by the treatise. 
How she refined ! what unexpected distinctions ! 
what exquisite discrimination of national charac- 
ter! what skilful culogium of her own ! Nothing 
could be more splendid than her elaborate character 
of a repartee ; it would have sufficed for an epic 
poem. At length Madame Carolina ceased de 
VEsprit de Conversation, and Vivian was most 
successful in concealing his weariness, and testify- 
ing his admiration. " The evil is over," thought 
he ; "I may as well gain credit for my good taste." 
The lesson in English pronunciation, however, 
was not yet terminated. Madame was channed 
with our hero's uncommon discrimination and ex- 
traordinary talents. He was the most skilful, and 
the most agreeable critic with whom she had ever 
been acquainted. How invaluable must the opinion 
of such a person be to her, on her great woik ! 
No one had yet seen a line of it ; but there are 
moments wlien we are irresistibly impelled to seek 
a confidant — that confidant was before her. The 
morocco case was unlocked, and the manuscript of 
Haroun Al Raschid revealed to the enraptured eye 
of Vivian Grey. 

" I flatter myself," said Madame Carolina, " that 
this work will create a great sensation ; not only in 
Germany. It abounds, I think, with the most in- 
teresting story, the most engaging incidents, and 
the most animated and effective descriptions. I 
have not, of course, been able to obtain any new 
matter respecthig his sublimity, the caliph. Be- 
tween ourselves, I do not think this is very im- 
portant. As far as I have observed, we have 
matter enough in this world on every possible sub- 
ject already. It is rnanner in which the literature 
of all nations is deficient. It appears to me, that 
the great point for persons of genius now to dipect 
their attention to, is the expansion of matter. 
This I conceive to be the great secret ; and this 
must be effected by the art of picturesque writing. 
For instance, my dear Mr. Grey, I will open the 
Arabian Night's Entertainments, merely for an 
exemplification, at the one hundred and eighty- 
fifth rnght — good ! Let us attend to the following 
passage : — 

" In the reign of the v")alijih Haroun Al Raschid, 



VIVIAN GREY 



17 



•here was at Bagdad a druggist, called Alboussan 
Ebn Thaher, a very rich, handsome man. He had 
more v.dt and politeness than people of his profes- 
sion ordinarily have. His integrity, sincerity, and 
jovial humour, made him beloved and sought after 
by all sorts of people. The caliph, who knew his 
merit, had an entire confidence in him. He had 
so great an esteem for him, that he entrusted him 
with the care to provide his favourite ladies with 
all the things they stood in need of. He chose for 
them their clothes, furniture, and jewels, with ad- 
mirable taste. His good qualities, and the favour 
of the caliph, made the sons of emirs, and other 
officers of the first rank, be always about him. 
His house was the rendezvous of all the nobility 
of the court." 

"What capabilities lurk in this dry passage!" 
exclaimed Madame Carolina ; " I touch it with ray 
pen, and transform it into a chapter. It shall be 
one of those that I will read to you. The descrip- 
tion of Alboussan alone demands ten pages. There 
i^ no doubt that his countenance was oriental. The 
tale saj's that he was handsome : I paint him with 
his eastern eye, his thin arched brow, his fragrant 
beard, his graceful mustachio. The tale says he was 
rich : I have authorities for the costume of men 
of his dignity in contemporary writers. In my 
history, he appears in an upper garment of green 
velvet, and loose trousers of pink satin ; a jewelled 
dagger lies in his golden girdle ; his slippers are 
of the richest embroiderj- ; and he never omits the 
iiatli of roses daily. On this system, which in my 
opinion elicits truth, for by it you are enabled to 
form a conception of the manners of the age, on 
this system I proceed throughout the paragraph. 
Conceive my account of his house being the ' ren- 
dezvous of all the nobility of the court.' What a 
brilliant scene ! what a variety of dress and cha- 
racter ! what splendour ! what luxury ! what mag- 
nificence ! Imagine the detail of the banquet ; 
which, by-the-by, gives me an opportunity of in- 
serting, after the manner of your own Gibbon, ' a 
dissertation on sherbet.' What think you of the 
picturesque writing 1" 

" Admirable !" said Vivian ; " Von Chronicle 
himself—" 

" How can you mention the name of that odious 
man !" almost shrieked Madame Carolina, for- 
getting the dignity of her semi-regal character, in 
tiie jealous feelings of the author. " How can 
you mention him ! A scribbler without a spark, 
not only of genius, but even of common inven- 
tion. A miserable fellow, who seems to do nothing 
but clothe and amplify, in his own fantastic style, 
the details of a parcel of old chronicles !" 

Madame's indignation reminded Vivian of a 
very true, but rather vulgar proverb of his own 
country ; and he extricated himself from his very 
awkward situation, with a dexterity worthy of his 
former years. 

" Von Chronicle himself," said Vivian, " Von 
Chronicle himself, as I was going to observe, will 
be the most mortified of all on the appearance of 
your work. He cannot l5e so Winded by self-con- 
ceit, as to fail to observe that your history is a 
thousand times more interesting than his fiction. 
Ah ! Madame Carolina, if you can thus spread 
enchantment over the hitherto weary page of 
history, what must be vour work of imagina- 
•ion !'"' 

23 



CHAPTER V. 

Although brought up wita due detestation of 
the Mcthuan treaty, Vivian I y no means disap- 
proved of Dr. von Spittergen's remedy. The wine 
was good and very old ; for, not being a very 
popular liquor with any other European nation, 
except ourselves, the Porto-Porto had been suffered 
to ripen under the cobv.'ebs of half a century, in 
the ample cellar of the grand hotel of the Four 
Nations, at Reisenberg. As Vivian was hesitating 
whether he should repeat the dose, or join the 
court-dinner, Essper George came into the room. 

"Please your highness, here is a lady _ who 
wants you !" 

" A lady ! — who can she be T" 

" She did not give her name, but wishes to 
speak to you." 

" Ask her to come up." 

" I have, your highness ; but she is on horse- 
back, and refused." 

" What kind of person is she 1" 

" 0," drawled out Essper, " she is not as tall as 
a horscguard, and yet might be mistaken for a 
church-steeple when there was a cloud over the 
moon ; she is not as stout as Master Rodolph, and 
y^et she would hardly blow away when the wind 
was down." 

The fiir horsewoman must not, however, be 
kept waiting, even if she were as mysterious as an 
unlaid ghost, or a clerk in a public office ; and 
consequently, Vivian speedily made his bow to his 
interesting visitant. 

Miss Melinda von Spittergen, for the amazon 
was no other than the dread doctor's fair daughter, 
was full six feet high, thin, and large-boned; her 
red curly hair was cut very short behind ; yet, in 
spite of this, and her high-boned cheeks, her fine 
florid complexion, blue eyes, small mouth, and 
regular white teeth, altogether made up a counte- 
nance which was prepossessing. She was mounted 
on a very beautiful white horse, which never ceased 
pawing the ground the wtiole time that it stood 
before the hotel ; and she was dressed in a riding- 
habit of blue and silver, with buttons as large as 
Spanish dollars. As the construction of riding- 
habits is a subject generally interesting to English 
women, let me say, that Miss von Spittergen's was 
of a very full make, with a verj' long waist, and a 
very high collar. A pink cravat almost as effec- 
tively contrasted with the colour of her dress, as 
her white hat and feathers. She sat on her spi- 
rited steed with the nonchalance of a perfect horse- 
woman ; and there was evidently no doubt, that, 
had it been necessary, she could have used with 
becoming spirit her long-lashed riding-whip; the 
handle of which, I should not omit to mention, 
was formed of a fawn's foot, graced by a silver 
shoe. 

" Good morning, sir !" said Miss von Spittergen, 
as Vivian advanced. "My father hopes to have 
the pleasure of your company at dinnei to-day. A 
ride is the verj- best thing he can presciibe for 
you ; and if you will order your horse, we will be 
off immediately." 

" Dr. von Spittergen is ver^' kind !" said Vi- 
vian, quite confused — quite wonder-struck. 

"O! not at all; my father is always most 
happv to sec his friends." 

" i)r. von Spittergen is very lund," again stam 



178 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



mered out our hero , " but I fear an unfortunate 
cng-agcmcnt — an — " 

" I must take no refusal," said Miss von Spitter- 
gen, smiling : " a physician's commands are pe- 
remptory. You can have no engagement which 
may not be broken ; for you should not have made 
one without his permission. He expects you at 
dinner, and to stay the night. Your bed is pre- 
pared." 

" Really, Dr. von Spittergen is very kind — but — 
quite asliamed — so much trouble — so — " 

" ! not i'-t all. If it were trouble, of course, 
we should not insist on that which would be alike 
disagi-eeable to our friends and to ourselves. Come, 
Order your horse !" 

" Really I cannot withstand," said Vivian, a 
little more collected, " what is at the same time an 
invitation and a command. It gives me equal 
pleasure both to accept and to obey." 

" I am very happy that I have not failed in my 
embassy," said Miss von Spittergen. " We will 
then be off: time presses. Marcus Aurelius flung 
a shoe on the road, and lost me half an hour, and 
I wish you to see a little of the country before 
dinner." 

" I will detain you not five minutes ; but will 
you not dismount and walk up stairs till my horse 
is ready V 

" No : if I dismount, I must stand at his head," 
said Miss von Spittergen, pointing to her horse ; 
" I canncFc trust Marcus Aurehus to any strange 
groom." 

" Well, then, you will excuse me for a moment. 
I am half engaged at the court-dinner ; and I must 
scribble a line to his excellency the grand-marshal. 
You will excuse me]" 

" Most assuredly ! but give them directions about 
your horse at once." 

In ten minutes' time, Vivian and Miss Melinda 
von Spittergen had left the hotel of the Four Na- 
tions. They cantered through the public gardens, 
and quitted the city through a new gate, which 
may truly be described as commemorative of the 
triumph of the Reiscnberg troops during the late 
war. This arch was commenced by Napoleon, 
after the arrangement of the Confederation of the 
Rhine. It was not finished, when the event of tlie 
battle of Leipsic virtually dissolved thatbody. By 
skilfully placing the most personal bas-reliefs in the 
very highest and obscurest parts of the elevation, 
and by adroitly converting the countenances in 
those already placed into the more successful 
heads of the allied sovereigns, the triumphal arch of 
the Emperor Napoleon finally commemorated his 
defeat ; and, at this moment, it bears the dignified 
title of the Gate of tiie Allies. Through this 
portal, gayly cantered Miss Melinda von Spittergen 
and Mr. Vivian Grey. 

" This road," said the lady, " leads to our house ; 
but half an hour would carry us there, and from so 
short a ride you cannot expect any very great bene- 
fit ; therefore we will make a round, and as there 
is no cross-road nigh, follow me," So saying. Miss 
von Spittergen cleared a hedge, with an air which, 
had it been witnessed by certain gentlemen whom 
I could mention, would have caused her inunedi- 
ately to be elected an honourable member of the 
Melton, Vivian Grey followed. Miss von Spit- 
tergen, touching Marcus Aurelius with a silver 
spur, dashed over a field cf stubble. Max was not 



to be beat, even by Marcus Anrelius ! and hi» 
master consequently kept by the lady's side. An- 
other leap, and another field, and then a gate — all 
at a full gallop. An extensive plain succeeded, 
over which Miss Melinda and Vivian scudded fo. 
an hour whhout speaking, like Faust and Mephis 
topheles on the enchanted steeds. The plain is 
passed, and a downhill gallop over most rugged 
and broken ground, proved at the same time the 
sure-footedness of the horses, the courage of Miss 
von Spittergen, and the gallantry of Vivian Grey. 
At the bottom of the hill they found themselves 
in marsh ground, and the next turn revealed to 
them a river: the stream was broad and strong, 
and looked deep. 

" Come on !" said Miss, von Spittergen, turning 
round. 

" Are wo obliged to cross this river 1" asked 
Vivian. " Is there no bridge — no ferry 1" 

" Bridge or ferry !" said Miss von Spittergen, 
laughing ; " what do you want with a bridge or 
ferry ] Follow me, if you please. We'll soon 
cure this ' little cold' of yours !" So saying. Miss 
von Spittergen pulled up Marcus Aurelius, turned 
her knees over his neck, and then tucking her 
habit several times round them, so that no part of 
it hung lower than her horse's mane, she cracked 
her whip with great spirit, skilfully lai~hed the Ro- 
man emperor on the ham, and almost before Vivian 
had observed what she was doing, Marcus Aurelius 
and Miss Melinda von Spittergen were buffeting 
the boisterous waves. To be outdone by a wo- 
man ! — impossible ! — and so Vivian Grey, elevating 
his legs as much as he possibly could, and throw- 
ing his stirrups over his saddle, dashed into the 
stream. It was a tight business ; and certainly, 
had not the summer been extremely dry, the'river 
would not have been fordable. As it was, after 
much putTmg, and panting, and stiTiggling, the lady 
and gentleman found themselves on the opposite 
bank. They had now to ascend a while, for the 
stream which they had just forded watered a valley. 
The road being very steep, and the horses being 
rather pressed by their passage. Miss von Spitter- 
gen, to Vivian's great relief, did not immediately 
start off at full gallop ; and consequently her com- 
panion, who actually had not yet had an opportu- 
nity of conversing with her, seized the present one 
to compliment her on her horsemanship. 

" A most dehghtful rmi !" continued Vivian :— 
" I trust it will not fatigue you." 

"Why should it?" said Miss voji Spittergen, 
smiling her surprise at his apprehensions. " What 
then ! — I suppose you think, because I chance to 
wear a riding-habit instead of a fiock-coat, that I 
am to sink luider the etfects of half an hour's can- 
ter. I know that is your regular Enghsh creed." 

"No, indeed!" said Vivian — 'but such exer- 
tions as clearing hedges, and fording rivers !" 

" Clearing hedges I fording rivers I you have 
gone over nothing tliis morning which need have 
prevented you sleeping on your horse's back. I see 
you are not prepared for German cross-roads; a 
little amble in the park,- in tlie morning, and a 
dance with a fainting fiiir one for t\vo or three 
hours in the evening, furnish, I suppose, your ideas 
of fatigue. Now if I were to pass such a day, 1 
should die at the end of it." 

" Really, you are shockingly severe ;" said Vi- 
vian, in a deprecating tone. " One would tliink that 



VIVIAN GREY. 



179 



I was Emilius von Aslingen himself, by your de- 
scription ofrny life. I had hoped that my prowess 
this morning- would have saved nie from such a 
reputation ; but as I now learn that these feats 
count for nothing, I confess that I begin to tremble." 

" I was not dreaming of casting the least impu- 
tation on you," rejoined Miss von Spittergen ; " I 
was merely undeceiving you as regarded myself. 
If you think that any accidental exhilaration of 
spirits has produced this exertion, and that I am 
consequently to be a stupid, sleepy companion for 
the rest of the day, your alarm will cease, when I 
inform you that I have not this morning taken one- 
fourth of my usual exercise ; and that even if I 
were ever so tired, I should be immediately re- 
freshed by half an hour's diving in our great bath. 
But if you were to tighten me up like one of your 
native belles, and set me gliding through a quad- 
rille in a hot room, I should expire on the spot. 
Now, as you look either surprised or incredulous, 
remember I have proved to you that I can ride ; 
now see that I am prepared to swim." And taking 
off her hat. Miss von Spittergen exhibited to her 
companion her close cut hair, in a state as natu- 
rally dishevelled as his own. 

" Indeed your proof is unnecessary!' said Vi- 
vian ; " I admire, but do not doubt. Believe me that 
I did not remonstrate with you from any selfish 
anticipation for the evening ; but from an habitual 
apprehension for the natural fragility of the sex." 

" The natural fragility of the sex I" exclaimed 
Miss von Spittergen, laughing. " Good heavens, 
Mr. Grey, what a very pretty apprehension ! I have 
a vast mind, as a reward for your consideration, 
that you should listen to a lecture from my father 
to-night, on the natural powers of the sex. He will 
. tell you, what I am sure is very true — that your 
creed is a gallant apology for idleness; and vain as 
that which it attempts to excuse. Depend upon it, 
that if woman choose to put forth her energies, slic 
will equal you lords of the universe, much as you 
may think of yourselves !" 

" I am the last man in the world to dispute wo- 
man's superiority on any point," rejoined Vivian, 
"except as to that physical power which is no 
proof of excellence ; it being an attribute we can 
neither acquire nor command, and one in which 
even the brutes surpass us. For all those qualities 
of mind which distinguish — " 

" Mercy ! Mr. Grey," exclaimed Miss von Spit- 
tergen, " you are running headlong into metapliy- 
sics, which always distract me. I am not a meta- 
physician, but a naturalist ; and I argue from the 
experience of facts, that tlie natural power of wo- 
man is equal to the natural power of man, bodily 
'and mental ; and that the difference supposed to 
exist, docs not arise from want of capability, but 
from want of exercise — just as we ridiculously 
imagine that the right haiid is stronger and more 
useful than the left, and that the feet are given to 
us only to walk with. I can fire a musket, and hit 
my mark as surely with the one hand as with the 
other; and I know a man who writes beautifully, 
and can adjust the nicest piece of mechanism with 
his feet, because, being born without arms, he has 
used the substitute which nature has given him. 
But our argument and our ride must now end to- 
gether ; for see ! we are at home, and my father is 
just arriving before us." 

Miss von Spittergen pointed through a rising 
plantation to an old-fashioned house, many rooms 



in which would have been consigned to utter ob- 
scurity, had it not been for the light which stream- 
ed through a small heart cut in the upper part of 
their heavy oak window-shutters. The house stood 
on a green, which was surrounded by a wall not 
more than two feet high ; and to the left, barns, 
stables, stacks, and piles of wood presented the ap- 
pearance of a well-ordered farm. Miss von Spit 
tcrgen and Vivian crossed a dike from the plaiita 
tion, and immediately passing through a largt 
white W'Ooden gate, with two hideous griffins grin- 
ning on the top of it, Marcus Aurelitis dashed up 
to the stable door, followed by Max. They were 
instantly saluted by an immense Newfoundland, 
whose joyous bark was answered by a responsive 
neigh from his companion of the stable; and in an 
instant, Triton was scrambling up Marcus Aure- 
lius, for the pleasure of biting Miss von Spittergen's 
silver buttons, and licking her face with his great 
red tongue. 

"Down — down, Triton !" 

Triton obeyed very unwillingly, but turning 
round, felt himself greatly consoled for his rebutf, 
by seeing that he had to welcome a visiter. He 
flew up at Max's neck. The princely pet, unused 
to such rude embraces, showed certain signs of ex- 
clusiveness, which made Vivian exercise his whip 
across master Triton's back ; who, in his turn, was 
equally irate at this unusual and ungrateful recep- 
tion of his caresses. The dog slujik from under 
Viviati's lash, and springing up behind Max, made 
him give a sudden and violent kick, which sent 
Vivian, unprepared as ho was, head foremost into 
some low, thick bushes of box, which had been 
[lianted to screen a pig-sty. It was fortunate for 
him that he did not make an unexpected appear- 
ance in the abode of Miss von Spittergen's favourite 
Columbina — a Chinese lady-pig, with a young 
family of delicate daughters, all so exquisitely high- 
bred, that they were almost without heads, bones, 
or feet. Columbina's maternal fears migiit have 
inflicted on Vivian some wounds, which he escape<l 
receiving in the yielding box — from which, indeed, 
he most quickly extricated himself — animated in 
his rapid exertions to regain the dignified perpen- 
dicular by the loud and unrestrained laughter of 
Miss von Spittergen, who saw that he had not re- 
ceived the slightest injury, and was therefore most 
unmercifully mirthful. 

" Well, Mr. Grey ! my father need not have been 
afraid of your inertness. I never met with a finer 
instance of agility. It is fortunate that I did not 
take Triton out with me, according to my usual 
custom, if this he a specimen of the result of your 
companionship. How came you to jump ofTyour 
horse in such a hurry 1 You should have given 
Max a lesson, instead of leaving him to caper about 
by himself." 

" How came I to jump ofiT!" said Vivian; "in 
truth. Max was not courteous enough to offer me 
an alternative ; but we must remember that he is 
not yet used to your treatment, and excuse a little 
ill-humour." 

A vis-a-vis drove up to the door, just as Miss 
von Spittergen and Vivian were about to enter. 
They were met on the broad flight of steps by a 
veiy old white-headed domestic, who bowed low as 
they passed them, to open the carriage door for his 
master. The door was opened, but no Dr. von Spit- 
tergen alighted. The old valet gently closed it again, 
but remained standing by the side of the veliiclc. 



180 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Well, Francis," said Miss von Spittergen ; 1 does not allow any of us to sleep under eider 
" why have you shut the door 1" down. He has his peculiarities, and there's no 

" Please you, my young- lady," said the venera- getting him out of an old way. This bottle is rose- 
ble attendant; "my master is dozing . is it your j water, sir, for your face ; and this is eau de Co- 



pleasure that I should try to wake himl" 

" Asleep, is he ? oh ! I'll wake him myself — Sir ! 
here is Mr. Grey, our visiter ; will not you come 
into the house 1" 

" Ah ! ah ! true ! which is he ? how much docs 
he weigh 1 more than mel" asked the good doctor, 
waking, his morning doze having presented to him 
an image, of which he was always either thinking 
or dreaming — a man larger than himself This 
character. Dr. von Spittergen had not yet been so 
fortunate as to meet ; though his first inquiry, on 
tiie mention of any stranger's name, invariably 
was, " how much does he weigh 1" 

Miss von Spittergen, perfectly aware that her 
father was not yet quite awake, only laughed at 
his question, and instead of replying to it, asked 
another. 

" Whom have you seen to-day, sir — and what 
news have you brought us 



logne of my own making. There is a bell, sir. I 
wish you good day !" 

Although Vivian's toilet was far from being a 
complicated one, a considerable time elapsed be- 
fore it was completed. Indeed, he found some dif- 
ficulty, even in taking off his coat ; for every 
exertion of his arms set him sliding a yard or two 
on the highly polished floor, and in five minutes he 
had unwittingly described all the complicated 
figures of a first-rate skater. He first flew up 
against a large embroidered fire-screen, which the 
delicate fingers of some female Von Spittergen 
had, ages ago, covered with carnations and ranun- 
culuses ; and then whirling through the mazes of 
a figure of eight, he nearly drove his elbow through 
a small pane of the heavy-framed window. A 
semi-circle brought him in contact with the foot of 
his low bed, from which he hounded off at a right 
angle, and found himself seated in a high-backed, 



News ! why, I have been in a confovmded pas- carved oaken chair. Here, while he sat forming 



sion ; perhaps that is no news." 

" What is all this about, sir? who has been dis- 
obeying orders 1" 

" If you ask twenty questions at the same time, 
I should like to know how I am to answer them ; 
let me out !" 

The doctor descended, and leaning on tlie arm 
of his daughter, and followed by Vivian, he entered 
the house ; muttering the whole way without ceas- 
ing, much after the following fashion. 

" My mind's made up. I have said it before — 
most people make a great talk, and it ends in no- 
thing — that's not my way — when I say a thing, I 
do it. Melinda ! why haven't you gathered the 
seed of that geranium ■? it won't be worth a kreu- 
zer. How do you feel after your ride, Mr. Grey ? 
Don't both speak at the same time — I can't bear 
such a Babel in my ears— not that I believe there entered the dining-room, " have you been asleep 



plans for reaching the so often missed toilet-tahle, 
the sound of the dinner-bell made him desperate ; 
and thinking that he could best secure his steps by 
walking fearlessly over the floor, he made a coura- 
geous advance, which ended in upsetting Mistress 
Theresa's bow-pot. Scarcely flattering himself 
that the good lady would suspect a favourite eat of 
the injur}' done to her toilet garniture, Vivian, in 
a precipitate retreat, forgot the fatal step, of which 
he had been previously warned, and measured his 
length in the corridor. 



CHAPTER XI. 
" Wei-l, Mr. Grey," said the doctor, as Vivian 



ever was such a thing ! Well, sir ! you haven't 
told me how you are, though — glad to go to your 
room, I suppose 1 But, I say, Melinda — in spite 
of all I have said to tlie grand-duke, here's Ma- 
dame Carolina ill again — that is, I don't think 
there's any thing the matter with her — some whim- 
v/ham ! though if she were to die, I shouldn't 
much wonder, breathing the same air over and 
over again every night, smothered up in that state- 
bed. I told the grand-duke this morning, for the 
hundredth time, that bed-curtains were the origin 
of every disease, and that if he doesn't order away 
those heavy hangings, he may find a court physi- 
cian where he can. Where's Theresa, that she 
doesn't come to show Mr. Grey his room 1 He's 
tired to death, I dare say ; just as I said — nothing 
of him ! no stamina ! Pray, sir, what sort of man 
was your father 1 how much did he weigh ?" 

" This way, sir, if you please," said a little thin 
old woman, in a starched ruff and cap, as she led 
Vivian down a long passage. " Mind the step, sir, 
if you please ; these old houses are full of them ; 
master often talks of levelling them, but it's all 
talk with him, sir. I have lived in this house fifty 
years without seeing any alteration. This is your 
room, sir ; you will remember it by the great bow- 
pot which I have put beside your toilet table. I 
don't know whether you'll find the bed too high at 
the head, sir , we have no curtains, and master 



after your ride, or has Mistress Theresa, according 
to her usual custom, been showing you the family _ 
curiosities 1" 

" Neither the one nor the other, doctor; but I 
was delayed in my room." 

" Ah ! I don't want any explanation. I hate 
explanations. What sort of an appetite have you 
got r' 

"Ola very good one ; and I have no doubt 
that I shall do full justice to — " 

" Ah ! you need not tell me what you are going 
to do. Come, sit down to the table. Melinda, 
give me some soup — and, Mr. Grey, I'll thank you 
for an outside slice of that beef in it — and, Francis, 
bring me some sour krout, and those stewed apri- 
cots from the side table." 

While Miss von Spittergen was helping Vivian, 
the doctor proceeded to chop and mash up all these 
contrasting viands in his large soup plate. Four 
spoonfuls emptied it, before his guest had tasted a 
mouthful ; for, though in violation of all etiquette, 
Vivian could not take his eyes off the owner of the 
appetite. His astonishment did not escape notice. 

" What are you looking at ?" asked the doctor, 
gruffly. "You had better eat your own dinner 
than stare at me." 

" I beg pardon, but — " 

"Ah! don't beg pardon. I hate apologies. 

A^ivian, much confused, turned round to hu 



VIVIAN GRE\ 



181 



fairer neighbour ; and, lo his horror, found that 
she was consuming her dinner after the same 
fashion, though it must be confessed, not with equal 
rapidity of execution. 

"You see your dinner, Mr. Grey," said Miss 
von Spittergen. " We never consider any one a 
slrannrer. Shall I give you some more soup 1" 

" More soup I what, is he going to dine off sovip 1 
Why don't you give him some beef, and cream, 
and kid, and custard ? He must eat." 

" Yes, doctor, I thank you ; I will taste all your 
good dishes — but not all at once." 

" Pish ! what should you know about it ! You 
eat your dinner on a wrong priiTfciple, or rather on 
no principle at all. Take all that you want on 
your plate at once. I suppose, if you were set 
down to a venison pasty, you would eat the flour 
and water, and butter and balls, and eggs and truf- 
fles, and wine and spices, and fat and flesh, all se- 
parately ! that's your notion of feeding, is it ] 
What are you laughing atl" 

"Do you, then, recommend, doctor — " 

" Recommend ! I recommend nothing I what's 
the use of recommending 1 people never attend." 

"But I will attend, doctor," said Vivian. "Re- 
member, I am already an obedient patient ; there- 
fore, I believe I shall trouble you. Miss von Spitter- 
gen, in the first place, for a small slice of that 
kid—" 

" Couldn't take any thing worse ! no nourish- 
ment in it ! How comes it here, Melindal" 

" Well, then, doctor, I'll follow your example, 
and take some of the beef." 

" Ah ! you should have begun with it at once : 
lietter late than never, though. You have been 
badly managed, I see that! Stay with us a month; 
■we'll get you round. Now, you must have some 
of your physic ! Francis, give Mr. Grey the 
wine. " 

" Perhaps I may have the honour of taking a 
glass with you. Miss von Spittergen ?'' asked V^ivian. 

" Taking a glass with her ! what's the matter 
with her, that she is to take wine 1" 

" Possibly you are not aware, Mr. Grey," said 
Miss von Spittergen, " that in this house we never 
take wine except as a medicine ; let me join you 
in my usual beverage." 

" A glass of filtered water !" growled the doctor ; 
" if you are a wise man, you'll make that your 
drink ; that is, as soon as we have made something 
of you." 

" Filtered water !" exclaimed Vivian with sur- 
prise. 

" Yes, filtered water ! who the deuse drinks wa- 
ter without filtering it 1 I suppose you are f )nd 
of fiittening yourself with the scum of eels, vipers, 
lizards, newts, tadpoles, frogs, rats, and all other 
filth, animal and vegetable." 

" If water contain all these monsters and hor- 
rors," said Vivian laughing, " I should have thought 
that it would have been the favourite beverage of 
your system, doctor. Is it not correct, then, to 
drink all things at once, as well as eat them ? 
But surely," continued Vivian " a glass of spring 
water must be free from all these disgusting appur- 
tenances." 

" Pish ! it shows how much you know about 
the matter. Did you ever see a drop of water 
throi igh a microscope 1 — Yon havn't, eh 1 — I 
thought not. Melinda, after dinner show him the 
microscope. We'll amuse you as well as we can." 



Dinner being over, the doctor retired to his study, 
and Miss von Spittergen and Vivian agreed to take 
a stroll. 

"Now, Mr. Grey," said the lady, "you must 
know that I am a great walker. Some dislike mov- 
ing after dinner ; but if that be not your case, I 
propose taking you my usual round : and first of 
all, as I see Peter coming out of the stable, I wish 
to say a word to him about Marcus Aurelius." 
Miss von S[)ittergen proceeded to give directions 
for all her horse's shoes to be taken oif over-night, 
and his frogs looked to in the morning. " Now," 
continued .she, " I must see how they go on with 
their wood stacking. We have lately had a fall 
of beech-wood ; and although all of us have been 
busily picking and splitting for the last week, we 
have not yet finished. It is very important that 
the stacks should be well piled. Last year, when 
I was ab.sent, and trusted the business to our 
neighbour's steward, we had more than half our 
stock spoiled by the rains, and a great quantity 
besides fell over. I admire nothing more than a 
well-stacked pile of wood. It is always a sign of 
good management."' 

"I am ashamed to own," said Vivian, "how 
ignorant I am upon all these points; though I 
a.ssure you I do not the less admire your perfect 
acquaintance with the subject. To me, it is equally 
new and delightful to see a lady so completely 
interesting herself in her domestic economy." 

"There is little merit in my exertions;" said 
Miss von Spittergen. "Although I am, at the 
present moment, extremely fond of the life I lead, 
necessity, not choice, first made me mistress of 
these details. Their acquisition is, at least, a proof 
of the truth of my observations this morning; 
though, I suppose, according to your theory," con- 
tinued Miss von Spittergen, smiling; "to direct a 
fall of wood, or the thatching of a granary, which 
I must superintend to-morrow morning, are not 
very meritorious actions ; I being, in a great 
measure, enabled to interfere in such affairs, from 
the possession of that unfortunate physical strength, 
which, if you remember, Mr. Grey, is no proof of 
excellence." 

The walk lasted some hours ; there was much 
done — much said. The fields, the meadows, the 
orchards, the woods, all demanded some care, and 
received some superintendence. Many men were 
to be instructed, and ordered, and directed. One 
field was to lie fallow, another to be sown with 
different seed. The cattle were to change their 
meadows. Some woods were to be counted, some 
hills to be planted. On all these affairs, and on all 
these subjects, Miss von Spittergen was the direct- 
ing head. No one applied to her, and returned 
unsatisfied : every one received a ready answer. 
Yet with all these calls upon her attention and her 
judgment, she did not fail to prove a most interest- 
ing companion. Her general conversation showed 
that her mind was highly cuhlvated and accom- 
plished. She also detaded to Vivian, as passing 
objects gave rise to the subject, the various plans 
of her father and herself for the amelioration of 
the condition of their tenants, which they wished 
principally to bring about by extricating them from 
the harassing restraints of the old feudal system,, 
injurious alike to the landlord and the tenant. 
Her admiration of nature also was sincere, and her 
taste refined. As they walked alone, she called her 
companion's attention to any striking combinatiop 



183 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



and effect — a peep at the distant country, through 
an opening in a deep wood — the light of the de- 
cHning sun, seen through the trunks of a grove of 
beeches — a waterfall caused hy a strong brook 
dashing over some sand rocks, and cooling the 
boughs of the white-rind willows. Although 
Vivian, in the latter years of his life, had actually 
lived in a forest, it seemed that he had gained more 
information on his much-loved trees in a few hours' 
walk with Miss von Spittergen. than he had during 
the whole time that he was roaming about Heidel- 
burg. He was now strongly reminded of the 
great difference between revery and observation. 
He remembered sitting for hours with his eyes 
fixed upon a ti'ee, of whose nature he now found 
himself utterly ignorant; for Miss von Spittcrgen 
spoke of the physiology of trees ; and Vivian was 
ashamed when he confessed his want of knowledge. 
While he expressed his wonder and admiration of 
much that she said, she promised that in the even- 
ing, the microscope should elucidate and reveal 
more. The air was mild and sweet — the exercise 
exhilarating — conversation never flagged. Without 
annoying such a woman with unmeaning com- 
pliments, Vivian properly evinced his adndralion 
of Miss von Spittergen's accomplishments ; and 
delicately conveyed to her his sincere declarations 
that, for a long time, he had not passed a day so 
agreeably, and ftith such satisfaction. 

"I told you continued Miss von Spittcrgen, 
"that necessity, not choice, first induced me to 
adopt a mode of life, which now has for me the 
greatest charms. I parsed my earliest years witli 
an uncle, an old baron, in a Gothic castle. A 
library full of romances soon convinced me that I 
was born to be a heroine, and that unless I were a 
heroine life had no delight. For the common- 
place realities of life I entertained a thorough dis- 
gust : I rode all day through my uncle's park and 
forests, in quest of a hero for the romance which I 
formed in my nightly reveries. I lived in a world 
of my own creation ; I conversed with no one. 
My mind was constantly occupied with an impos- 
sible idea. Passing my time thus, I formed no 
conception of the existence of duties. My fellow- 
creatures, if I thought of them at all, were merely 
the instruments by whose agency I was to pass 
my life in a constant state of excitement. Very 
short time elapsed before I was convinced that I 
was a peculiar being, and was ordained to occasion 
some singular revolution. I expected, evciy day, 
the crisis of my fate. About this time my dear 
and only brother died in battle ; and my mother, 
overcome by the loss, followed him in a few weeks 
to the grave. ?vly desolate parent naw demanded 
from my uncle his only remaining child. I left 
the castle with no reluctance, for I was firmly 
convinced that my career was now to begin. The 
appearance of my father, whom I had seen regu- 
larly every year, was the first shock to my romance. 
He was so overwhelmed by his misery, that his 
l»*rrible grief called forth in me those natural sen- 
sations of the existence of which I v^'as ignorant. 
Vou must know, Mr. Grey," continued Miss von 
Spittcrgen, with a smile, " that I am the most de- 
cided enemy of long stories, and therefore I shall 
cut my own very short. The result of my return 
to my home is evident to you. To be the con- 
soler, and then the confidant, and then the assistant 
of my father, were quick decrees of my destiny. 
A mind naturally ardent and enthusiastic, was 



now, I am sure, well airected ; and has been, I 
trust, well employed. To my belove/1 and highly 
gifted parent, I have endeavoured to be both wife, 
and son, and daughter. B3' my exertions, tlie loss 
of his dear connections has not disarranged the 
accustomed tenour of his life ; nor has his mind 
been troubled by duties, for which his teiiaper and 
education have completely unfitted him. Under a 
rough exterior, he conceals the most generous and 
beneficent of dispositions ; and in spite of his 
([uaint humour, you cannot live many days fith 
him without discovering the cultivation of his j".- 
tellect. I need not add that my romance wi-i 
quickly dissipated, and my father has become t* 
me the hero of my reality." 

Miss von Spittcrgen entered the house, ti 
arrange her dress for the evening. Yivian re 
mained on the terrace. The red autumnal sur 
had just sunk over an immense extent of cham- 
paign country. The evening mists from the ruddy 
river were already ascending, and the towers and 
steeples of a neighbouring city rose black against 
the shining sky. Sunset is the time when memory 
is most keen ; and as Vivian Grey sat on the 
marble wall, gazing on the wide landscape, his 
sorrowing mind was not inactive. Never, until 
this moment, had he felt how precious, how inva- 
luable were the possession and performance of a 
duty ! The simple tale of his late companion had 
roused a thousand thoughts. His early, his insane 
career, flitted across his mind. He would have 
stifled the remembrance with a sigh ; but man is 
the slave of memory. He, too, had thought him- 
self a peculiar creature : he, too, had lived in a 
w orld of his own creation : he, too, had sacrificed 
himself to an idea : he, too, had looked upon his 
fellow-creatures as the puppets of his will. Would 
that his reveries had been as harmless as this 
maiden's ! Would that he could compensate for 
his errors, and forget his follies in a life of activity., 
of usefulness, of beneficence ! To the calm satisfac- 
tion and equal tenour of such a life, why had he mad- 
ly preferred the wearing anxiety, the consuming 
care, the eternal vigilance, the constant contrivance, 
the agonizing suspense, the distracting vicissitudes 
of his own career? Alas ! it is our nature to sicken, 
from our birth, after some object of unattainable 
felicity — to struggle through the freshest years of 
our life in an insane pursuit after some indefmite 
good, which does not even exist ! But sure and 
quick is the dark hour which cools our doting 
frenzy in the frigid waves of the ocean of oblivion ' 
We dream of immortality until we die. Ambition ! 
at thy proud and fatal altar we whisper the secrets 
of our mighty thoughts, and breathe the aspira- 
tio'.is of our inexpressible desires. A clouded 
flame licks up the offering of our ruined souls, and 
the sacrifice vanishes in the sable smoke of death. 

But where are his thoughts wandering T Had 
he forgotten that day of darkest despair 1 There 
had that happened to him which had happened to 
no other man. In the conflict of his emotions he 
ceased to reason. This moment he believed him- 
self the slave of destiny, and the next, the sport 
of chance. Sad, and serious, and wavering, 
Vivian entered the house, uncertain of every thing 
except his miser)'. 

He found Dr. von Spittergen and his agreeable 
daughter at the tea-table. 

" Well, Mr. Grey," said the doctor, "which do 
you prefer 7 the Fic/ii-tsiaa or the Beii-tsiua ?" 



VIVIAN GREY. 



183 



' Really, sir, T am almost afraid to avow, that I 
am perfectly ignorant of what you are talking 
about." 

" Perfectly ignorant of what I am talking about ! 
Why, Melinda, here is Mr. Grey drinking tea 
every day of his life, and docs not know the proper 
name of it, even when he hears it mentioned ; and 
he belongs to a tea-drinking nation, too !" 

" Why, my good sir, I know the diflerence be- 
tween black and green tea." 

" How do you know that there is a difference 1 
Linna;us says there is : Thunberg says there is 
not. If you can decide, pray instruct us." 

'• I believe," said Vivian, " there in no nation 
which drinks more tea, and knows less of its nature 
and culture, than the English. We are always 
satisfied to take what is given us for black or 
green." 

" You are not so easy to be dealt with about 
wine though," said the doctor, laughing: "merely 
to be aware of the difference between red and 
white wine is, I imagine, information not suffi- 
ciently definite to tempt an Englishman to taste 
it; and why should you be less particular about 
tea, of which you receive in your country eight or 
nine different kinds 1 I suppose you are so indif- 
ferent about it, because you drink it twice a-day, 
and wine only once! Ho! ho-o-o-o !" This 
was the learned doctor's laugh : something like 
the hoot of a facetious owl. 

" Well, my dear father," said Miss von Spitter- 
gen, " the be^t way to teach Mr. Grey the differ- 
ence will be, to give him a basin of your curious 
Ficki-tsiua." 

" Yes ; and while you make it, I'll tell him 
what it means. As society is divided into three 
classes," continued the doctor, " so there are three 
different gatherings of tea, suited to the quality of 
each. I suppose you know that tea is the leaf of 
a shrub ? The first gathering commences in the 
beginning of March, when the leaves are small and 
tender, not more than four days' growth. This 
kind you are going to drink — the Ficki-tsiaa, or 
imperial, kept for the court and people of quality. 
This was given to me by' the young Prince of 
Orange, who sickened at our court. No wonder ! 
He thought I had saved his life : I only sent him 
home. The second gathering takes place in the 
beginning of April. The leaves are then pretty 
well grown. This they call Too-fsiaa : this infu- 
sion is good enough for the middling classes. And 
in June, all the leaves which have n®t been 
stripped off for their betters, get tough and pun- 
gent, and are left for the mob, and this they call 
Ben-tsiaa ,- and I think it is the best of all. We 
always drink it — don't we, Melinda 1" 

Vivian, though very much amused by the doc- 
tor's lecture, could not help watching his fair 
daughter, whose novel method of infusing this very 
rare beverage not a little surprised him. Miss von 
Spittergen first filled a cup with boiling water, and 
then threw into it a tea-s[ioonful of powder, which 
she took out of a small porcelain vase. 8he stirred 
the powder in the water until the liquid began to 
foam : then she offered the cup to Vivian. 

"Drink it off!" said the doctor; "and let us 
hear how you like Jicki-fsiart." 

" But are not all these particles to settle first 1" 
asked Vivian, who was rather fearful of the boiling 
draught. 

" I supposei, ' said the doctor, " you let all your 



vegetables settle in your soup, before your delicacy 
can venture to sip it. Drink it off, man ! Perhaps 
you think it is like that confounded stuff made iu 
England, called bohea, which deposits in every cup 
a mash of sloe-leaves!" 

The doctor drank plentifully of his favourite 
beii-tsiaa, and praised the shrub in proportion to 
his enjoyment. He compared it with wine, on 
which latter beverage he wreaked his spleen without 
mercy, enumerating all the evils which the Im- 
moderate use of fermented liquors produces ; wiiile 
tea, on the contrary, he declared would contribute 
more to the sobriety of a nation, than the severest 
laws, the most eloquent sermons, or the best moral 
treatises. It was a perfect antidote to intemperance. 
The man who relishes tea, seldom wants wine. 

Vivian reminded Miss von Spittergen of her 
promise about the microscope and the trees ; and in 
a few minutes they were busily examining a cutting 
of ash. She first pointed out to him the bark, and 
described its uses ; and then explained the sap- 
vessels, the Ij'mph-ducts. tlie great and lesser air- 
vessels, the pith, and the true wood. She also 
pointed out the annual rings which mark the age 
of the tree, and showed likewise a dissected leaf, 
exhibiting the nerves branching out into innumer- 
able small threads ; and explained to him how the 
pores in the leaf sei"ved both for perspiration and 
absorption. Vivian was quite surprised to discover 
the proximity in the economy of vegetable and ani- 
mal life. It appeared to him, that, with the excep- 
tion of sensibility and motion, one system was 
nearly as complete as the other. Nor, while he 
found himself acquiring so much new information, 
could he help mournfully feeling, how very different 
an acquaintance with the world is tn a knowledge 
of nature. 



CHAPTER VII. 

The acquaintance between Master Rodolph and 
Essper George had been renewed with as much 
cordiality as that between their respective masters. 
When one man is wealthy, and another agreeable, 
intimacy soon ensues. The wit is delighted with 
the good dishes of the man of wealth, and the man 
of wealth with the good sayings of the wit. Such 
friendships, in general, are as lasting as they are 
quickly cemented. They are formed on equal 
terms. Each party has some failing to be excused, 
as each has some good quality to recommend him. 
While the pun of the wit is bartered for the pasty 
of his host, he can endure the casual arrogance of 
the master of the feast, provided he may occasion- 
ally indulge in a little malice of his own. 

A place was never wanting for Essper Gtorge at 
the table of the former steward of the Prince -if 
Little Lilliput ; or, as he was now styled, the lu- 
tendant of his excellency the grand-marshal ; and 
as the worthy Master Rodolph pressed with vehem- 
ence his pursy sides, from a well founded appre 
hension that his frequently excited laughter migh'. 
disturb the organization of his stupendous system, 
he felt that the good stories of Essper George amply 
repaid him for his often-exercised hospitality. But 
it was not merely his laughter-loving humour that 
occasioned Essper's company to be acceptable to 
his friend the intendant. Easily as Master Rodolph 



184 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



was tickled by a jest, and remarkable as was his 
quickness in detecting the point of a very evident 
joke, the facetious qualities of Essper George were 
not the only causes which gained our hero's valet 
s w'con* reception at all times in the steward's 
hall. Cffisar loved to be surrounded by sleek men ; 
the intciidant of the grand-marshal by short ones. 
Five feet live inches, exactly Master Rodolph's 
own height, was, according to the worthy steward's 
theory of the beautiful, a perfect altitude. Never- 
theless, a stature somewhat beneath this model ever 
found favour in his sight. In short, a tall man was 
Master Rodolph's aversion ; and it was the study 
of his life, that his friends and boon companions 
should be shorter than himself. For many years 
his intimate friend was the late Princess of Little 
Lilliput's dwarf. When their mistress died, Mas- 
ter Eodolph's friend, either through grief for her 
loss, or from water in his head, it was never de- 
cided which, " set also his foot within grim Charon's 
boat." Master Rodolph was in despair. There 
was not a full grown individual at Turripar\a un- 
der six feet two ; and even the young Prince Max- 
imilian, although still much beneath the due limit, 
grew so apace, that, as all were perpetually observ- 
ing, there was a very fair chance of his rivalling in 
height old Ernestus von Little Lillijiut himself — 
the founder of the family — whose armour, still rust- 
ing in the Giant's Hall, proved that the stature of the 
great figures themselves was not ideal. 'J'he hos- 
pitable prince himself could not therefore welcome 
the presence of his preserver in his own castle with 
greater joy, thar did Master Rodolph the [iresence 
of that preserver's valet. Essper George, he im- 
mediately determined, was a good three inches 
shorter than himself: — eternal friendship was the 
instant consequence. At first Essper, who of 
course could not be intuitively aware of the foible 
of Muster Rodolph, seized every opportunity of 
maintaining and proving, that the good steward 
was much the shorter of the two ; and as the knave 
could stand and walk on his toes the whole day, 
with the greatest facility, and without the least 
chance of detection, he found little diiiiculty, the 
first day, in making his kind host extremely miser- 
able. But four-and-twenty hours could not elapse 
without Essper discovering that, which was as 
constantly the subject of Master Rodolph's thought 
and ctmversation, as the hitherto unseen, and unmet, 
and unheard of " stouter man," was of the dreams 
and researches of Dr. von Spittcrgen. Consequent- 
ly, on the second day of his visit at Turripai"va, 
Mr. Essper George sunk dow^n to his natural height; 
confessed, and continually dwelt on the superiority 
of Master Rodolph ; and was daily rewarded for the 
shortness of his stature, and the candour of his 
disposition, by the best wines and choicest dishes 
that Turriparva could afford. * 

On the day that his master dined with Dr. 
on Spittergen, Essper George had made a par- 
ticular engagement with Mr. Intendant, to drink 
the health of the new grand-marshal, over a bottle 
of the very Burgundy, by the influence of which 
they had, a few weeks before, discovered his treason. 
Accordingly, about four hours after noon, Essper 
found himself in Master Rodolph's private room. 
He was introduced to two strangers — the first, Mr. 
Speigelburg, was about five feet four inches and a 
half high. He was a decayed gentleman-usher, 
who had retired on a pension of eighty dollars per 
luinuin. Although this stipend may be considered 



a very scanty one, by some who encumber th.e civil 
list of this country, nevertheless Mr. Speigelburg 
contrived not only to exist without incuning debts 
to his tradesmen or his friends, but even to procure 
the reputation of being a man who lived within his 
income ; and this, too, without the suspicion of 
being a niggard. The full court-suit in which he 
now bowed to Essper George, although the very 
one in which he had assisted at the entrance of the 
Emperor Napoleon into Reisenberg, was still not un- 
worthy of a royal drawing-room. His shoes were 
the most highly polished in the city, his buckles 
the brightest, his linen the most pure. If the ex- 
penses of his wardrobe did not materially reduce 
his hard-earned pension of eighty crowns, assured- 
ly the cost of living, naturally fond as Mr. Speigel- 
burg was of good cheer, was likewise no great 
obstacle to his saving passion. A prudently che- 
rished friendship, of old standing, with the court- 
cook, insured the arrival of a welcome hamper more 
than once during the week at his neat lodging; 
and, besides this, Mr. Speigelburg was as systematic 
and as schooled a diner-out, as if he had been 
born and bred in Brook Street. His former con- 
nexion, and present acquaintance with the court, 
allowed him to garnish his conversation with 
many details interesting to the females of the hum- 
bler bourgeoise. With them, indeed, from his 
various little accomplishments, Mr. Speigelburg 
was an especial favourite ; and a Sunday party to 
the royal retreat, or the royal farm, or a Sunday 
promenade on the ramparts, or in the public gar- 
dens, was never thought complete without his 
presence. His highly-polished and obliging man- 
ners, his facetious humour, his good stories, on 
which he very much prided himself, and in which 
frequent repetition had rendered him very perfect, 
and above all, the dignified and rather consequen- 
tial bearing which he knew Avell when to assume, 
made him as popular and considered a personage 
with the men, as with their wives. But the 
brightest moment in Mr. Speigelburg's existence, 
was the apostacy of the Prince of Little Lilliput. 
In due time he had been introduced by the intend- 
ant of his excellency the grand-chaml crlain, to 
the intendant of his excellency the grand-marshal; 
and Master Rodol|)h no sooner set his eyes upon 
him, than he internally vowed that Mr. Speigelburg 
should dine at the prince's expense as long as his 
master continued a great officer of state, and he that 
master's intendant. Such was one of the guests 
invited to meet our friend Essper George. The 
other was a still more singular-looking personage. 
M-'hen Essper was introduced to Mr. Lintz, a 
considerable time elapsed before he perceived a 
figure, which he considered to be a child, bowing 
to him without ceasing, in the corner of the room. 
Had Essper George been a long resident in Reis- 
enberg, an introduction to Mr. Lintz would have 
been unnecessary,'. Indeed, that gentleman had 
already called upon Vivian, though hitherto, un- 
fortunately, without succeeding in seeing him. Mr., 
or to use a title by which he was better known, 
Little Lintz, was one of those artists whose fame 
is indissolubly bound up with that of their native 
city ; and who seem to value no reputation which 
is not liberally shared with the place of their resi- 
dence. The pencil of Mr. Lintz immortalized the 
public buildings of Reisenberg, and the public 
buildings of Reisenberg supported their artist. " The 
grand square, the royal palace, the public gardens 



VIVIAN GREY. 



185 



ima the grand hotel of the Four Nations" — these 
were the constant, the only subjects of Mr. Lintz's 
pencil. Few were the families in the city whose 
rooms, or whose collections, were not adorned or 
enriched with these accurate representations. Few 
were the travellers who sojourned at the hotel, 
who were allowed to quit its hospitable roof unac- 
companied by a set of Mr. Lintz's drawings. The 
discreet discrimination of the artist in the selection 
of his subjects, of course made the landlord of the 
Four Nations his sworn friend and warmest patron. 
On quitting the house, it was as regular an affair 
to encourage the arts, as to fee the waiters. With 
tliis powerful patronage, Little Lintz of course 
flourished. Day after day passed over, only to 
multiply his already innumerable and favourite 
four views. Doubtless Little Lintz could have 
given a most faithful representation of every brick 
of the great square of Rcisenberg with his eyes 
shut. In spite of his good fortune, and unlike 
most artists, Little Lintz was an extremely modest 
and moral personage. Not being much above 
four feet and a half high. Master Rodolph had, of 
course, immediately sunned him with the rays of 
his warmest patronage. Orders were showered 
down, and invitations sent in, with profusion and 
rapidity. Every member of the grand-marshal's 
household was obliged, as a personal favour to the 
intendant, to take a set of the four views. Every 
room in the grand-marshal's house was graced by 
their eternal presence ; and as for the artist himself, 
free warren of cellar and larder was immediately 
granted him. 

Perhaps a merrier party never met together than 
these four little men. Mr. Speigelburg, who was 
well primed for the occasion, let off a good story 
before the first bottle was finished. The salute was 
immediately returned by Essper George. Master 
Rodolph presented the most ludicrous instance of 
ungoverned mirth ; and laying down his knife and 
fork, vowed that they were " in truth a pair of most 
comical knaves." Little Lintz said nothing, but he 
sat biting his lips, lest laughter shoidd destroy his 
miniature lungs ; his diminutive hands and eyes, 
ever and anon raised up in admiration of the wit 
of his companions, and his heels resting on the bar 
of his chair. No one, at first, was more surprised 
and less pleased with Essper George's humour, 
than Mr. Speigelburg himself. A rival wit is the 
most bitterly detested of mortals ; and the httle old 
courtier, alarmed at the rapidity and point of 
Essper's narratives and repartees, began to think 
that the poacher on his manor might prove almost 
too strong for the game laws ; and so Mr. Speigel- 
burg drew up in his seat, and grew dull and digni- 
fied. But a very short time elapsed ere Mr. Spei- 
gelburg discovered that Essper George was neither 
envious of his reputation, nor emulous of rivaling 
it ; and that his jokes and jollity were occasioned 
rather by the o'erflowings of a merry spirit, than by 
any dark design to supersede him in the favour of 
their host. No one laughed at Mr. Speigelburg's 
stories with more thorough enthusiasm — no one 
detected the point of Mr. Speigelburg's jests with 
more flattering celerity, than the man whom he had 
at first mistaken for an odious and a. dangerous 
rival. Mr. Speigelburg's present satisfaction was in 
proportion to his previous discontent, and he and 
Essper were soon on the most intimate terms. 

The Burgundy in due time produced every regu- 
lar efl'ect, and the little men made noise enough for 
24 



as many Brobdignags. First they talked very loud, 
then they sang very loud ; then they talked all 
together very loud, then they sang all together very 
loud. Such are four of the five gradations of Bur- 
gundian inebriety ! — but wc have had invocations 
enough ; it is a wine of which we know nothing in 
England. No man should presume to give an 
opinion upon Burgundy, who has not got tipsy at 
Dijon. Li the course of half a dozen hours, one of 
the party experienced some inconveinent symptoms 
of an approach to the fifth and final gradation. 
Master Rodolph began to get very drowsy; the fat 
Chambertin was doing its duty. In order to rouse 
himself from his stupor, the intendant proposed that 
they should amuse themselves with a little zwicken ; 
but as this game was no favourite with Mr. Spei- 
gelburg, the party finally resolved to sit down to 
whist. 

The table was cleared, and Essper was Rodolph's 
partner. The intendant managed to play through 
the game very well, and to Mr. Speigelburg's mor- 
tification, won it. He would probably have been 
equally successful in the rubber, had he remained 
awake ; but invisible sleep at last crept over Master 
Rodolph's yielding senses, and although he had 
two by honours in his own hand, he snored. O, 
Burgundy! but I forgot — I will go on with my 
story. 

No sooner had the nasal sound of Master Ro- 
dolph caught the ever-ready ear of Essper George, 
than that wicked knave quickly pressed his finger 
to his mouth, and winking to Mr. Speigelburg and 
Little Lintz, immediately obtained silence, — a silence 
which was not disturbed by the soundless whisper 
in which Essper spoke to both his companions. 
What he was detailing or suggesting, time will 
reveal ; his violent gesticulation, animated action, 
and the arch and mischievous expression of his 
countenance, promised much. Apparently, the 
other guests readily acceded to his proposition, and 
Essper George accordingly extinguished the two 
candles. As there was no fire, and the shutters 
were closed, the room was now in perfect darkness. 

" Play !" shouted Essper George in a loud voice, 
and he dashed his fist upon the table. 

" Play !" hallooed Mr. Speigelburg. 

" Play !" even screamed Little Lintz. 

"What, what, what's the matter!" mumbled 
Master Rodolph, rubbing his"eyes and fumbling for 
his cards. 

" Play !'' again shouted Essper George. 

" Play !" again hallooed Mr. S[>eigelburg. 

" Play !" again screamed Little Lintz. 

" Play !" said Master Rodolph, v^ho was now 
pretty well awake. '• Play ! — play whatl" 

" Why, a diamond if you have got one," said 
Essper George. " Can't you see ] Are you blind? 
Hasn't Mr. Speigelburg led a diamond 1" 

"A diamond !" said Master Rodolph. 

" Yes, a diamond to be sure ; why what's the 
matter with you ! I thought you played the last 
trick very 'queerly." 

" I can't see," said Master Rodolph, in a very 
doleful voice. 

" Come, come I" said Essper ; " let us have no 
joking. It is much too important a point in the 
game to waiTant a jest. Play a diamond if you 
have one, and if not, trump!" 

" You have no right to tell your partner to 
trump," said Mr. Speigelburg, with mock indigna- 
tion ; for he had entered into the conspiracy witc 
a2 



186 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



rcndiness, as he now saw a chance, by its concoc- 
tion, of saving himself from losing the rubber. 

'• He has a right to tell his partner any thing," 
said Master Rodolph, equally indignant af this 
interference ; " but I tell you I can't see." 

" Can't sec !" said Essper George ; " what do you 
mean?" 

" I mean exactly what I say," said Master Ro- 
dolph, somewhat testy. " I can't see ; I am not 
joking the least. I can't see a single pip of a 
single card. Have I been asleep?" 

"Asleep!" said Essper George, in a tone of 
extreme surprise. " It's an odd thing for a man to 
lie asleep, and play every card as regularly as you 
have done, and as well too. I never remember you 
playing so well as you have done to-night: — that 
finesse with the spade last trick, was quite admir- 
able. Had you only played half as well, the night 
you and I sat against long Halbcrt and 8ax the 
pikeman, the night, you remember, in the yellow' 
room at Turriparva, I should not have lost a silver 
dollar. But what has having been asleep to do 
with it"!" continued Essper. "Had you slept for 
a century, your eyes are open wide enough now. 
AVhy you stare like a pig four-and-lwenty hours 
before salting. Speigelburg, did you ever see a 
man stare so in all your life! Little Lintz, did 
yon !'' 

" Never !" said S[ieigelburg with enthusiasm ; 
the rubber was now certainly saved. 

"Never!" screamed Little Lintz. 

" I have been asleep," said Master Kodolph, in a 
very loud, and rather angry voice ; " I have been 
asleep — I am asleep — you are all asleep — we are 
all talking in our sleep — a'n't vi'c V 

"Talking in cur sleep!" said Essper George, 
affecting to be stifled with laughter; " Well I this is 
what I call carrying a joke rather too far. Come, 
Master Rodolph, play like a man." 

" Yes, yes !" said Mr. Speigelburg ; " play, play." 

" Yes, yes !" said Little Lintz ; " play, play." 

"How'can I play?" said Master Rodolph, his 
anger now turning into alarm. 

" Why, with your hands to be sure !" said Essper 
George. 

" Good Master Rodolph," said Mr. Speigelburg, 
in rather a grave tone, as if he were slightly of- 
fended ; " be kind enough to remember that cards 
were your own j,roposition. I have no wish to 
continue playing if it be disagreeable to you; nor 
have I any objection, if it be your pleasure, although 
I have a veiy good hand, to throw up my cards 
altogether. What say you, Mr. Lintz?" 

"No objection at all," said the little man; biting 
his lips in the dark with renewed vigour. 

"Thank you, Mr. Speigelburg," said Essper 
George, " but I, and my partner, have a great ob- 
jection to your throwing up your card.s. If you 
are satisfied with your hand, so much the better: I 
am satisfied with mine. I am sure, however, your 
partner cannot be with his; for I sec nothing but 
twos and threes in it. fiow, do me the favour, 
Mr. Lintz, to hold your cards nearer to you. There 
is nothing I detest so much as seeing my adversary's 
hand. I say this, I assure you, not out of any 
affected admiration of fair play ; but the truth is, it 
really jmzzles inc. I derive no benefit from this 
iinproiier knowledge. Now, do hold your cards 
up: you really are a most careless player. Nearer, 
nearer, nearer still !" 

These matter-of-fact observations and requests 



of Essper George, effectually settled Master Ro- 
dolph's brain ; never very acute, and now muddled 
with wine. 
. " Do you mean to say," asked he in a most 
tremulous-and quivering voice, " Do you mean to 
say that you are all seeing at this very moment?" 

" To be sure !" was the universal shout. 

"Every one of us !" continued Essjjcr ; "why, 
what maggot have you got into your brain ! I ac- 
tually begin to believe that you are not joking after 
all. Cannot you really see ? and yet you stare so! 
did you ever sec a man stare so, Mr. Speigelburg 1 
and now that I look again, the colour of your eyes 
is changed !" 

"Is it, indeed?" asked Master Rodolph, with 
gasping breath. 

" O ! decidedly ; but let us be quite sure. Little 
Lintz, put that candle nearer to Master Rodolph. 
Now I can see well ; the light just falls on the pupil. 
Your eyes, sir, are changing as fast as the skin of a 
chameleon ; you know they are green : your eyes, 
if you remember, are green, Master Rodolph." 

" Yes, yes !" agreed the intendant, almost una- 
ble to articulate. 

" They u-ere green, rather," continued Essper 
George ; " and now they are crimson ; and now 
they are a whitish brown ; and now they are as 
black as a first day's mourning!" 

" Alack — and alack-a-day ! it has come at last," 
exclaimed Master Rodolph in a voice of great ter- 
ror. " We have blindness in our family, if I re- 
member right ; if indeed I can remember any thing 
at this awful moment, and my mind has not left 
me as well as my eyesight ; we have blindness in 
our family. There was my xtncle, Black Huns- 
drich the trooper, the father of that graceless varlet 
who lives with his lordship of Schoss Johannisbcr- 
ger, whom never shall I sec again. What would 
I now give for one glimpse at his nose ! There is 
blindness in our liimily !" continued Master Ro- 
dolph, weeping very bitterly ; "blindness in our 
family ! Black Hunsdrich the trooper, the father 
of that graceless varlet, my good uncle Black Huns- 
drich, what would he now say to see his dearly 
beloved nephew, the offspring of his excellent sis- 
ter, my good mother, to whom he was much af- 
fected, — what would he say now, were he to see 
his dearly beloved nephew in this sad and pitiable 
condition ? Weep for me, my friends ! — weep and 
grieve ! How often has my dear uncle Hunsdrich 
the trooper, how often has he dandled me on his 
knee ! There is blindness in our fondly," con- 
tinvied the poor intendant. " Black Hunsdrich 
the trooper, my uncle, my dearly beloved uncle, 
kind Hunsdrich, who was much aftected to me. 
How much I repent at this sad hour, the many 
wicked tricks I have played unto my dear uncle ! 
Take example by me, dear friends ! I would give 
my place's worth that I had not set fire to my dear 
uncle's pig-tail ; and it sits heavy on my heart at 
this dark moment, the thought that in privacy and 
behind his back, I was wickedly accustomed to 
call him Skagface. A kind man was Black Huns- 
drich the trooper ! His eyes were put out by a 
|)ike, fighting against his own party by mistake 
in the dar-k — there was always blindness in our 
family !'' 

Here Master Rodolph was so overcome by his 
misfortune, that he ceased to speak, and began to 
moan very pileously ; Essper George was not less 
affected, and sobbed bitterly ; Mr. Speigelburg 



VIVIAN GREY. 



187 



groaned ; Little Lintz whimpered. Essper at 
length broke silence. 

" I have been many trades, and learned many 
things iu my life," said he, with a veiy subdued 
voice ; " and I am not altogether ignorant of the 
economy of our visual nerves. I will essay, good 
Master Hodolph, my dear friend, my much-beloved 
friend. I will essiy and examine, whether some 
remnants of a skill once n. t altogether inglorious, 
may not produce benefit unto thy good person. 
Dry thine eyes, my dear Mr. Speigelburg ; and 
thou. Utile Mr. Lintz, compose thyself. We can- 
not control fate ; we are not the masters of our 
destiny. Terrible is this visitation ; but it becomes 
us to conduct ourselves like men|jto struggle 
against misfortune ; and verily to do our best to 
counteract evil. Good Mr. Speigelburg, do thou 
hold up and support the head of our much-valued 
friend ; and thou kind and little Mr. Lintz, arrange 
the light, so that it fall full upon his face. (Here 
Essper, overpowered by grief, paused for a moment.) 
Vl'ell placed, Mr. Lintz ! exceedingly well placed ! 
and yet a little more to the right. Now I will ex- 
amine these dear eyes. So saying, Essper, grop- 
ing his way round Mr. Speigelburg's chair, reach- 
ed Master Rodolph. " There is -hope," continued 
he, after a pause of a few minutes : " hope for our 
much-beloved friend. It is not a cataract, and me- 
thinks that the sight is not lost. The attack," 
continued Essper, in a tone of confident pomposity, 
'' the attack is either bilious or nervous. From the 
colour of our friend's eyes, I at first imagined that 
it was a sadden rush of bile; but on examining 
them more minutely, I am inclined to think other- 
wise. Give me thy pulse. Master Rodolph ! Hum ! 
nervous, I thiidc. Show me thy tongue, good Mas- 
ter Rodolph. — Hum! very nervous! Docs that af- 
fect your breath !" asked Essper, as he gave the 
little lusty intendant a stout thrust in the paunch. 
"Does that ati'ect thy breath, beloved friend 1" 

" In truth," answered Master Rodolph, hut with 
great diihculty, for he gasped for breath from the 
effects of the punch ; " in truth it very much affects 
me." 

" Hum ! decidedly nervous !" said Essper George ; 
" and a little on the lungs — the nerves of the lungs 
slightly touched : indeed your whole nervous sys- 
tem is disarranged. Fear not, my good friend, I 
perfectly understand your case. We will soon 
cure you. The first thing to be done, is to apply 
a lotion of a simple, but very peculiar nature, — the 
secret was taught me by a Portuguese — and then I 
must bind your eyes up." 

Essper now dipped his handkerchief in water, 
and then bandaged Master Rodolph's eyes with it 
very tightly. When he had decidedly ascertained 
that the intendant's sight was completely suppress- 
ed, he sought his way to the door with becoming 
caution, and soon re-entered the room with a lamp. 
The extinguished candles were immediately re-lit. 
Master Kodolph continued the whole time moan- 
ing without ceasing. " Alack-a-day — and alack, 
that it should come to this ! O ! Burgundy is a 
vile wine ! Often have I said to myself that I would 
never dry another bottle of Burgundy. Why have 
I deserted, like an uiigrateful traitor, my own coun- 
try' liquors ! Alack-a-day, and alack ! the whole 
house will now go to ruin ! Tall Halbert will 
always be back in his accounts ; and as for that 
rascally Vienna bottle-merchant, he will ever be 
cheating me in the exchanges. Much faith have I 



in thee, good Essper — truly much faith. Thy skill 
is great, and also thy kindness, good Mr. Speigel- 
burg ; — and thou too, my little friend ; never more 
shall I see thy pleasing views of this fiiir town !" 

" Now, Mr. Speigelburg," said Essper, " and 
thou also, kind Mr. Lintz, assist me in moving 
away the table, and in placing our dearly beloved 
and much-aftlicted friend in the centre of the room ; 
so that we may all of us have a fair opportunity of 
witnessing the progress or alteration of his disor- 
der, the shifting of tlie symptoms, and indeed the 
general appearance of the case." 

They accordingly placed Master Rodolph, who 
was seated in his large easy chair, in the verj* cen- 
tre of the room. 

"How feel you now, dear friend 1" asked Ess- 
per George. 

" In truth, vcr\' low in spirits, but confiding 
much in thy skill, good Essper. Hast thou hope, 
I pray thee, tell mc, or recommendest thou that I 
should send for some learned professor of this citj' ? 
Mcthinks iu the multitude of counsellors there is 
wisdom !" 

" Yes ! and in the multitude of fees there is ruin. 
I tell thee, much-loved Master Rodolph, that I un- 
dertake tb.y cure — fear not — and thy purse shall 
sutler as little as thy body. But I must find in thee 
a ready, satisfied, tractable, and confiding patient. 
The propriety of my directions must not be ques- 
tioned, and my instructions must be strictly obey- 
ed." 

" In truth, thou hast only to command, good 
Essper, but might I not part with this bandage ? 
Methinks thy lotion, simple as thou dost profess it 
to be, has already produced very marvellous effects ; 
and I already feel m-y sight, as it were, struggling 
through the folds of this linen cincture." 

" Take ofl" that bandage," said Essper, " and you 
are stone blind for life !" 

" Alack-a-day !" exclaimed Master Rodolph ; 
" how awful ! In truth, there is blindness in our 
family. Black Hunsdrich, the trooper — " 

" Silence !"said the ph3'sician ; " I must seal your 
mouth for the present." 

" Alack-a-day !" said Master Rodolph ; " in 
truth, without conversation, life appears to me like 
a prince without a steward !" 

" Hush ! hush !" again exclaimed Essper ; "your 
attack, good Rodolph, is decidedly nervous, and 
your cure must be eflected by causing an instanta- 
neous reaction of your whole system." Here Ess- 
per whispered to Mr. Speigelburg, who immediate- 
ly quitted the ' room. " You are perhaps not 
aware," continued Essper, " of the intimate con- 
nexion which exists in the human frame, between 
the pupils of the eyes and the calves of the legsl" 

" Alack-a-day !" exclahned the simple inten- 
dant. 

" Silence ! silence ! you must listen, not answer: 
now," continued he, '• the attack in your eyes, good 
Rodolph, has been occasioned by a sort of cramp 
in your legs; and, before any of my remedies can 
produce an ctfoct upon you, a prior effect must no 
produced by yourself upon the dormant nen'es of 
the calves of your logs. This must be produced 
also by manual friction before a large fire." This 
fire was now being lighted by Mr. Lintz, under 
Esspcr's directions. 

" Alack-a-day !" again hurst forth Master Ro- 
dolph. 

" Silence ! silence I" 



188 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" I tell you, good Essper, I cannot be silent ; I 
must speak, if I be blind for il my whole life. I 
rub the calves of my legs ! I tell you it would be 
an easier task for nie to iuli the grand-duke's or 
Madame Carolina's. I rub the calves of my legs! 
Why, iny dear Essper, I cannot even reach them. 
It was only last Wednesday, that walking through 
the Great Square, I saw his excellency approach- 
ing me, when my shoe-string was most unluckily 
untied. There was no idle boy near to help me, 
and from the greatness of the exertion, I sank down 
upon a step. Much fear I that my good prince 
credited that I had smelt the wine cup before din- 
ner. In truth, I think I must again betake myself 
to buckles. I rub my calves, indeed ! Impossible, 
my dear Essper !" 

" Choose, then, between a little temporary 
inconvenience and eternal blindness. I pledge 
myself to cure you, but it must be by my own 
remedies. Implicit obedience on your part is the 
condition of your cure : decide at once !'' 

" If then it must be so," said Master Rodolph, 
in a very doleful voice ; " if then it must be so, I 
must even obey thee. Pray for me, my good 
friends, I am mu( li afflicted. Awful is iliis visita- 
tion — and great this fatigue !'' 

' In truth the fatigue was great. Imagine an un- 
■wieldly being like Master Rodolph, stooping down 
before a blazing fire, and rubbing his calves with 
unceasing rapidity ; Essper George .standing over 
liim, and preventinsr him, by constant threats and 
ever ready admonitions, from flagging in the slight- 
est degree fnim his indispensable exertions. Poor 
Master Rodolph ! how he puircd, and panted, 
sighed, and sobbed, and groaned I what rivers of 
perspiration, coursed down his-ample countenance! 
But in the midst of his agony, this faithful steward, 
never, for one moment, ceased deploring the anti- 
cipated peculations of tall Halbert, and the certain 
cheatcry of the Vienna merchant. 

While he was in this condition, and thus active, 
Mr. Sjieigclburg returned ; and it was with difti- 
culty that the little man could suppress his laughter, 
when he witnessed his simple host performing this 
singular ceremony, and making these unusual and 
almost impossible exertions. Nor was he as.sisted 
in his painful struggle to stifle his indecent mirth, 
by his eyes lighting on Little Lintz, who was blow- 
ing the fire with un|)a)alU led vigour, and raising 
his eyes to heaven with increasuig wonder at Ess- 
per George, who stood opposite Master Rodolph, 
lolling out his great red tongue at him, wanking his 
eyes, twisiing his no.se, and distorting his counte- 
nance into the most original grimaces. Mr. Spei- 
gelburg brought some cigars, and a large jar of hot 
water. 'I'lie cigars were immediately li^^hted, and 
one placed in each side of Ma.ster Rodolph's mouth ; 
tobacco, accordhig to Essper, being a fine stimu- 
lant. Little Liutz was set to trim them, and every 
five minutes be shook oil' the gray ashes. Master 
Rodolph was never allowed for a moment to cea.sc 
exciting t liC dornr:n)t nerves of the calves of his legs. 

The clock struck eleven. 

" All ih(^ symptoms, I am happy to say," ob- 
served Ess[)er, " are good, I have no hesitation in 
declaring that it i.s my firm conviction, that our 
much-valued friend will be reinstated in the pos- 
session of one of the greatest blessings of fife. 
Before midnight, I calculate, if he be wise enough 
to obey all my directions, that he will find liLs sight 
'estorcd.'' 



" I shall die first," said Master Rodolph, in t very 
faint voice; "I feel sinking every moment; adieu, 
my dear friends ! Little did I think this jovial 
aiternoon, that it would end in this. Adieu I" 

'• We cannot think of quitting you, dearest Mas- 
ter Rodolph I" said Essper. " Do not despair ; 
exert yourself, I beseech 3'ou : and never cease 
from exciting the dormant nerves of your calves, 
until it strike twelve o'clock. The reaction will 
thcii have taken place ; but mind you rub low 
good Rodolph : reach well down; you cannot rul 
too low. I stake my reputation upon your curt. 
Think of this, and do not despair, fc^have thai 
cigar, and mend the fire, Little Lintz; and now 
good Ml. Speigelburg, it is time for the last remedy , 
and then, my good friends, the most profound 
silence. Not a word from either of you; you 
must not even answer a sinc;le question." 

Mr. Speigelburg wanted no fresh instructions, 
and a stream of warm water was poured down the 
nape of poor Ma.ster Rodolph's neck, with the 
continuity of a cataract, so that the good steward 
at last fairly thought that he was born to be 
drowned. When the great jar was emptied, the 
confederates sat down to boston ; the patient, the 
whole 'time, continuing his exertions, though 
almost exhausted, and having no idea that he was 
not unceasingly watched by his gifted physician 
and faithful nurses. 

At length Essper rose, and again felt Master 
Rodolph's ]iulse. "The important moment is at 
hand, my dear friend," said he ; " and I rejoice to 
say that the symptoms could not be better. Yout 
pulse has recovered, your nerves are rebraeed. 
There I" he cried, jerking oil' tlse bandage. 

Master Rodolph gave a loud shout, and in spite 
of his previous exertions, and without speaking a 
syllable, jumped upon his legs, and began dancing 
and hallooing with the most ungoverned enthu- 
siasm. He would have stood upon his head, had 
not Essper George prevented him : but the inter- 
ference of his physician called him a little to him- 
self and he embraced his preserver without mercy. 
Truly that afiectionate hug of Master Rodolph, 
revenged all his jirevious suirciing! Tjie good 
intendaiit was fairly beside himself. He gave Mr, 
Speigelliurg such a joyous slap on his back, that 
the court suit suffered more in that one moment, 
than it had for years; and as for Little Lintz, he 
insisted upon putting him in the empty jar. Tb.e 
dwarf ran round the room for his life ; and would 
decidedly have been potted, had it not been lor the 
stout interferenre of Mr. Speigelburg. The little 
man ended by dancing in a circle, hand-in-hand: 
no one kicked his heels about with greater spirit 
than Master Rodol; h, and supper was immediately 
ordered to celebrate his miraeuluus recovery. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

VivtA>- quitted the Von Spittergens with regret, 
and with the promise of a speedy return. Ke 
would gladly indeed have lengthened his stay at 
the present moment, but a fete which was to be 
given this evening by his excellency the grand- 
marshal, rendered his return necessary. 

After dining with the doctor and his interesting 
daughter, Vivian mounted Max, anil took ctire not 



V^IVIAN GREY. 



189 



to return to the city hy a cross-road. He met 
Eniilius von Aslingen in his ride through the gar- 
dens. As that distinn;uishcd personage at present 
patronised the Enghsh nation, and astounded the 
Reisenherg natives by driving an English mail, 
riding English horses, and nding English grooms, 
he condescended to be exceedingly polite to our hero, 
whom he had publicly declared at the soireo of the 
prectding night, to be " a veiy bearable being." 
Such a character from such a man, raised Vivian 
even more in the estimation of the Reisenherg 
world, than his flattering reception by the grand- 
duke, and his cordial greeting by Madame Caro- 
lina. 

" Shall you be at his excellency the grand-mar- 
shal's to-night?" asked Vivian. 

" Who is he 7" inquired Mr. Emilius von As- 
lingen ; " ah ! that is the new man — the man who 
was mediatised, is not itl" 

" The Prince of Little Lilliput, I mean." 

" Yes I" drawled oat Mr. von Aslingen ; " a bar- 
barian who lived in a castle in a wood. I shall go 
if I have courage enough ; but they say his servants 
wear skins, and he has got a tail. Good morning 
to you ! I believe he is your friend." 

The ball-room was splendidly illuminated. Vi- 
vian never recollected witnessing a more brilhant 
scene. The whole of the royal family was present, 
and did honour to their new othcer of state. His 
royal highness was all smiles, and his consort all 
diamonds. Stars and uniforms, ribands and orders 
abounded. All the diplomatic characters wore the 
difl'erent state dresses of their respective courts. 
Emilius von Aslingen having given out in the 
morning, that he should appear as a captain in the 
Royal Guards, all the young lords and fops of fa- 
shion were consequently ultra militaires. They 
were not a little annoyed when, late in the even- 
ing, their model lounged in, wearing a rich scarlet 
uniform of a knight of Malta; of which newly- 
revived order, Von Aslingen, who had served half 
a campaign against the Turks, was a member. 

The royal family had arrived only a few minutes: 
dancing had not yet commenced. Vivian was at 
the top of the room, honoured by the notice of 
Madame Carolina, who complained of his yester- 
day's absence from the palace. Suddenly the 
univeisal hum and buzz, which are always sound- 
ing in a crowded room, were stilled ; and all pre- 
sent, arrested in their conversation and pursuits, 
stood with their heads turned towards the great 
door. Thither also Vivian looked, and wonder- 
struck, beheld — Mr. Beckendorfl'. His singular 
appearance, for, with the exception of his cavalry 
boots, he presented the same figure as when he 
lirst canje forward to receive the Prince of Little 
]/illiput and Vivian on the lawn, immediately 
attracted universal attention : but in this crowded 
room, there were a few who, either from actual 
experience, or accurate information, were not 
ignorant that this personage was the prime minis- 
ter. The report spread like wildfne. Even the 
etiquette of a German ball-room, honoured as it 
was by the presence of the court, was no restraint 
to the curiosity and wonder of all present. Yes ! 
even Emilius von Aslingen raised his glass to his 
eye, and then, — shrugging his shoulders, — his eyes 
to heaven ! But great as was Vivian's astonish- 
ment, it was not only occasioned by this unex- 
pected appearance of his former host. Mr. Beck- 
endorff was not alone ; a female was leaning on 



his left arm. A quick glance in a moment con- 
vinced Vivian, that she was not the origmal of the 
mysterious picttirc. The companion of Beckendorff 
was very young. Her full voluptuous growth 
gave you, for a moment, the impression that she 
was somewhat low in stature ; but it was only for 
a moment, for the lady was by no means short. 
Her beauty it is impossible to describe. It was of 
a kind that baffles all phrases, nor have I a single 
simile at command, to make it more clear, or more 
confused. Her luxurious form, her blonde com- 
plexion, her silken hair, would have all become 
the languishing sultana ; but then her eyes, — they 
banished all idea of the seraglio, and were the most 
decidedly European, though the most brilliant, that 
ever glanced : eagles might have proved their 
young at them. To a countenance which other- 
wise would have been calm, and perhaps pensive, 
they gave an expression of extreme vivacity and 
unusual animation, and perhaps of restlessness 
and arrogance — it might have been courage. The 
lady was dressed in the costume of a chanoinesse 
of a am rent des dames nobles ; an institution to 
which Protestant and Catholic ladies are alike 
admitted. The orange-coloured cordon of her 
canonry, was slung gracefully over her plain black 
silk dress, and a diamond cross hung below her 
waist. 

Mr. Beckendorff and his fair companion were 
instantly welcomed by the grand-marshal ; and 
Arnclm, and half a dozen chamberlains, all in new 
uniforms and extremely agitated, did their utmost, 
by their exertions, in clearing the way, to prevent 
the prime minister of Reisenherg from paying his 
respects to his sovereign. At length, however, 
Mr. Beckendorff reached the top of the room, and 
presented the young lady to his royal highness, 
and also to Madame Carolina. Vivian had re- 
tired on their approach, and now found himself 
among a set of young officers — idolaters of Von 
Aslingen, and of white hats lined with crimson. 
" Who can she be"!" was the universal question. 
Though all by the query acknowledged their igno- 
rance, yet it is singular that, at the sanie time, every 
one was prepared with a response to it. Such are 
the sources of accurate information ! 

"And that is Beckendorff, is itl" exclaimed the 
young Count of Eberstein : " and his daughter of 
course ! Well ! there is nothing like being a ple- 
beian and a prime minister I I suppose Becken- 
dorff will bring an anonymous friend to court 
next." 

" She cannot be his daughter," said BernstorfT. 
" To be a chanoinesse of that order, remember she 
must be noble." 

" Then she must be his niece," answered the 
young Count of Eberstein. " I think I do re- 
member some confused story about a sister of 
Beckendorff, who ran away with some Wirtem- 
berg baron. What was that story, Gernsbachl" 

" No, it was not his sister," said the Baron of 
Gernsbach ; " it was his aunt, I think." 

" Beckendorff's aunt, what an idea ! as if he 
ever had an aunt ! Men of his calibre make 
themselves out of mud. They have no relations. 
Well, never mind : there was some story, I am 
sure, about some woman or other. Depeiai upon 
it, that this girl is the child of that woniaii ; whe- 
ther she be aunt, niece, or daughter. I shall go and 
tell every one that I know the whole busines:' ; this 
girl is the daughter of some woman or other. — So 



190 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



saying', away walked tli e young; Count of Ebcrstcin, 
to liisseminatc in all directions the important con- 
clusion to which his logical head had allowed him 
to arrive. 

" Von Wcinbren," said the Baron of Gernshach, 
" how can you account for this mysterious appear- 
ance of the premier?" 

" O ! when men are on the decline, they do 
desperate things. I suppose it is to please Ihe 
renegado." 

t' Hush ! there's the Eno;lishman behind you." 

"On dit, another child of Beckendorlf." 

" O no ! — secret mission." 

"Ah! indeed." 

" Here comes Von Aslingen ! Well, great 
Emilius ! how solve you this mystery I" 

*' What mystery ! Is there one ]" 

" I allude to this wonderful appearance of Beck- 
endorff." 

*' Beckendorff! what a name ! who is he V 

"Nonsense! the premier." 

" Well !" 

" You have seen him of course ; he is here. 
Have you just come in ?" 

" BcckeiidorfF here !"' said Von Aslingen, in a 
tone of affected horror; " I did not know tliat the 
fellow was to he visited. It is all over with Rei- 
Benbcrg. I shall go to Vienna to-morrow." 

But hark ! the sprightly music calls to the dance : 
and first the stately Polonaise, an easy gradation 
between walking and dancing. To the surprise of 
the whole room, and the indignation of many of the 
high nobles, the Crown-prince of Reisenberg led 
off the Polonaise with the unknown fair one. 
Such an attention to Beckendorlf was a distressing 
proof of present power and favour. The Polonaise 
is a dignified promenade, with which German 
balls invariably commence. Tlie cavaliei's, with an 
air of studied grace, offer their right hands to their 
fair partners ; and the whole parly, in a long file, 
accurately follow the leading couple through all 
their scientific evolutions, as they wind through 
every part of the room. Waltzes in sets speedily 
followed the Polonaise; and tlic unknown, who 
was now an object of universal attention, danced 
with Count von Sohnspeer — another of Beckeu- 
dorlf's numerous progeny, if the reader remember. 
How scurvily are poor single gentlemen, who live 
slone, treated by the candid tongues of their fellow- 
creatures! The commander-ill-chief ©f the Rei- 
fccnberg troops was certainly a partner of a very 
different complexion to the young lady's previous 
one. The crown-prince had undertaken his duty 
with reluctance, and had performed it without 
grace : not a single word had he exchanged with 
his partner during the promenade ; and his genuine 
listle.ssncss was even more offensive than affected 
apathy. Von Sohns])ecr, on the contrary, danced 
ill the true Vienna style, and whirled like a dervish. 
All our good English prejudices against the soft, 
the swimming, the senliinoutal, melting, undula- 
ting, dangerous waltz, would quickly disappear, if 
we only executed the dreaded manoeuvres in the 
true Austrian style. As for myself, far from 
trembling for any of my dauj^hters, although I par- 
ticularly pride myself upon my character as a 
father, far from trembling for any of my daughters 
while joining in the whirling waltz, I should as 
soon expect thitn to get S(!ntimental in a swing. 

Vivian did not choose to presume upon his late 
acquaintance with Mr. Beckendorllj as it had not 



been sought by that gentlcman,.and he consequently 
did not pay his respects to the minister. j\Ir. 
Beckendorff continued at the top of the room, 
standing between the state chairs of his royal 
highness and Madame Carolina, and occasionally 
addressing an observation to his sovereign and 
answering one of the lady's. Had Mr. Becken- 
dorff been in the habit of attending balls nightly, 
he could not have exhibited more perfect noncha- 
lance. There he stood, with his arms crossed 
behind him, his chin resting on his breast, and his 
raised eyes glancing ! 

'• My dear prince," said Vivian to the grand- 
marshal, " you are just the person I wanted to 
speak to. How came you to invite Beckendorff — 
and how came he to accept the invitation?" 

" My dear friend," said his highness, shrugging 
his shoulders, " wonders will never cease. I never 
invited him ; I should just as soon have thought 
of inviting old Schoss Johannisbcrgcr." 

" Were not you aware, then, of his intention 1" 

" Not the least ! you should rather say attention .- 
for I assure you, I consider it a most particular one. 
It is quite astonishing, my dear friend, how I mis- 
took that man's character. He really is one of the 
mo-^t gentlemanly, polit:;, and excellent persons I 
know : no more mad than } ou are ! And as for 
his power being on the decline, we know the non- 
sense of that !" 

" Better than most persons, I suspect. Sievers, 
of course is not here ?" 

" No ! you have heard about him, I suppose." 

" Heard I — heard what ?" 

" Not heard ! well — he told me yesterday, and 
paid he was going to call upon you directly, to let 
you know." 

" Know what?" 

" He is a very sensible man, Sicvers ; and I am 
very glad at last that he is likely to succeed in the 
world. All men have their httle imprudences, and 
he was a little too hot once. What of that'' — He 
has come to his senses-r-so have I ; and I hope you 
will never lose yours." 

" But pray, my dear prince, tell me what has 
happened to 8ievers." 

" He is going to Vienna immediately, and will 
be very useful there, I have no doubt. He has got 
a very good place, and I am sure he will do hi» 
duty. They cannot have an abler man." 

" Vienna ! well — that is the last city in the 
world in which I should expect to find Mr. Sievers. 
What place can he have? — and what services can 
he perform there ?" 

" Many ! he is to be the editor of the Austrian 
Observer, and censor of the Austrian press. I 
thought he would do well at last. All men have 
their imprudent day. I had. I cannot sto{) 
now — I must go and speak to the Countess von 

As Vivian was doubting whether he should mo.-t 
grieve or laugh, at this singular termination of Mr. 
Sievers' career, his arm was suddenly seized, and 
on turning romul, he found it was by Mr. Beckcn- 
dorfl". 

" There is another very strong argument, sir," 
said the minister, without any of the usual phrases 
of recognition ; " there is another very strong ar- 
gument against your doctrine of destiny." And 
then Mr. Beckendorff, taking Vivian by the arm, 
began walking up and down part of the saloon 
with him; and, in a tew minutes, quite forgetting 



VIVIAN GREY. 



191 



the scene of the discussion, he was involved in the 
deepest metaphysics. This incident created ano- 
ther great sensation, and whispers of " secret mis- 
sion — secretary of slate — decidedly a son," &c. 
&c. &c. were in an instant afloat in all parts of the 
room. 

The approach of his royal highness extricated 
Vivian from an argument, which was as profound 
as it was interminable ; and as Mr. Beckendorft" 
retired with the grand-duke into a recess in the 
ball-room, Vivian was requested by Van Neuwied 
to attend his excellency the grand-marshal. 

" My di'ar friend," said the prince, " I saw you 
talking with a certain person ; now, is he not what 
you call a proper man, — gentlemanly, polite, and 
exceedingly attentive 1 I did not say any thing to 
you when I passed you before ; but to tell you the 
truth now, I was a little annoyed that he had not 
spoken to you. I knew you were as proud as Lu- 
cifer, and would not salute him yourself; and 
between ourselves, I had no great wish you should ; 
for, not to conceal it, he did not even mention your 
name. But the reason of this, is now quite evi- 
dent, and you must confess he is remarkably atten- 
tive. You know, if you remember, we thought 
that incognito was a little affected — rather annoy- 
ing, if you recollect. I remember in the green 
lane, you gave him a gentle cut about it : you have 
not forgot you told me, perhaps ! It was very kind 
of you, very spirited, and I dare say, did good. 
Well ! — what I was going to say about that, is 
this, — I dare say now, after all," continued his ex- 
cellency, with a very knowing look, " a certain 
person had very good reasons for that : not that he 
ever told them to me, nor that I have the slightest 
idea of them ; but when a person is really so ex- 
ceedingly polite and attentive, I always think he 
would never do any thing disagreeable without a 
cause, — and it was exceedingly disagreeable, if you 
remember, my dear friend. I never knew to whom 
he was speaking. Von Philipson indeed ! hah ! 
hah ! hah ! when one does remember certain 
tilings in one's life — hah ! hah ! hah ! eh. Grey ? 
— you remember that cucumber] and Owlface, 
eh ! hah ! hah ! hah ! and Madame Clara, eh 1 
Well ! we did not think, the day we were floun- 
dering down that turf road, that it would end in 
this. Grand-marshal ! rather a more brilliant scene 
than the Giants' Hall atTurriparva, I think, eh I — 
hah ! hall ! hah ! But all men have their impru- 
dent days ; the best way is to forget them. There 
was poor Sievcrs; who ever did more imprudent 
tnings than he ? and now it is very likely he will 
do very well in the world, eh ! Well ! there is no 
end to talking so. What I want of you, my dear 
fellow, is this. There is that girl who came with 
Beckcndorff: who the dense she is, I don't know : 
— let us hope the best ! We must pay her every 
attention. I dare say she is his daughter. You 
have not forgotten the portrait, I dare say. Well ! 
we all were gay once, you know. Grey. All men 
have their imprudent day ; — why should not Beck- 
endorfi'! — speaks rather in his favour, I think. 
Well, this girl, you know; — his royal highness 
very kindly made the crown-prince walk the Polo- 
naise with her — very kind of him, and very proper, 
What attention can be too great for the daughter 
or friend of such a man ! — a man who, m two 
words, may be said to have made Reisenberg. For 
what was Reisenberg before Beckendorff' Ah ! 
what .' Perhaps we were happier then, alter all : 



and then there was no royal highness to bow to ; 
no person to be condescending, except ourselves. 
But never mind ! we'll forget. After all, this lite 
has its charms. What a brilliant scene ! but I 
ramble so — this girl — every attention should be 
paid her, of course. The crown-prince was so 
kind as to walk the Polonaise with her ; — and Voa 
Sohnspeer — he is a brute, to be sure ; but then he 
is a field-marshal. I did not know, till to-day, that 
in public processions the grand-marshal takes pre- 
cedence of the field-marshal ! That is, I walk be- 
fore Von Sohnspeer : and what is more just T — 
precisely as it s^hould be. Ah ! I never shall come 
to the point — this girl — every attention should be 
paid her ; and I think, considering what has taken 
place between Beckendorff and yourself, and the 
very polite, and marked, and flattering, and ()articu- 
larly attentive manner in which he recognised you, 
— I think, that after all this, and considering every 
thing, the etiquette is for you, my dear Grey, parti- 
cularly as you are a foreigner, and my personal 
friend — indeed ray most particular friend, for in 
fact I owe every thing to you — my life, and more 
than my life, — I think, I repeat, considering all 
this, that the least you can do, is to ask her to dance 
with you ; and I, as the host, will hitroduce you. 
I am sorry, my dear friend," continued his excel- 
lency, with a look of great regret, " to introduce 

you to ; but we will not speak about it. We 

have no right to complain of Mr. Beckendorff. No 
person could possibly behave to us in a maimer 
more polite, and gentlemanly, and attentive." 

After an introductory speech, in his excellency's 
happiest manner, and in which a eulogium of 
Vivian, and a compliment to the fair unknown, 
got almost as completely entangled as the origin 
of slavery and the history of the feudal system, in 
his more celebrated harangue, Vivian found him- 
self waltzing with the anonymous beauty. The 
grand-marshal, during the process of introduction, 
had given the young lad}- every opportunity of de- 
claring her name ; but every opportunity was 
thrown away. " She must be incog.," whispered 
his excellency : " Miss von Philipson, I suppose !" 

Vivian was extremely desirous of discovering 
the nature of the relationship or connection \ie- 
twecn Beckendorff and his partner. The rapid 
waltz allowed no pause for conversation ; but, 
after the dance, Vivian seated himself at her side, 
with the determination of not very quickly desert- 
ing it. The lady did not even allow him the 
satisfaction of commencing the conversation ; for 
no sooner was she sealed, than she begged to 
know who the person was with whom she had 
previously waltzed. The history of Count von 
Sohnspeer exceedingly amused her; and no 
sooner had Vivian finished his anecdote, than the 
lady said, " Ah I I see you are an amusing person. 
IVow tell me the history of everybody in the 
room." 

" Really," said Vivian, " I fear I shall forfeit my 
reputation of being amusing very speedily ; for ! 
am almost as great a stranger at this court as you 
appear to be yourself! Count von Sohnspeer is 
too celebrated a personage at Reisenberg, to have 
allowed even me to be long ignorant of his hislorv • 
and, as for the rest, as far as I can juuge. they are 
most of them as obscure as myself, and not nearly 
as interesting as you are !" 

" Are you an Enghshman 1" asked the lady 

" I am." 



\ 



192 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



'• I supposed so, both from your travelling and 
your appearance : I think the English counte- 
nance is very peculiar-." 

" Indeed ! we do not flatter ourselves so at 
home." 

" Yes ! it is peculiar," said the lady, in a tone 
which seemed to imply that contradiction was 
unu.sual ; " and I think that you are all handsome ! 
1 admire the English, which in this part of the 
world is singular ; in the south, you know, we 
are generally francise." 

" I am well aware of that," said Vivian. " There, 
for instance," pointing to a very pompous-looking 
personage, who at that moment strutted by ; " there, 
for instance, is the most francise person in all 
Reisenbcrg! that is our grand-chamberlain. He 
considers himself a most felicitous copy of Louis 
the Fourteenth ! He allows nothing in his opi- 
nions and phrases but what is orthodox. As it 
generally happens in such cases, his orthodoxy is 
rather obsolete !" 

" Who is that Knight of Malta 1" asked the 
lady. 

'•The most powerful individual in the room," 
answered Vivian. 

" Who can he be 1" asked the lady with eager- 
ness. 

" Behold him, and tremble !" rejoined Vivian : 
'• for with him it rests to decide, whether you are 
civilized or a savage ; whether you are to be ab- 
horred or admired ; idolized or despised. Nay, do 
not be alarmed ! there are a few heretics even in 
Reisenberg, who, like myself, value from convic- 
tion, and not from fashion ; and who will be ever 
ready, in case of a Von Aslingen anathema, to 
evince our admiration where it is due." 

The lady pleaded fatigue, as an excuse for not 
again dancing; and Vivian, of course, did not quit 
her side. Her lively remarks, piquant observations, 
and very singular questions, highly amused him ; 
and he was equally flattered by the evident gralili- 
cation which his conversation afforded her. It 
was chiefly of the principal members of the court 
that she spoke : she was delighted with Vivian's 
glowing character of Madame Carolina, whom she 
had this evening seen for the first time. Who this 
unknown could be, was a question which often 
occun-ed to him ; and the singularity of a man 
like Beckei.dorfl* suddenly breaking through his 
habits, and outraging the whole system of his 
existence, to please a daughter, or niece, or female 
cousin, did not fail to strike him. 

" I have the honour of being acquainted with 
Mr. BeckendorfF," said Vivian. This was the first 
time that the minister's name had been mentioned. 

'• I perceived you talking with him," was the 
answer. 

" You are staying, I suppose, at Mr. Becken- 
dorff'sr' 

" Not at present." 

" You have, of course, been at his retreat — de- 
lightful place I" 

" Very elegant !" 

" Are you an ornithologist 1" asked Vivian, 
smiling. 

'■ Not at all scientific ; but I, of course, can now 
tell a lory from a Java sparrow — and a bulfinch 
from a canary. The first day I was there, I never 
shall forget the sur})risc I experienced, when, after 
the noon meal being finished, the aviary door was 
opened. After that I always let the creatures out 



myself; and one day I opened . all the cages at 
once. If you could but have witnessed the scene f 
I am sure ycni would have been quite delighted 
with it. As for poor Mr. Beckendorff, I thought 
even he would have gone out of his mind ; and 
when I brought in the white peacock, he actually 
left the room in despair. Pray how do you like 
Madame Clara, and Owlface, too ? Which do 
you think the most beautiful 1 I am no great fa- 
vourite with the old lady. Indeed, it was very 
kind of Mr. Beckendorff" to bear with every thing 
as he did : I am sure he is not much used to lady 
visiters." 

" I trust that your visit to him will not be very 
short?" 

" My stay at Reisenberg will not be very long," 
said the young lady, with rather a grave counte- 
nance. " Have you been here any time V 

"About a fortnight: it was a mere chance my 
coming at all. I was going on straight to Vienna." 

" To Vienna ! indeed I Well, I am glad you 
did not miss Reisenberg : you must not quit it 
now. You know that this is not the Vienna 
season!" 

" I am aware of it ; but I am such a restless 
person, that I never regulate my movements by 
those of other people." 

" But surely you find Reisenberg very agree- 
able V 

" A'^ery much so ; but I am a confirmed wan- 
derer." 

" Why are you 1" asked the lady, with great 
naivete.* 

Vivian looked grave ; and the lady, as if she were 
sensible of having unintentionally occasioned him 
a painful recollection, again expressed a wish that 
he should not immediately quit the court, and 
trusted that circumstances would not prevent him 
acceding to her desire. 

" It does not even depend upon circumstances," 
said Vivian ; " the whim of the moment is my only 
principle of action, and therefore I may be off to- 
night, or be here a month hence." 

" ! pray stay then," said his companion 
eagerly; " I expect you to stay now. If you could 
only have an idea what a relief conversing with 
you is, after having been dragged by t:ie crown- 
prince, and whirled by that Von Soimspeer! 
Heigho ! I could almost sigh at the very remem- 
brance of that doleful Polonaise." 

The lady ended with a faint laugh, a sentence 
which apparently had been commenced in no 
fight vein. She did not cease speaking, but con- 
tinued to request Vivian to remain at Reisenberg 
at least as long as herself. Her frequent requests 
were perfectly unnecessary, for the promise had 
been pledged at the first hint of her wish ; but this 
was not the only time during the evening, that 
Vivian had remarked, that his interesting compa- 
nion occasionally talked without apparently being 
sensible that she was conversing. 

The young Count of Eberstcin, who, to use his 
own phrase, was " sadly involved," and conse- 
quently ver}' desirous of being appointed a forest 
councillor, thought that he should secure his ap- 
pointment by condescending to notice the person 
whom he delicately styled, " the minister's female 
rclalive." To his great mortification and surprise, 
the honour was declined ; and " the female rela- 
tive," being unwilling to dance again, but perhapa 
feeling it necessary to break ofl' her conversation 



VIVIAN GREY. 



193 



with her late partner, it having ah-eady lasted a 
most unusual time, highly gratified his excellency 
tlie. grand-marshal by declaring that she would 
dance with Prince Maximilian. " This, to say the 
least, was very attentive of Miss von Philipson." 

Little Max, who had just tact enough to discover, 
that to be the partner of the fair incognita was the 
place of honour of the evening, now considered him- 
self bj' much the most important personage in the 
room. In fact, he was only second to Emilius von 
Aslingen. The evident contest which was ever 
taking place between his natural feelings as a boy, 
and his acquired habits as a courtier, made him a 
very amusing companion. He talked of the gardens 
and the opera, in a style not unworthy of the young 
Count of Ebcrstcin. He thought that Madame 
Carolina was as charming as usual to-night ; but, 

on the contrary, that the Countess von S was 

looking rather ill — and this put him in mind of her 
ladyship's nev? equipage ; and then, a propos equi- 
X)ages, to what did his companion think of the new 
.ashion of the Hungarian harness ! His lively and 
kind companion encoui'aged the boy's tattle ; and 
emboldened by her good-nature, he soon forgot his 
artificial speeches, and was quickly rattling on 
about Turriparva, and his horses, and his dogs, and 
his park, ana his guns, and his grooms. Soon after 
the waltz, the lady, taking the arm of the young 
prince, walked up to Mr. Beckendorff. He received 
her wdth very great attention, and led her to 
Madame Carolina, who rose, seated Mr. Becken- 
dorff's " female relative" by her side, and evidently 
said something extremely agreeable. 

Mr. Beckendorif had been speaking to Von 
Sohnspcer, who was now again dancing ; and the 
minister was standing by himself, in his usual at- 
titude, and quite abstracted. Young Maximilian, 
who seemed to be very much struck hj the minis- 
ter's appearance, continued, after losing his partner, 
to eye Mr. Beckendorff with a very scratinizing 
glance. By degrees he drew n'carer and nearer to 
the object of his examination, sometimes staring at 
him with intenseness, and occasionally casting his 
eyes to the ground as if he thought he was observed. 
At length he had come up quite close to the pre- 
mier, and waiting for an instant until he had caught 
his eye, he made a most courteous bow, and said 
in a very agitated voice, as if he already repented 
his rash venture, " I think, sir, that you liave drop- 
ped the pin out of this part of your dress." 

Here the young prince pointed with a shaking 
finger to the part of the breast in Mr. Beckendorff 's 
costume where the small piece of flannel waistcoat 
invariably made its appearance. 

"You think so, sir, do you]" said the Prime 
Minister of Reisenberg. " Pray, at what o'clock do 
you go to bedl" 

If you have ever seen a barking dog, reached by 
the dexterous lash of some worried equestrian, sud- 
denly slink away ; his t^inoying yell instantaneously 
silenced, and his complacent grin of ludicrous im- 
portance changed into a doleful look of unexpected 
■discomfiture, you may form some idea of the shuf- 
fling rapidity with which the young Prince Maxi- 
milian disappeared from the presence of Mr. Beck- 
endorif; and the countenance of actual alarm with 
which he soon sought refuge in another part of the 
room. In the fright of the moment, the natural 
feelings of the child all returned ; and like all 
frightened children, he sought a iriend — he ran to 
Vivian. 



" I know something !" said the boy 

" What ]" 

" I'll tell you a secret : you must not say a word 
though — upon your honour 1" 

" 0, certainly !" 

" Put your ear down lower: anybody looking!" 

" No, no !" 

" Sure nobody can hear!" 

" Certainly not !" 

" Then I'll tell you what : lean down a little 
lower — sure nobody is listening? — I — I — I don't 
like that Mr. Beckendorff' I". 



CHAPTER IX. 

ViTTAN- had promised Madame Carolina a se- 
cond English lesson on the day after the grand- 
marshal's fete. The great progress which the lady 
had made, and the great talent which the gentle- 
man had evinced during the first, had rendered 
madamc the most enthusiastic of pupils, and Vivian, 
in her estimation, the ablest of instructers. Madame 
Carolina's passion was patronage. To discover 
concealed merit, to encourage neglected genius, to 
reveal the mysteries of the world to a novice in 
mankind ; or in short, to make herself very agree- 
able to any one whom she fancied to be very inter- 
esting ; was the great business, and the great de- 
light of her existence. No sooner had her eyes 
lighted on Vivian Grey, than she determined to 
patronise. His country, his appearance, the ro- 
mantic manner in which he had become connected 
with the court, all pleased her lively imagination. 
She was intuitively acquainted with his whole his- 
tory, and in an instant he was the hero of a ro- 
mance, of which the presence of the principal 
character compensated, we may suppose, for the 
somewhat indefinite details. His taste, and literary 
acquirements, completed the spell by which Madame 
Carolina was willingly enchanted. A low Dutch 
professor, whoso luminous genius rendered unne- 
cessary the ceremony of shaving ; and a dumb 
dwarf, in whose interesting appearance was for- 
gotten its perfect idiotism ; a prosy improvisatore, 
and a South American savage were all superseded 
on the appearance of Vivian Grey, 

As Madame Carolina was, in fact, a ver}^ de- 
lightful woman, our hero had no objection to 
humour her harmless foibles; and not contented 
with making notes in an interleaved copy of her 
Charlemagne, he even promised to read Haroun 
.\1 Raschid in manuscript. The consequence of 
his courtesy, and the reward of his taste, was un- 
bounded favour. Apartments in the palace w-ere 
oflered him and declined ; and when Madame Ca- 
rolina had become acquainted v/ith sufficient of his 
real history, to know that, on his part, neither wish 
nor necessity existed to return immediately to his 
own country, .«he tempted him to remain at Reisen- 
berg" by an otfer of a place at court ; and doubtless, 
had he been willing, Vivian might in time have 
become a lord chamberlain, or even a field-mar- 
shal. 

On entering the room, the morning in question, 
he found Mad»me Carolina writing. At the end 
of the apartment, a lady ceased, on his appearance, 
humming an air to which she was dancing, and at 
the same time imitating citstancts. Madame re- 
R 



194 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



cerved Vivian vrith erpressions of the greatest de- I istcnce ; since few ■will deny, though there are some 
li^ht, saving also, in a verv peculiar and confiden- | materialists who will deny every thing, that the 
lial manner, that she was just sealing up a package j human voice is both impalpable and audible only 
for him, the preface of Haroun ; and then she in- in one place at the same time. Hence, I ask, is it 
troduced him to " the baroness !" Vivian turned ! illogical to infer its indivisibility ! The soul and the 
and bowed : the lady who was lately dancing came | voice, then, are similar in two great attriimtes ; 
forward- It was his unknown partner of the pre- ■ there is a secret harmony in their spiritual con- 
ceding night. " The baroness" extended her hand | stmction. In the earliest ages of mankind a beau- 
to Vivian, and unaffectedly eipressed her great : tifnl tradition was afloat, that the soid and the voice 
pleasure at seeing him asrain. Vivian trusted that : were one and the same. We may perhaps recog- 
she was not fatigued bv the fete, and asked after nise in this fancifiil belief, the effect of the fascina- 
Mr. Beckendorff Madame Carolina was busily i ting and imaginative philosophy of the East; that 
engaged at the moment in dtily securing the pre- ' mysterious portion of the globe," continued Madame 
cious pre&ce. The baroness said that Mr. Becken- j Carolina with renewed energy, " from which we, 
dorff had returned home, but that Madame Carolina ' should franklv confess that we derive everv thing : 



had kindly insisted upon her staying at the palace. 
>She was not the least wearied- Last night had been 
one of the most agreeable she had 'ever spent, at 
least she supposed she ought to say so : for if she 
had experienced a tedious or a mournful feeling for 
a moment, it was hardly for what was then passing, 
so much for — 



for the South is but the pupil of the East, through 
the mediation of Egypt. Of this opinion," said 
madame with increased fervour, " I have no doubt : 
of this opinion," continued the lady with additional 
enthusiasm, " I have hbldly avowed myseffa votary 
in a dissertation appended to the second volume cf 
Haroun : for this opinion I would die at the stake ! 



" Pray, Mr. Grey," said Madame Carolina, in- i 0, lovely East I Way was I not oriental I Land 

terrupting them, " have you heard about our new I where the voice of the nightingale is never mute ! 

baJlet ?" I Land of the cedar and the citron, the turtle and the 

" Xo." ( myrtle— of ever-blooming Sowers, and ever-shining 

" I do not think von have ever been to our opera. ; skies I Elustrious East ! Cradle of philosophy ! O, 

To-tnorrow is opera night, and you must not be ; my dearest baroness, why do not you feel as I do ! 

again awav. We pride ourselves here very much I From the East we obtain evfery thing I" 



upon our opera.' 

" We estimate it even in England," said Vivian, 
^ as pose^ing perhaps the most perfect orchestra 
now organized." 

•• The orchestra is very perfect His royal high- 
ne^ is such an excellent musician, and he has 



Indeed !'' said the baroness, with great simpli- 
city ; " I thought we only got Cachemere shawk." 
This pu2zling answer was only noticed by 
Vivian ; for the truth is, Madame Carolina was one 
of those individuals who never attended to any per- 
son's answer. Alwavs thinking of herself, she 



spared no trouble nor expense in forming it : he i only asked questions that herself might supply the 
has always superintended it himself. But I con- ' responses. And now having made, as she flattered 
fess, I admire our ballet department stiil more. I | herseli a very splendid display to her favourite 



expect you to be delighted with it. You will per- 
ha{)s be gratified to know, that the subject of otn- 



critic, she began to consider what had given rise 
to her oration. Lord Byron and the baUet again 



new splendid ballet, which is to be produced to- occtured to her ; and as the baroness, at least, was 
morrow, is from a sreat work of your illustrious poet 1 not unwilling to listen, and as she herself had no 
— mv Lord Bvron." } manuscript of her own which she particularly 

" From which of his works ?" I wished to be perused, she proposed that Vivian 

'* The Corsair. Ah I what a sublime work ! — I should read to them part of the Corsair, and in the 
what passion I — what energy I — what knowledge | original tongue. Madame Carolina opened the 
of feminine feeling I^what contrast of character! — volume at the first prison scene between Gulnare 
what sentiments ! — what situations I — O ! I wish | and Conrad. It was her favourite. A'ivian read 
this was opera night — Gulnare ! O I my favourite ; with care and feeling. ?.Iadame was in raptures, 
character — beautuiil I beautifiil I beautiful ! How 
do you think tfaey will dress her V 

" Are you an admirer of our Bjron !" asked 
Vivian of the baroness. 

" I think he is a very handsome man. I once 
saw him at the carnival at Venice." 

" But his works — his grand works ! ma chere 
petite," said Madame Carohna. in her sweetest 
tone ; " you have read his werks ?" 

" Not a line," answered the baroness, with great 
naivete ; "^ I never saw them." 

" O ! pauvre eri&nt !" said Madame Carolina; "I 
will employ you then while you are here.' 

" I never read," said the baroness ; " I cannot 
bear it. I like p>oetrT and romances, but I like 
Bomebody to read to me," 

^ ypTj just !" said Madame Carolina ; '• we can 
judge with greater accuracy of the .merit of a com- 
jiosition, when it reaches our mind merely through 
the medium of the huriian voice. I'he so-il is an 
essence, — invisible and indivisible. In this respect 
the voice of man resembles the principle of his ei- 



and the baroness, although she did not understand 
a single syllable, seemed almost equally delighted. 
-\t length Vivian came to this passage — 

" My love stem Seyd's i O — no — no — not my love ! 

Yei much ihis hea.-;, Uiat s".rives ao inore, once sxcve 

To flieel his faisiuns— but U would not be. 

I felL— I ieel — ^love dwells wiih— wi:.h the free — 

I am a slave, a favour d slave ai besu, 

T" sha.'e his splfniour, and seem very blest! 

Ofi mi-s; nay eclI -he ruestion undergo. 

Of— 'Dosi ihou love V and bum lo anfirer 'No ! ' 

! hard ii is iha: l-inGn<^ss lo Fiisiain, 
And sirugjle wAio feel averse in %-ain ; 
But harder siill ihe bean's recoil u> bear 
And hide frwn one — perhaps anwlher there ; — 
Ke lakes the hand I give uol nor wilhhoIJ— 

I-.S pulse nor. check'd — nor quicfcen-d — calmly cola 
And when rpsign'd, it drops'a lifel'^e weight 
From one I never loved enough lo haie. 
No warmlh these lif« return Ly his imprest, 
A nd chiird remembrance shudders o-'er the rest. 
Yes — had I ever proved thai passion's zeal, 
The change lo haired were a; least ic' feel : 
But stili— "he goes unmoum'd — ir-'urns unsoajhl — 
And rft when'present— a^?"' ' '" " • ^ 'bought. 
Or wh^'n rf flec-.ion coints. -si— • 

1 fear thai h^ncef ->nh "t* : -.usl , 
T am his slave — lut,!nd«;.. .,:_-. 
^were wtxse than bonua(;6 1» bccvo^c lici bride." 



VIVIAx^ GREY 



195 



"O! how superb!" said maJame, in a voice 
of enthusiasm ; •' how true ! what passion I what en- 
ergy ! what sentiment ! what knowledge of feminine 
feeling ! Read it again, I pray ; it is my favourite 
passage." 

" What is this passage about V asked the ba- 
roness with great anxiety ; " tell me !" 

" I have a French translation, ma mignonne," 
said madamc ; " you shall have it afterwards." 

" No ! I detest reading," said the young lady, 
with a very imperious air ; " translate it to me at 
once." 

" You are rather a self-willed, petted, little beau- 
ty !" thought Vivian ; " but your eyes are so bril- 
liant that nothing must be refused you !" and so he 
did translate it. 

On its conclusion, madame was again in rap- 
tures. The baroness was not less affected, but she 
said nothing. She appearaJ extremely agitated ; 
slie changed cofour — raised her beautiful eyes 
with an expression of great sorrow — looked at Vi- 
vian very earnestly, and then walked to the other 
room. In a few moments she returned to her seat. 

" I wish you would tell me the story," she said, 
with great earnestness. 

" I have a French translation, ma belle !'' said 
Madame Carolina ; " at present I wish to trouble Mr. 
Grey with a few questions." Madame Carolina 
led Vivian into a recess, 

" I am sorry we are troubled with this sweet lit- 
tle savage ; but I think she has talent, though evi- 
dently quite uneducated. We must do what we 
can for her. Her total ignorance of all breeding is 
amusing, but then I think she has a natural ele- 
gance. We shall soon polish her. His royal 
highness is so anxious that every attention should 
be paid to her. Beckendorff, you know, is a man 
of the greatest genius, [Madame Carolina had 
lowered her tone about the minister since the Prince 
of Little Liiliput's apostasy.] The country is great- 
ly indebted to him. This, between ourselves, is 
his daughter. At least I have no doubt of it. 
Beckendorff was once married — to a lady of great 
rank — died early — beautiful woman — very inter- 
resting ! His royal highness had a great regard 
for hei". The premier, in his bereavement, turned 
humorist, and has brought up this lovely girl in the 
oddest possible manner — nobody knows where. 
Now, that he finds it necessary to bring her for- 
ward, he, of course, is quite at a loss. His royal 
highness has applied to me. There was a little 
coldness before, between the minister and myself. 
It is now quite removed. I must do what I can 
for her. I think she must marry Von Sohnspeer, 
who is no more Beckendorff 's son than you are — 
or young Eberstein — or young Bernstorff — or 
young Gemsbach. We must do something for 
her. I offered her last night to Emilus von Aslin- 
gen ; but he said, that unfortunately he was just 
importing a savage or two of his own from the 
Brazils, and consequently was not in want or her." 

A chamberlain now entered, to announce the 
speedy arrival of his royal highness. The bar-oness, 
without ceremony, expressed her great regret that 
he was coming, as now she should not hear the 
wished-for ston,'. Madame Carolina reproved her, 
and the reproof was endured rather than submitted 
to. 

His royal highness entered, and was accompanied 
by the crown prince. He greeted the young lady 
with great kindness ; and even the crown prince, 



inspired by his fiither's unusual warmth, made a 
shuffling kind of bow and a stuttering kind of 
speech. Vivian was about to retire on the entrance 
of the grand-duke; but Madame Carolina pre- 
vented liim, and his royal highness turning round, 
very graciously seconded her desire, and added 
that Mr. Grey was the very gentleman with whom 
he was desirous of meeting. 

" I am anxious," said he to Vi\'ian, in rather a 
low tone, " to make Keisenberg agreeable to Mr. 
Beckendorli''s fair friend. As you are one of the 
few who are honoured by his intimacy, and are 
familiar with some of our state secrets," added the 
grand-duke with a smile ; " I am sure it will give 
you pleasure to assist me in the execution of my 
wishes." 

His royal highness proposed that the ladies 
should ride ; and he himself, with the crown prince 
and Mr. Grey, would attend them. Madame Ca- 
rolina expressed her willingness : but the baroness, 
like all forward girls, unused to the world, sudden- 
ly grew at the same time both timid and disobliging. 
She looked sullen and discontented, and coolly 
said that she did not feel in the humour to ride for, 
at least, these two hours. To Vivian's sui^prise, 
even the grand-duke humoured her fancy, and 
declared that he should then be happy to attend 
them after the court-dinner. Until that time Vi- 
vian was amused by madame ; and the grand-duke 
exclusively devoted himself to the baroness. His 
royal highness was in his happiest mood ; and his 
winning manners and elegant conversation, soon 
chased away the cloud which for a moment had 
settled on the young lady's fair brow. 



CHAPTER X. 

Thk Grand-duke of Reisenberg was an enthusi- 
astic lover of music, and his people were conse- 
quently music mad. The whole city were fiddling 
day and night, or blowing trumpets, oboes, aiid 
bassoons. Sunday, however, was the most harmo- 
nious day in the week. The opera amused the 
court and the wealthiest bourgeoise ; and few pri- 
vate houses could not boast their family concert, 
or small party of performers. In the guingettes, or 
tea-gardens, of which there were many in the sub- 
urbs of the city, bearing the euphonious, romantic, 
and fashionable titles of Tivoli, Arcadia, and 
Vauxhall, a strong and amateur orchestra was 
never wanting. Strolling through the citj' on a 
Sunday afternoon many a pleasing picture of in- 
nocent domestic enjoyment might be observed. 

In the arbour of a garden a veiy stout man, 
with a fair, broad, good-natured, solid German 
face, may be seen perspiring under the scientific 
exertion of the French horn; himself wisely dis- 
embarrassed of the needless incumbrance of his 
pea-green coat and showy waistcoat, which lay 
neatly folded by his side ; while his large and 
sleepy blue eyes actually gleam with enthusiasm. 
His daughter, a soft and delicate girl, touches the 
light guitar ; catching the notes of the music from 
the opened opera, which is placed before the father 
on a massy music stand. Her voice joins in me 
Indy with her mother ; who, like all German mo- 
thers, seems only her daughter's self, subdued by an 
additional twenty years. Tl»e bow of one violin, 



196 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



is handled with the air of a master, by an elder 
brother; while a younger one, a university stu- 
dent, grows sentimental over the flute. The same 
instrument is also played by a tall and tender-look- 
ing young man in black, who stands behind the 
parents next to the daughter, and occasionally 
looks off his music-book to gaze on his young mis- 
tress' eves. He is a clerk in a public office ; and 
on the next Michaelmas day, if he succeed, as he 
hopes, in gaining a small addition to his salary, he 
will be still more entitled to join in the Sunday 
family concert. Such is one of the numerous 
groups, the sight of which must assuredly give 
pleasure to every man who delights in seeing his 
fellow creatures refreshed after their weekly la- 
bours by such calm and rational enjoyment. I 
would gladly linger among such scenes, which to 
me have afforded, at many an hour, the most pleas- 
ing emotions; and moreover, the humours of a 
guingette are not unworthy of our attention: but 
I must introduce the reader to a more important 
party, and be consoled for leaving a scene where I 
fain would loiter, by flattering myself that my at- 
tention is required to more interesting topics. 

The court chapel and the court dmner are over. 
We are in the opera-house of Keisenberg ; and, of 
course, rise as the royal party enters. The house, 
which is of a moderate size — perhaps of the same 
dimensions as our small theatres — was fitted up 
with great splendour; I hardly know whether I 
should say, with great taste; for, although not 
merely the scenery, but indeed every part of the 
house, was painted by eminent artists, the style of 
the ornaments was rather patriotic than tasteful. 
The house had been built immediately after the 
war, at a period when Eeiscnberg, flushed with 
ihe success of its thirty thousand men, imagined 
itself to be a great miUtary nation. Trophies, 
standards, cannon, eagles, consequently appeared 
in every corner of the opera-house ; and quite su- 
perseded lyres, and timbrels, and tragic daggers, 
and comic masks. The royal box was constructed 
in the form of a tent, and held nearly fifty persons. 
It was exactly in the centre of the house, its floor 
over the back of the pit, and its roof reaching to 
the top of the second circle : its crimson hangings 
v.ere restrained by ropes of gold, and the whole 
was surmounted by a large and radiant crown. 
The house was, of course, merely lighted by a 
chandelier from the centre. 

The opera for the evening was Rossini's Otello. 
As soon as the grand-duke entered, the overture 
commenced ; his royal highness coming forward to 
the front of the box, and himself directmg the mu- 
sicians ; keeping time earnestly with his right 
l;:ind, in which was a very long black opera-glass. 
This he occasionally used, but merely to look at 
the orchestra; not, assuredly, to detect a negligent 
or inefiicient performer; for in the schooled or- 
chestra of Reisenberg, it would have been impos- 
sihle even for the eagle-eye of his royal highness, 
assisted as it was by his long black opera-glass, or 
ior his fine ear, matured as it was by the most 
complete study, to discover there either inattention 
or feebleness. The house was perfectly silent; 
for when the monarch directs the orchestra, the 
world goes to the opera to listen. Perfect silence 
•It Reisenberg, then, was etiquette and the fashion ; 
and being etiquette and the fashion, was thought 
r.o hardship ; for at our own opera-house, or at the 
Academic at Pari*, or the Pergola, or La Scala, or 



San Carlo, we do not buzz, and chatter, and rattle, 
and look as if to listen to the performance were 
rank heresy, either because music is disagreeable, 
or to buzz, chatter, and rattle, the reverse ; but, in 
truth, merely because there, to listen to the per- 
former is not etiquette and the fashion; and to 
buzz, chatter, and rattle, is. Emilius von Aslingen 
was accustomed to say, that at Reisenberg he went 
to the chapel in the morning to talk, and to the 
opera in the evening to pray. Between the acts 
of the opera, however, the ballet was performed ; 
and then everybody might talk, and laugh, and 
remark, as much as they chose. 

The opera, I have said, was Otello. The grand- 
duke prided himself as much upon the accuracy 
of his scenery, and dresses, and decorations, as 
upon the exquisite skill of his performers. In 
truth, an opera at Reisenberg was a spectacle 
which could not fail to be interesting to a man of 
taste. When the curtain drew J5p, the first scene 
presented a view of old Brabantio's house. It was 
accurately copied from one of the sumptuous 
structures of Scamozzi, or Sansovino, or Palladio, 
which adorn the Grand Canal of Venice. In the 
distance rose the domes of St. Mark, and the lofty 
Campanile. Vivian could not fail to be delighted 
at this beautiful work of art, for such indeed it 
should be styled. He was more surprised, how- 
ever, but not less pleased, on the entrance of 
Othello himself. In England we are accustomed 
to deck this adventurous Moor in the costume 
of his native country — but is this correct"! The 
Grand-duke of Reisenberg thought not. Othello 
was an adventurer ; at an early age he entered, as 
many foreigners did, into the service of Venice. 
In that service he rose to the highest dignities — 
became general of their armies and of their fleets ; 
and, finally, the viceroy of their favourite kingdom. 
Is it natural to suppose, that such a man should 
have retained, during his successful career, the 
manner and dress of his original country 1 Ought 
we not rather to admit, that had he done so, his 
career would, in fact, not have been successful 1 
In all probability he imitated to affectation the 
manners of the country which he had adopted. It 
is not probable that in such, or in any age, the 
turbaned Moor would have been treated with great 
deference by the common Christian soldier of 
Venice — or, indeed, that the scandal of a heathen 
leading the armies of one of the most powerful 
of European states, would have been tolerated for 
an instant by indignant Christendom. If Shylock 
even, the Jew merchant, confined to his quarter, 
and herding with his own sect, were bearded on 
the Rialto — in what spirit would the Venetians 
have witnessed their doge and nobles, whom they 
ranked above kings, holding equal converse, and 
loading with the most splendid honours of the 
republic, a follower of Mahound ] Such were the 
sentiments of the Grand-duke of Reisenberg on 
this subject, a subject interesting to Englishmen ; 
and, I confess, I think that they are worthy of at- 
tention. In accordance with his opinions, the 
actor who performed Othello, appeared in the full 
dress of a Venetian magniiico of the middle 
ages; a fit companion for Cornaro, or Grimani, or 
Barberigo, or Foscari. 

The first act of the opera was finished. Tlae 
baroness expressed to Vivian her great delight at 
its being over; as she was extremely desirous of 
learning the storj- of the ballet, which she had not 



VIVIAN GREY. 



197 



yet liecn able to acquire. His translation of yes- 
terday had greatly interested her. Vivian shortly 
gave her the outline of the story of Conrad. She 
listened with great attention, but made no remark. 

The ballet at Rcisenberg was not merely a ve- 
hicle for the display of dancing. It professed by 
gesture and action, aided by music, to influence 
the minds of the spectators not less than the regu- 
lar drama. Of this exhibition dancing was a ca- 
sual ornament, as it is of life. It took place there- 
fore only on fitting occasions, and grew out, in a 
natural manner, from some event in the history 
represented. For instance, suppose the story of 
Othello the subject of the ballet. The dancing, in 
all probability, would be introduced at a grand en- 
tertainment, given in celebration of the Moor's 
arrival at Cyprus. All this would he in character. 
Ocr feelings would not be outraged by a husband 
chassezing forward to murder his wife ; or by see- 
ing the pillow pressed over the innocent Desde- 
mona by the impulse of a pirouette. In most 
cases, therefore, the chief performers in this spe- 
cies of spectacle are not even dancers. This, how- 
ever, may not always be the case. If Diana be 
the heroine, poetical probability will not be oftended 
by the goddess joining in the chaste dance with 
her huntress nymphs ; and were the Baiadcre of 
Guthe made the subject of a ballet, the Indian 
dancing girl would naturally be the heroine both 
of the drama and poem. I know, myself, no per- 
formance more affecting than the serious panto- 
mime of a master. In some of the most interesting 
situations, it is in fact more natural than the oral 
drama — logically, it is more perfect. For the so- 
liloquy is actually thought before us; and the 
naagic of the representation not destroyed by the 
sound of the human voice, at a moment when we 
all know man never speaks. 

The curtain again rises. Sounds of revelry and 
triumph are heard from the Pirate Isle. They 
celebrate recent success. Various groups, accu- 
rately attired in the costume of the Greek islands, 
are seated on the rocky fore-ground. On the left 
rises Medora's tower, on a craggy steep ; and on 
the right gleams the blue yEgean. A procession 
of women enters. It heralds the presence of Con- 
rad and Medora : they honour the festivity of their 
rude subjects. The pirates and the women join 
in tlie national dance ; and afterwards, eight war- 
riors, completely armed, move in a warlike mea- 
sure, keeping time to the music with their bucklers 
and clattering sabres. Suddenly the dance ceases 
— a sail is in sight. The nearest pirates rush to 
the strand, and assist the disembarcation of their 
welcome comrades. The commander of the vessel 
comes forward with an agitated step and gloomy 
countenance. He kneels to Conrad, and delivers 
him a scroll, which the chieftain reads with sup- 
pressed agitation. In a moment the faithful Juan 
is at his side — the contents of the scroll revealed — 
the dance broken up — and preparations made to 
sail in an hour's time to the city of the pasha. 
The stage is cleared, and Conrad and Medora are 
alone. The mj'sterious leader is wrapped in the 
deepest abstraction. He stands with folded arms, 
and eyes fixed on the yellow sand. A gentle 
pressure on his arm calls him back to recollection : 
he starts, and turns to the intruder with a gloomy 
brow. He sees Medora — and his frown sinks into 
a sad smile. " And must we part again ] this 
hour ] this very hour 1 It cannot be !" She 



clings to him with agony, and kneels to him whh 
adoration. No hope ! ho hope .' a quick return 
promised with an air of foreboding fate. His 
stern arm encircles her waist. He chases the 
heavy tear from her fair cheek, and while he bids 
her be glad in his absence with her handmaids, 
peals the sad thunder of the signal-gun. She 
throws herself upon him. 'J'he frantic quickness 
of her motion strikingly contrasts with the former 
stupor of her appearance. She will not part. 
Her face is buried in his breast — her long fair hair 
floats over his shoulders. He is almost unnerved; 
but at this moment the ship sails on : the crew and 
their afflicted wives enter : the page brings to Lord 
Conrad his cloak, his carbine, and his bugle. He 
tears himself from her embrace, and without daring 
to look behind him, bounds over the rocks, and is 
in the ship. The vessel moves — the wives of the 
pirates continue on the beach, waving their scarfs 
to their desolate husbands. In the fore-ground, 
Medora, motionless, stands rooted to the strand — 
and might have inspired Phidias with a personifi- 
cation of despair. 

In a hall of unparalleled splendour, stern Seyd 
reclines on innumerable pillows, placed on a carpet 
of golden cloth. His bearded chiefs are ranged 
around. The rooms are brilliantly illuminated with 
large coloured lamps; and an opening at the fur- 
ther end of the apartments exhibits a portion of the 
shining city, and the gUttering galleys. Gulnare, 
covered with a silver veil, which reaches even to 
her feet, is ushered into the presence of the pasha. 
Even the haughty Seyd rises to honour his beauti- 
ful favourite. He draws the precious veil from her 
lilushing features, and places her on his right hand. 
The dancing-girls now appear ; and then are intro- 
duced the principal artists. Now takes place the 
scientific part of the ballet ; and here might Bias, 
or Noblet, or Ronzi Vestris, or her graceful hus- 
band, or the classical Albert, or the bounding Paul, 
vault without stint, and attitudinize without re- 
straint ; and not the least impair the effect of the 
tragic tale. The dervise, of course, appears ; the 
galleys, of course, are fired ; and Seyd, of course, 
retreats. A change in the scenery gives us the 
blazing harem — the rescue of its inmates — the de- 
liverance of Gulnare — the capture of Conrad. 

It is the prison-scene. On a mat, covered with 
irons, lies the forlorn Conrad. The flitting flame 
of a solitary and ill-fed lamp, hardly reveals the 
heavy bars of the huge grate that forms the en- 
trance to its cell. For some niiHutes nothing stirs. 
The mind of the spectator is allowed to become 
fully aware of the hopeless misery of the hero. 
His career is ended — secure is his dungeon — trusty 
his guards — overpowering his chains. To-morrow 
he wakes to be impaled. A gentle noise, so gentle 
that the spectator almost deems it unintentional, is 
now heard. A white figure appears behind the 
dusky gate : — is it a guard, or a torturer '.' The 
gate softly opens, and a female comes forward. 
Gulnare was represented by a young girl, with the 
body of a Peri, and the soul of a poetess. The 
harem queen advances with an agitated step : — she 
holds in her left hand a lamp, and in the girdle of 
her light dress is a dagger. She reaches, with a 
soundless step, the captive. He is asleep. — Ay ! 
he sleeps, while thousands are weeping his ravage 
or his ruin ; and she, in restlessness, is wandering 
here ! A thousand thoughts are seen coursmg over 
her flushed brow, — she looks to the audience, an-l 
R 2 



198 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



her (lark eye asks why this corsair is so dear to 
her 1 She turns again, and raises the lamp with 
her long white arm, that the light may fall on the 
captive's countenance. She gazes, without moving, 
on the sleeper — touciies the dagger with a slow and 
tremulous hand, and starts from the contact with 
terror. She again touches it ; — it is drawn from 
her vest — it falls to the ground. He wakes — he 
stares with wonder : — he sees a female not less fair 
than Medora. Confused, she tells him her station : 
she tells him that her j)ity is as certain as his doom. 
He avows his readiness to die ; — he appears un- 
daunted — he thinks of Medora — he buries his face 
in his hands. She grows pale, as he avows he 
loves — another. She cannot conceal her own pas- 
sion. He, wondering, confesses that he supposed 
her love was his enemy's — was Seyd's. Gulnare 
shudtlers with horror at the name : she draws 
Jierself up to her full stature — she smiles in bitter- 
ness : — 

'• My love stern Seyd's ! ah ! no, no, not my love !" 

The acting was perfect. The enthusiastic house 
liurst out into unusual shouts of admiration. 
Madame Carolina applauded with her little finger 
on her fan. The grand-duke himself gave the 
signal of applause. Vivian never felt before that 
words were useless. His hand was violently 
pressed. He turned round : — it was the baroness. 
She was leaning back in her chair ; and though 
she did her utmost to conceal her agitated counte- 
nance, a tear coursed down her cheek, big as the 
miserable Medora's ! 



CHAPTER XI. 

On the evening of the opera, arrived at court 
part of the suite of the young archdutchess, the be- 
trothed of the Crowii-jjrince of Reisenberg. These 
consisted of an old gi'ay-headed general, who had 
taught her imperial highness the manual exercise ; 
and her tutor and confessor, an ancient and tooth- 
less bishop. I'heir youthful mistress was to follow 
them in a few days ; and this arrival of such a dis- 
tingiushed portion of her suite, was the signal for 
the commencement of a long series of sumptuous 
festivities. After interchanging a number of com- 
pliments, and a few snufi-boxes, the new guests 
were invited by his royal highness to attend a re- 
view, which was to take place the next morning, 
of live thousand troops and fifty generals. 

The Reisenberg army was the best appointed in 
Europe. Never were men seen with breasts more 
plumply padded, mustachios better trained, or 
gaiters more spotless. The grand-duke himself 
was a military genius, and had invented a new cut 
for the collars of the cavalry. His royal highness 
was particularly desirous of astonishing the old 
cray-headed governor of his future daughter by the 
skilful evolutions and imposing appearance of his 
h'gions. The affair was to be of the most refined 
nature ; and the whole was to be concluded by a 
mock battle, in which the spectators were to be 
treated by a display of the most exquisite evolu- 
tions, and complicated movements, which human 
beings ever yet invented to destroy others, or to es- 
cape destruction. Field-marshal Count von Sohn- 
spoer, the comniaudcr-in-chief of all the forces of 



his Royal Highness the Grand-duke of Reisenberg, 
condescended, at the particular request of his sove- 
reign, to conduct the whole aflair himself. 

At first it was rather difficult to distinguish be- 
tween the army and the siaft" ; for Darius, in ths 
straits of Issus, was not more sumptuously and 
numerously attended, than Count von Sohnspeer. 
Wherever he moved, he was followed by a train of 
waving plumes and radiant epaulets, and foaming 
chargers, and shining steel. In fact he looked like 
a large military comet. Had the fate of Reisenberg 
depended on the result of the day, the field-mar 
shal, and his generals, and aid-de-camps, and 
orderlies, could not have looked more agitated or 
more in earnest. Von Sohnspeer had not less than 
four horses in the field, on every one of which he 
seemed to appear in the space of five minutes. 
Now he was dashing along the line of the lancers 
on a black charger, and now round the column of 
the cuirassiers on a white one. He exhorted the 
tirailleurs on a chestnut, and added fresh courage 
to the ardour of the artillery on a bay. 

It was a splendid day. The bands of the respec- 
tive regiments played the most triunjphant tunes, 
as each marched on the field. The gradual arrival 
of the troops was very picturesque. Distant mu«(ic 
was heard, and a corps of infantry soon made its 
appearance. A light bugle sounded, and a body 
of tirailleurs issue-d from the shade of a neighbour- 
ing wood. The kettle-drums and clarions heralded 
the presence of a troop of cavalry ; and an ad- 
vanced guard of light horse, told that the artillery 
were about to follow. The arms and standards of 
the troops shone in the sun ; military music sounded 
in all parts of the field ; unceasing was the bellow 
of the martial drum and the blast of the blood- 
stirring trumpet. Clouds of dust, ever and anon 
excited in the distance, denoted the arrival of a 
regiment of cavalry. Even now one approachca 
— it is the red lancers. How gracefully their co- 
lonel, the young Count of Eberstein, bounds on 
his barb! Has Theseus turned Centaur 1 His 
spur and bridle seem rather the emblems of sove- 
reignty than the mstruroents of government; he 
neither chastises nor directs. The rider moves 
without motion, and the horse juJges without 
guidance. It would seem that the man had bor- 
rowed the beast's body, and the beast the man's 
mind. His regiment has formed upon the field, 
their stout lances erected like a young and leafless 
grove : but although now in line, it is with difficul- 
ty that they can subject the spirit of their warlike 
steeds. The trumpet has caught the ear of the 
horses ; they stand with open nostrils, already 
breathing war, ere they can see an enemy ; and 
now dashing up one leg, and now the other, they 
seem to complain of Nature that she has made 
them of any thing earthly. 

The troops have all arrived; there is an unusual 
bustle in the field. '\'^on Sohnspeer is again 
changing his horse, giving directions while he is 
mounting to .at least a dozen aid-de-camps. Or- 
derlies are scampering over every part of the field. 
Another flag, quite new, and of immense size is 
unfurled by the field-marshal's pavilion. A signal 
gun ! the music in the whole field is hushed ; a 
short silence of agitating suspense — another gun — 
and another ! All the bands of all the regiments 
burst forth at the same moment into the national air : 
the court dash into the field ! 
i Madame CaroUna, the baroness, the Countess 



VIVIAN GREY. 



199 



Von S , and some other ladies wore habits of 

the uniform of the Royal Guards. Both madame 
and the baroness were perfect horsewomen ; and 
the excited spirits of Mr. Beckendorff's female 
relative, both during her ride, and her dashing run 
over tlie field, amidst the firing of cannon, and the 
crash of drums and trumpets, very strikingly con- 
trasted with her agitation and depression of the 
preceding night. 

" Your excellency loves the tented field, I think !" 
said Vivian ; who was at her side. 

" I love war ! it is a diversion fit for kings !" 
was the answer. " How fine the breast-plates and 
helmets of those cuirassiers glisten in the sun !" 
continued the lady. ",Do you see Von Sohn- 
specrl I wonder if the crown prince be with 
himl" 

" I think he is." 

" Indeed ! ah ! can he interest himself in any 
thing ? He seemed Apathy itself at the opera last 
night. I never saw him smile, or move, and have 
scarcely heard his voice : but if he love war, if he 
be a soldier, if he be thinking of other things than 
a pantomime and a ball, 'tis well ! — very well for 
his countrj- ! Perhaps he is a hero i" 

At this moment the crown prince, who was of 
^''on Sohnspeer's stiiff, slowly rode up to the royal 
party. 

" Rodolph !" said the grand-duke ; " do you 
head your regiment to-day 1" 

" No," was the muttered answer. 
The grand-duke moved his horse to his son, and 
spoke to him in a low tone ; evidently very ear- 
nestly. Apparently he was expostulating with 
him : but the effect of the royal exhortation was 
only to render the prince's brow more gloomy, and 
the expression of his withered features more sullen 
and more sad. The baroness watched the father 
and son as they were conversing, with the most 
intense attention. When the crown prince, in 
violation of his father's wishes, fell into the party, 
and allowed his regiment to be headed by the 
lieutenant-colonel, the young lady raised her lus- 
trous eyes to heaven, with that same beautiful 
expression of sorrow or resignation, which had so 
much interested Vivian on the morning that he 
had translated to her the moving passage in the 
Corsair. 

But the field is nearly cleared, and the mimic 
war has commenced. On the right appears a large 
body of cavalry, consisting of cuirassiers and dra- 
goons. A van-guard of light cavalry and lancers, 
under the command of the Count of Eberstein, is 
ordered out, from this body, to harass the enemy : a 
strong body of infantry, supposed to be advancing. 
Several squadrons of light horse immediately spring 
forward; they form themselves into line, they 
wheel into column, and endeavour, by well direct- 
ed manoeuvres, to outflank the strong wing of the 
advancing enemj-. After succeeding in executing 
all that was committed to them, and after having 
skirmished in the van of their own army, so as to 
give time for all necessary dispositions of the line 
of battle, the van-guard suddenly retreats between 
the brigades of the cavalry of the line ; the pre- 
paid battery of cannon is unmasked ; and a tre- 
mendous concentric fire opened on the line of the 
advancing foe. Taking advantage of the confusion 
created by this unexpected salute of his artillerj', 
A''on Sohnspeer, who commands the cavalry, gives 
the word " Charge !" I 



The whole body of cavalry immediately charge 
in masses — the extended line of the enemy is as 
immediately broken. But the infantry, who are 
commanded by one of the royal relatives and visi- 
ters, the Prince of Pike and Powdren, dexterously 
form into squares, and commence a masterly re- 
treat in square battalions. At length, they take up 
a more favouraljle position than the former one. 
They are again galled by the artillery, who have 
proportionately advanced, and again charged by 
the cavalry in their huge masses. And now the 
squares of infantry partially give away. They 
admit the cavalry, but the exulting horse find, to 
their dismay, that the enemy are not routed, but 
that there are yet inner squares formed at salient 
angles. The cavalrj^ for a moment retire, but it is 
only to give opportunity to their artillery to rake 
the obstinate foes. The execution of the battery 
is fearful. Headed by their commander, the whole 
body of cuirassiers and dragoons again charge 
with renewed energy and concentrated force. The 
infantry are thrown into the greatest confusion, 
and commence a rout, increased and rendered irre- 
mediable by the lancers and hussars, the former 
van-guard ; who now, seizing on the favourable 
moment, again rush forward, increasing the eflect 
of the charge of the whole army, overtaking the 
fugitives with their lancers, and securing the pri- 
soners. 

The victorious Von Sohnspeer, followed by his 
staff, now galloped up to receive the congratula- 
tions of his sovereign. 

"Where are your prisoners, field-marshal?" 
asked his royal highness, with a flattering smile. 

" What is the ransom of our unfortunate guest V 
asked Madame Carolina. 

" I hope we shall have another affair," said the 
baroness, winh a flushed foce and glowing eyes. 

But the commander-in-chief must not tarry to 
bandy compliments. He is again wanted in the 
field. The whole troops have formed in line. 
Some most scientific evolutions are now executed. 
W'^ith them I will not weary the reader, nor dilate 
on the comparative advantages of forming en cre- 
mailliere and en echiquier; nor upon the duties of 
tirailleurs, nor upon concentric fires and eccentric 
nwvements, nor upon deploying, nor upon enfilad- 
ing, nor upon oblique points, nor upon echellons. 
The day finished by the whole of the troops again 
forming a line, and passing in order before the 
commander-in-chief, to give him an opportunity of 
observing their discipline and inspecting their 
equipments. 

The review being finished, Count von Sohns- 
peer and his stafl' joined the royal party ; and after 
walking their horses round the field, tlioy proceeded 
to his pavilion, where refreshments were prepared 
for them. The field-marshal, flattered by the inte- 
rest which the young baroness had taken in the 
business of the day, and the acquaintance she cvi- 
dejitly possessed of the more obv'ous details of 
military tactics, was inclined to be jiarticularlj' 
courteous to her, but the object of his admiration 
did not encourage attentions, by which half the 
ladies of the court would have thought themselves 
as highly honoured as by those of the grand-duke 
himself; — so powerful a person was the field-mar- 
shal, and so little inclined by temper to cultivate 
the graces of the fair sex ! 

" In the tent keep by my side," said the baroness 
to Vivian. " Although I am fond of heroes, Von 



200' 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Sohnspeer is not '.o my taste. I know not why I 
flatter you so by my notice, for I suppose like all 
Englishmen, you are not a soldier? I thought 
so. — Never mind ! you ride well enough for a 
lield-marshal. I really think I could give you a 
commission without much stickling of my con- 
science. No, no ! I should like 'j'ou nearer me. 
I have a good mind to make you my master of the 
horse, that is to say, when I am entitled to have 
one." 

As Vivian acknowledged the young baroness' 
compliment by becoming emotion, and vowed that 
any office near her person would be the consum- 
mation of all his wishes, his eye caught the lady's: 
she blushed deeply, looked down upon her horse's 
neck, and then turned away her head. 

Von Sohnspeer's pavilion excellently became 
the successful leader of the army of Rcisenberg. 
Trophies taken from all sides decked its interior. 
The black eagle of Austria formed part of its roof, 
and the brazen eagle of Gaul supported part of the 
side. The gray-headed general looked rather grim 
when he saw a flag belonging to a troop, which 
perhaps he had himself once conmianded. He 
vented his indignation to the toothless bishop, who 
crossed his breast with his lingers, covered with 
diamonds, and preached temperance and modera- 
tion in inarticulate sounds. 

During the collation, the conversation was 
principally military. Madame Carolina, who was 
entirely ignorant of the subject of discourse, en- 
chanted all the officers present by appearing to be 
the most interested person in the tent. Nothing 
could exceed the elegance of her eulogium of 
" petit guen-e." The old gray general talked much 
about " the good old times," by which he meant 
the thirty years of plunder, bloodshed, and destruc- 
tion, which were occasioned by the French revolu- 
tion. He gloated on the recollections of horror, 
which he feared would never occur again. The 
Archduke Charles and Prince Schwartzenburg 
were the gods of his idolatry ; and Nadasti's hus- 
sars and W^urmser's dragoons, the inferior divinities 
of his bloody heaven. One evolution of the morn- 
ing, a discovery made by Von Sohnspecr himself, 
in the dcjiloying of cavalry, created a great sensa- 
tion ; and it was settled that it would have been 
of great use to Dessaix and Clairfayt in the 
Netherlands affair of some eight-and-twenty years 
ago; and was not equalled even by Seidlitz's ca- 
valry in the affair with the Russians at ZornsdorlF. 
in short, every " affair" of any character during 
the late war, was fought over again in the tent of 
Field-marshal von Sohnspeer. At length from the 
Archduke Charles, and Prince Schwartzenburg, the 
old gray-headed general got to Polybius and Mon- 
sieur Folard; and the grand-duke now thinking 
that the '' affair" was taking too serious a turn, 
broke up the party. Madame Carolina and most 
if the ladies used their carriages on their return. 
They were nearly fifteen miles from the city ; but 
the baroness, in spite of the most earnest solicita- 
tions, would remount her charger. Her singularity 
attracted the attention of Emilius von Aslingen, 
who immediately joined her party. As a captain 
in the Royal Guards, he had performed his part in 
the day's horrors ; and the baroness immediately 
complimented him upon his exertions and his vic- 
tory. 

" It was an excellent affair !" said the lady : " I 
shou.d like a mock battle every day during peace." 



" A mock battle !" said Emilius von Aslingen, 
with a stare of gi-eat astonishment ; " has there 
been a battle to-day 1 My memory, I fear, is 
failing me ; but now that your excellency has re- 
called it to my mind, I have a very faint recollection 
of a slight squabl)!e." 

They cantered home — the baroness in unusual 
spirits — Vivian thinking very much of his fair 
companion. Her character puzzled him. That 
she was not the lovely simpleton that Madame 
Carolina believed her to be, he had little doubt. 
Some people have great knowledge of society, and 
very little of mankind. Madame Carolina was one 
of these. Sftie vievied her species through only 
one medium. That the baroness was a woman of 
acute feeling, Vivian could not doubt. Her con- 
duet at the opera, which had escaped every one's 
attention, made this evident. That she had seen 
more of the world than her previous conversation 
had given him to believe, was equally clear by her 
conduct and conversation this morning. He de- 
termined to become more acquainted with her 
character. Her evident partiality to his company 
would not render the execution of his purpose 
difficult. At any rate, if he discovered nothing, it 
was something to do : it would at least amuse him. 

In the evening he joined a large party at the 
palace. He looked immediately for the baroness. 
She was surrounded by all the dandies, in conse- 
quence of the flattering conduct of Emilius von 
Aslingen in the morning. Their attentions she 
treated with contempt, and ridiculed their compli- 
ments without mercy. Without obtruding himself 
on her notice, Vivian joined her circle, and wit- 
nessed her demolition of the young Count of 
Eberstein with great amusement. Emilius von 
A«lingen was not there ; for having now made the 
interesting savage the fashion, she was no longer 
worthy his attention, and consequently deserted. 
The young lady soon observed Vivian ; and say- 
ing, without the least embarrassment, that she was 
delighted to see him, she begged him to share her 
chaise-lounge. Her envious levee witnessed the 
preference with dismay ; and as the object of their 
attention did not now notice their remarks, even 
by her expressed contempt, one by one fell away. 
Vivian and the baroness were left alone, and con- 
versed together the whole evening. The lady 
displayed, on every subject, the most engaging 
ignorance ; and requested information on obvious 
topics with the most artless naivete. Vivian was 
convinced that her ignorance was not afl'ected, and 
equally sure that it could not arise from imbecility 
of intellect; for while she surprised him by her 
crude questions, and- her want of acquaintance 
with all those topics which generally form the 
sta])le of conversation ; she equally amused him 
with her poignant wit, and the imperious and 
energetic manner in which she instantly expected 
satisfactory information on every possible subject. 



CHAPTER XII. 

On the day after the review, a fancy-dress ball 
was to be given at court. It was to be an enter- 
tainment of a very particular nature. The lively 
genius of Madame Carolina wearied of the com- 
monplace ellcct generally produced by this speciea 



VIVIAN GREY. 



201 



of amusement — in which usually a stray Turk, 
and a wandering Pole, looked sedate and singular 
among crowds of Spanish girls', Swiss peasants, 
and gentlemen in uniform — had invented some- 
thing novel. Her idea was ingenious. To use her 
own sublime phrase, she determined that the party 
should represent " an age !" Great difficulty was 
experienced in fixing upon the century which was 
to be honoured. At first a poetical idea was started 
of having something primeval — perhaps antedilu- 
vian, — but Noah, or even Father Abraham, were 
thought characters hardly sufficiently romantic for 
a fancy-dress ball ; and consequently the earliest 
postdiluvian ages were soon under consideration. 
Nimrod, or Sardanapalus, were distinguished per- 
sonages, and might be well represented by the Mas- 
ter of the stag-hounds, or the Master of the Revels ; 
but then the want of an interesting lady-character 
was a great objection. Semiraniis, though not 
without style in her own way, was not sufficiently 
Parisian for Madame Carolina. New ages were 
proposed, and new objections started ; and so the 
" Committee of Selection," which consisted of 

Madame herself, the Countess von S , and a 

few other dames of fashion, gradually slided through 
the four great empires. Athens was not aristo- 
cratic enough, and then the women were nothing. 
In spite of her admiration of the character of As- 
pasia, Madame Carolina somewhat doubted the 
possibility of persuading the ladies of the court of 
Keisenberg to appear in the characters of sTa/^-*/. 
Rome presented great capabilities, and greater diffi- 
culties. Finding themselves, after many days' sit- 
ting and study, still very far from coming to a deci- 
sion, madame called in the aid of the grand-duke, 
who proposed " something national." The propo- 
sition was plausible ; but according to Madame 
Carolina, Germany, until her own time, had been 
only a land of barbarism and barbarians ; and 
therefore, in such a country, in a national point of 
view, what could there be interesting ! The mid- 
dle ages, as they are usually styled, in spite of the 
Emperor Charlemagne — " that oasis in the desert 
of barbarism" — to use her own eloquent and origi- 
nal image — were her particular aversion. " The 
age of chivalry is past !" was as constant an excla- 
mation of Madame Carolina, as it was of Mr. 
Burke. " The age of chivalry is past — and very 
fortunate that it is. What resources could they 
have had in the age of chivalry ? — an age without 
either moral or experimental philosophy ; an age 
in which they were equally ignorant of the doc- 
trine of association of ideas, and of the doctrine of 
electricity ; and when they were as devoid of a 
knowledge of the incalculable powers of the human 
mind as of the incalculable powers of steam !" 
Had Madame Carolina been the consort of an Ita- 
lian grand-duke, selection would not be difficult; 
and, to inquire no farther, the court of the Medicis 
alone would afford them every thing they wanted. 
But Germany never had any character, and never 
produced nor had been the resort of illustrious men 
and interesting persons. What was to be done ] 
The age of Frederick the Great was the only thing ; 
and then that was so recent, and would ofieud the 
Austrians ; it could not be thought of. 

At last, when the " Committee of Selection," was 
almost in despair, some one proposed a period, 
which not only would be German — not only would 
compliment the House of Austria, — but, what was 
of still greater importance, would allow of every 
26 



contemporary character of interest of every nation 
— the age of Charles the Fifth ! The suggestion 
was received with enthusiastic shouts, and adopted 
on the spot. " The Committee of Selection" was 
immediately dissolved, and its members as imme- 
diately formed themselves into a " Committee of 
Arrangement." Lists of all the persons of any fame, 
distinction, or notoriety, who had lived cither in the 
empire of Germany, the kingdoms of Spain, Por- 
tugal, France, or England, the Italian States, the 
Netherlands, the Americas, and in short, in every 
country in the known world, were immediately 
formed. Von Chronicle, rewarded for his last his- 
torical novel by a riband and the title of baron, 
was appointed secretary to the " Committee of 
■Costume." All guests who received a card of in- 
vitation, were desired, on or before a certain day, 
to send in the title of their adopted character, and 
a sketch of their intended dress, that their plans 
might receive the sanction of the ladies of the 
" Committee of Arrangement," and their dresses, 
the approbation of the Secretaiy of Costume. By 
this method, the chance and inconvenience of two 
persons selecting and appearing in the same cha- 
racter, were destroyed and prevented. After ex- 
citing the usual jealousies, intrigues, dissatisfaction, 
and ill-blood, by the influence and imperturbable 
temper of Madame Carolina, every thing was ar- 
ranged — Emilius von .\slingen being the only per- 
son who set both the Committees of Arrangement 
and Costume at defiance ; and treated the repeated 
applications of their respected secretary with the 
most contemptuous silence. The indignant Baron 
von Chronicle entreated the strong interference of 
the "Committee of Arrangement;" but Emilius 
von Aslingen was too powerful an individual to be 
treated by others as he treated them. Had the 
fancy-dress ball of the sovereign been attended by 
all his subjects, with the exception of this captain 
in his Guards, the whole afl'air would have been a 
failure ; would have been dark, in spite of the glare 
of ten thousand lamps, and the glories of all the 
jewels of his state ; would have been dull, although 
each guest were wittier than Pasquin himself; and 
very vulgar, although attended by lords of as many 
quarterings as the ancient shield of his own ante- 
diluvian house ! O Fashion ! — I have no time for 
invocations. All, therefore, that the ladies of the 
" Committee of Arrangement" could do, was to 
enclose to the rebellious Von Aslingen a list of the . 
expected characters, and a resolution passed in 
consequence of his contumacy ; that no person, or 
persons, was, or were, to appear as either or any of 
those characters, unless he, or they, could produce 
a ticket, or tickets, granted by a member of the 
" Committee of Arrangement," and countersigned 
by the secretary of " the Committee of Costume." 
At the same time that these vigorous measures 
were resolved on, no persons spoke on Emilius von 
Aslingen's rebellious conduct in terms of greater 
admiration than the ladies of the committee them- 
selves. If possible, he, in consequence, became 
even a more influential and popular personage 
than before ; and his conduct procured him almost 
the adoration of persons, who, had they dared to imi- 
tate him, would have been instantly crushed ; and 
would have been banished society principally by 
the exertions of the very individual whom they had 
the presumption to mimic. Fashion ! — I forgot. 
In the gardens of the palace was a spacious am- 
phitheatre, cut out in green seats for the --pectatora 



202 



D'lSRAELPS NOVELS. 



of the plays which, during the summer months, 
were sometimes performed there by the Court. 
There was a stage in the same taste, with rows of 
trees for side-scenes, and a great number of arbours 
and summer-rooms, surrounded by lofty hedges of 
laurel, for the actors to retire and dress in. Con- 
nected with this " rural theati-e," for such was its 
title, were a number of labyrinths and groves, and 
arched walks in the same style. Above twelve 
large fountains were in the immediate vicinity of 
tins theatre. At the end of one walk a seahorse 
spouted its element through its nostrils ; and in 
another, Neptune turned an Ocean out of a vase. 
ISeated on a rock, Arcadia's half-goat god, the deity 
of silly sheep and silly poets, sent forth' trickling 
streams through his rustic pipes ; and in the centre 
of a green grove, an enamoured Salmacis, bathing 
in a pellucid basm, seemed watching for her Her- 
maphrodite. 

It was in this rural theatre, and its fanciful con- 
tines, that Madame Carolina and her counsellors 
'■csolved, that their magic should, for a night, not 
only stop the course of time, but recall past cen- 
turies. It was certainly rather late in the year for 
choosing such a spot for the scene of their enchant- 
ment ; but the season, as I have often had oc(;asion 
to remark in the course of these volumes, was sin- 
gularly tine; and indeed at the moment of which I 
am spealdng, the nights were as warm, and as clear 
irom mist and dew, as they are during an Italian 
midsummer. 

But it is eight o'clock — we are already rather 
late. Is that a figure by Holbein, just started out 
of the canvass, that I am about to meet ] Stand 
aside ! It is a page of the Emperor Charles the 
Fifth ! The Court is on its way to the theatre. 
The theatre and the gardens are brilliantly illumi- 
nated. The effect of the thousands of coloured 
lamps, in all parts of the foliage, is very beautiful. 
The moon is up, and a million stars ! If it be not 
quite as light as day, it is just light enough for plea- 
sure. You could not perhaps endorse a bill of ex- 
change, or engross a lawyei-'s parchment, by this 
light ; but then it is just the light to read a love- 
letter by, and do a thousand other things besides — 
I have a long story to tell, and so — guess them ! 

All hail to the emperor! I would give his cos- 
tume, were it not rather too much in the style of 
the Von Chronicles. Keader ! you have seen a 
portrait of Charles by Holbein : very well — what 
need is there of a description 1 No lack was there 
in this gay scene of massy chains and curious col- 
lars, nor cloth of gold, nor cloth of silver '. No lack 
was there of trembling plumes, and costly hose ! No 
lack was there of crhnson velvet, and russet velvet, 
and tawny velvet, and purple velvet, and plunket 
velvet, and of scarlet cloth, and green taffeta, and 
cloth of silk embroidered ! No lack was there of 
garments of estate, and of quaint chcmews, nor of 
short crimson cloaks, covered with pearls and pre- 
cious stones. No lack was there of jjarty-coloured 
splendour, of purple velvet embroidered with white, 
and white satin dresses embroidered with black. 
No lack was there of splendid koyfes of damask, or 
Kerchiefs of line Cyprus; nor of points of Venice 
silver of ducat fmeness, nor of garlands of friars' 
knots, nor of coluured satins, nor of lileeding hearts 
embroidered on the bravery of dolorous lovers, nor 
of quaint sentences of wailing gallantry. But for 
the details, are they not to be found in those much- 
ncglectcd and much-plundered persons, the old 



chroniclers ? and will they not sufficiently appear 
in the most inventive portion of the next great 
historical novel 1 

The grand-duke looked the emperor. Our friend 
the grand-marshal was Francis the First ; and 
Arnelm, and Von Neuwied, iigurcd as the Marshal 
Montmorency, and the Marshal Lautrcc. The old 
toothless bishop did justice to Clement the Seventh; 
and his companion, the ancient general, looked 
grim as Pompeo Colonna. A prince of the House 
of Nassau, one of the royal visiters, represented his 
adventurous ancestor the Prince of Orange. Von 
Sohnspeer was that haughty and accomplished 
rebel, the Constable of Bourbon. The young 
Baron Gemsbach was worthy of the Seraglio, as 
he stalked along as Solyman the Magnificent, with 
all the family jewels, belonging to his old dowager 
mother, shining in his superb turban. Our friend 
the Count of Eberstein personified chivalry, in the 
person of Bayard. The younger Cernstorff, the 
Ultimate friend of Gernsbach, attended his sumptu- 
ous sovereign as that Turkish Paul Jones, Barba- 
rossa. An Italian prince was Andrew Doria. The 
grand-chamberlain, our francise acquaintance, and 
who affected a love of literature, was the Protestant 
Elector of Saxonj'. His train consisted of the 
principal litterateurs of Reisenberg : the Editor of 
the " Attack-all-Review," who originally had been 
a Catholic, but who "had been skilfully converted 
some years ago, when he thought Cathohcism was 
on the decline, was Martin Luther, — an individual 
whom, both in his apostasy and brutality, he much 
and only resembled ; on the contrary, the Editor of 
the " Praise-all-Review," appeared as the mild and 
meek Melancthon. Mr. Sievcrs, not yet at Vienna, 
was Erasmus. Ariosto, Guicciardini, Ronsard, 
Rabelais, IVlachiavel, Pietro Aretino, Garcilasso de 
la Vega, Sannazaro, and Paracelsus, afforded names 
to many nameless crirics. Two generals, brothers, 
appeared as Cortez and Pizarro, The noble di- 
rector of the gallery was Albert Dv\rer; and his 
deputy, Hans Holbein, The court painter, a 
wrctcj'.cd mimic of the modern French school, did 
justice to the character of Correggio ; and an indif- 
ferent sculptor looked sublime as Michel Angelo. 

Von Chronicle had persuaded the Prince of 
Pike and Powdren, one of his warmest admirers, to 
appear- as Henry the Eighth of England. His 
highness was one of those true north German 
patriots who think their own country a very garden 
of Eden, and verily believe that original sin is to be 
finally put an end to, in a large sandy plain between 
Berlin and Hanover. The Prince of Pike and 
Powdcrn passed his whole life in patriotically sigh- 
ing for the concentration of all Germany into one 
great nation, and in secretly trusting that if ever 
the consummation took place, the North would be 
rewarded for their condescending union, by a mo- 
nopoly of all the privileges of the empire. Such a 
character was of course extremely desirous of figur- 
ing to-night in a style peculiarly national. The 
persuasions of Von Chronicle, however, prevailed, 
and induced his Highness of Pike and Powdren to 
dismiss his idea of appearing as the ancient 
Arminius ; although it was with great regret that 
the prince gave up his plan of personating his 
favourite hero, with hair down to his middle and 
skins up to his chin. Nothing would content Von 
Chronicle, but that his kind patron should repre- 
sent a crowned head : any thing else was beneath 
him. 'l"hc patriotism of the prince disappeared 



VIVIAN GREY. 



203 



bofon' \ho flattery of the novelist, like the bloom of 
a vlun» betore the breath of a boy, when he polishes 
the yo Jvilered fruit ere he devours it. No sooner 
had his highness agreed to he changed into blull 
Harry, than the secret purpose of his adviser was 
immediately detected. No court confessor, seduced 
by the vision of a red hat, ever betrayed the secrets 
of his sovereijrn with greater fervour, than did Von 
Chronicle labour for the cardinal's costume, which 
was the consequence of the Prince of Pike and 
Powdren undertaking the English monarch. To- 
night, proud as was the part of lh« prince as regal 
Harry, his strut was a shamble compared with the 
imperious stalk of Von Chronicle as the arrogant 
and ambitious Wolsey. The cardinal in Ricnzi 
was nothing to him ; for to-night Wolsey had as 
many pages, as the other had petticoats ! 

But, most ungallant of scribblers ! Place aux 
dames ! Surely Madame Carolina, as the beautiful 
and accomplished Margaret of Navan-e, might well 
command, even without a mandate, j'our homage 
and your admiration ! 'I'he lovely queen seemed 
the very goddess of smiles and repartee : young 
Max, as her page, carried at her side a painted 
volume of her own poetry. The arm of the 
favourite sister of Francis, who it will be remem- 
bered once fascinated even the emperor, was linked 
in that of CfEsar's natural daughter — her beautiful 
namesake, the bright-eyed Margaret of Austria. 
Conversing with these royal dames, and indeed 
apparently in attendance upon them, was a young 
gallant of very courtly bearing, and attired in a 
very fantastic dress. It is Clement Marot, the 
*' Poet of Princes, and the Prince of Poets," as he 
was styled by his own admiring age : he oflcrs to 
the critical inspection of the nimble-witted Navarre 
a few lines in celebration of her beauty and the 
night's festivity ; one of those short Marotique 
poems once so celebrated — perhaps a page culled 
from those gay and airy psalms, which, with 
characteristic gallantry he dedicated to the " Dames 
of France !" Observe well the fashionable bard ! 
Marot was a true poet, and in his day not merely 
read by queens and honoured by courtiers : observe 
hiin, I say, well ; for the character is supported by 
one who is a great favouiite with myself, and I 
trust also with you, sweet reader, — our Vivian 
Grey. It was with great difficulty that Madame 
Carolina had found a character for her favourite, 
for the lists were all filled before his arrival at 
Ileisenberg. She at first wished him to appear as 
some celebrated Englishman of the time, but no 
character of sufKcicnt importance could be dis- 
covered. All our countrymen in contact or con- 
nexion with the Emperor Charles were churchmen 
and civilians ; and Sir Nicholas Carew and the 
other fops of the reign of Henry the Eighth, who, 
after their visit to Paris, were even more ridiculously 
francise than the grand-chamberlain of Rcisenberg 
himself, were not, after mature deliberation, con- 
sii]ei»3d entitled to the honour of being ranked in 
Madame Carolina's age of Charles the Fifth. 

But who is this, surrounded by her ladies, and 
her chamberlains, and her secretaries ! Four pages 
in dresses of cloth of gold, and each the son of a 
prince of the French blood support her train; a 
crown encircles locks, gray, as much from thought 
as from time ; but which re(iuires no show of roy- 
ahy to prove that they belong to a mother of 
princes : — that ample forehead, aquiline nose, and 
the keen glance of her piercing eye, denote the 



queen, as much as the regality of her gait, and her 
numerous and splendid train. The young Queen 
of Navarre hastens to profler her duty to the 
mother of Francis, the celebrated Louise of Savoy ; 
and exquisitely did the young and lovely Countess 

of S personate the most celebrated of female 

diplomatists. 

I have forgotten one character: the repeate( 
commands of his father, and the constant entreatie 
of Madame Carolina, had at length prevailed upoi 
the crown prince to shuffle himself into a fancy 
dress. No sooner had he gratified them by his 
hard-wrung consent, than 13aron von Chronicle 
called upon him with drawings of the costume of 
the Prince of Asturias, afterwards Philip the Second 
of Spain. If I for a moment forgot so important a 
personage as the future grand-duke, it must have 
been because he supported his character so ably, 
that no one for an instant believed that it was an 
assumed one : — standing near the side scenes of 
the amphitheatre, with his gloomy brow, sad eye, 
protruding under lip, and arms hanging straight by 
liis sides — he looked a bigot without hope, and a 
tyrant without purpose. 

The first hour is over, and the guests are all as- 
sembled. As yet, they content themselves with 
promenading round the amj^hitheatre ; for before 
they can think of dance or stroll, each of them 
nnist be duly acquainted with the other's dress. 
Certainly it was a most splendid scene. The 
Queen of Navarre has now been presented to the 
emperor ; and leaning on his arm, they head the 
promenade. The emperor had given the hand of 
Margaret of Austria to his legitimate son ; but the 
crown prince, though he continued in silence by 
the side of the young baroness, soon resigned a 
hand which did not struggle to retain his. Clement 
Marot was about to fall back into a less conspicu- 
ous part of the procession ; but the grand-duke wit- 
nessing the regret of his loved cT)nsort, condescend- 
ingly said, " We cannot afibrd to lose our poet ;"' 
and so Vivian found himself walking behind Ma- 
dame Carolina, and on the left side of the young 
baroness. Louise of Savoy followed with her son^ 
the King of France ; most of the ladies of the court, 
and a crowd of otTicers, among them Montmorency 
and De Lautrec, after their majesties. The King 
of England moves by ; his state unnoticed in the 
superior magnificence of Wolsey. Pompeo Colonna 
apologizes to Pope Clement for having besieged his 
Holiness in the Castle of St. Angelo. The Electoi 
of Saxony and the Prince of Orange follow. Soly 
man the Magnificent is attended by his admiral 
and Bayard's pure spirit almost quivers at the 
whispered treason of the Constable of Bourbon. 
Luther and Melancthon, Erasmus and Rabelais, 
Cortez and Pizarro, Correggio and Michel Angelo, 
and a long train of dames and dons of all nations, 
succeed; — so long that the amphitheatre cannot 
hold them : — and the procession, that all may walk 
over the stage, makes a short progress through an 
adjoining summer-room. 

Just as the emperor and the fliir queen are in 
the middle of the stage, a wounilcd warrior, with a 
face pale as an eclipsed moon ; a helmet, on which 
is painted the sign of his sacred order; a black 
mantle thrown over his left shoulder, but not conceal- 
ing his armour ; a sword in his right hand, and an 
outstretched crucifix in his left; — rushes on the 
scene. The procession suddenly halts — all recog- 
nise Emilius von Aslingen ! and Madame Carolina 



204 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



blushes through her rouge, when she perceives that 
so celebrated, " so uiteresting a character" as Igna- 
tius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, has not been 
included in the all-comprehensive hsts of her com- 
mittee. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Henkt of England led the Polonnaise with 
Louise of Savoy ; Margaret of Austria would not 
join it : waltzing quickly followed. The emperor 
eeldom left the side of the Queen of NavaiTe, and 
often conversed with her majesty's poet. The 
Prince of Asturias hovered for a moment round his 
fathei-'s daughter, as if he were summoning resolu- 
tion to ask her to waltz. Once indeed, lie opened 
his mouth. Could it have been to speak 1 but the 
j'oung Margaret gave no encouragement to his 
unusual exertion ; and Philip of Asturias looking, 
if possible, more sad and sombre than beofre, skulked 
away. The crown prince left the gardens, and now 
a smile lit up every face except that of the young 
baroness. The gracious grand-duke, unwilling to 
see a gloomy countenance anywhere to-night, 
turned to Vivian, who was speaking to Madame 
Carolina, and said, " Gentle poet, would that thou 
hadst some chanson or courtly compliment, to 
chase the cloud which hovers on tlie brow of our 
much-loved daughter of Austria ! Your popularity, 
sir," continued the grand-duke, dropping his mock- 
heroic vein, and speaking in a much lower tone : 
" your popularity, sir, among the ladies of the court, 
cannot be increased by any panegyric of ours ; nor 
are we insensible, believe us, to the assiduity and 
skill with which you have complied with our 
wishes, in making pur court agreeable to the rela- 
tive of a man, to whom we owe so much as Mr. 
Beckendorff. We are informed, Mr. Grey," con- 
tinued his royal highness, " that you have no in- 
tention of very speedily returning to your country ; 
we wish that we could count you among our pecu- 
liar attendants. If yoti have an objection to live 
in our palace, without performing your quota of 
duty to the state, we shall have no difhculty in 
finding you an office, and clothing you in our 
official costume. Think of this !" So saying, 
with a gracious smile, his royal highness, leading 
Madame Carolina, commenced a walk round the 
gardens. 

The young" baroness did not follow them. Soly- 
man the Magnificent, and Bayard the irreproach- 
able, and Barbarossa the pirate, and Bourbon the 
rebel, immediately surrounded her. Few persons 
were higher ton than the Turkish emperor and his 
admiral — few persons talked more agrce^ible non- 
sense than the knight, sans peur et sans reproche 
— no person was more important than the warlike 
constable; but their attention, their amusement, 
anfl their homage, were to-night thrown away on 
the object of their observance. The baroness listen- 
ed to them without interest, and answered them 
with brevity. She did not even condescend, as 
she had done before, to enter into a war of words 
to mortify their vanity or exercise their wit. She 
treated them neither with contempt nor courtesy. 
If no smile welcomed their remarks, at least her 
silence was not scornful, and the most shallow- 
aeaded prater that fluttered around her, felt tliat he 



was received with dignity and not wj*h disdain. 
Awed by her conduct, not one of them dared to be 
flippant, and every one of them soon became dull. 
'i'he ornaments of the court of Reisenbcrg, the 
arbiters of ton and the lords of taste, stared with 
astonishment at each other, when they found, to 
their mutual surprise, that at one moment, in such 
a select party, universal silence pervaded. In this 
state of affairs, every one felt that his dignity re- 
quired his speedy disappearance from the lady's 
presence. The Orientals taking advantage of 
Bourbon's returning once more to the charge, with 
an often unanswered remark, coolly walked away : 
the chevalier made an adroit and honourable re- 
treat, by joining a passing party ; and the constabie 
was the only one, who, being left in sohtude and 
silence, v^'as fmally obliged to make a formal bow, 
and retire discomfitted, from the side of the only 
woman with whom he had ever condescended to 
fall in love. Leaning against the trunk of a tree 
at some little distance, Vivian Grey watched the 
formation and dissolution of the young baroness' 
levee, with the liveliest interest. His eyes met the 
lady's, as she raised them from the ground, on Von 
Sohnspeer quitting her. She immediately beckon- 
ed to Vivian, but without her usual smile. He was 
directly at her side, but she did not speak. At 
last he said, " I think this is a most brilliant scene !" 

" You think so — cfo you V answered the lady, 
in a tone and manner which almost made Vivian 
believe for a moment, that his friend Mr. Becken- 
dorff was at his side. 

" Decidedly his daughter !" thought he. 

" You do not seem in your usual spirits to- 
night?" said Vivian. 

" I hardly know what my usual spirits are," said 
the lady ; in a manner which would have made 
Vivian imagine that his presence was as disagree- 
able to her as that of Count von Sohnspeer, had 
not the lady herself invited his company. 

" I suppose the scene is very brilliant," continued 
the baroness, after a few moment's silence. " At 
least all here seem to think so, — except two per- 
sons." 

" And who are they 1" asked Vivian 

" Myself, and — the crown prince. I am almost 
sorry that I did not dance with him. There seems 
a wonderful similarity in our dispositions." 

" You are pleased to be severe to-night !" 

" And who shall complain when the first per- 
son I satirize is myself]" 

" It is most considerate in you," said Vivian, " to 
undertake such an oihce ; for it is one which you, 
yourself, are alone capable of fulfilling. The only 
person that can ever satirize your excellency is 
yourself; and I think even then, that in spite of 
your candour, your self-examination must please 
us with a self-panegyric." 

" Nay, a truce to your compliments ; at least, 
let me hear better things from you. I cannot any 
longer endure the glare of these lamps and dresses ; 
your arm ! Let us walk for a few minutes in the 
more retired and cooler parts of the gardens." 

The baroness and Vivian left the amphitheatre, 
by a different path to that by wh-ch the grand- 
duke and Madame Carolina had quitted it. I'hey 
found the walks quite solitary ; for tli-^ roj'al party, 
which was very small, contained the only persons 
who had yet left the stage. 

Vivian and his companion strolled about for 
some time, conversing on subjects of ca-^ual interest. 



VIVIAN GREY. 



205 



The baroness, though no longer absent, either 
in hci manner or her conversation, was not in her 
accustomed spirits ; and Vivian, while he flattered 
himself that he was more entertaining than usual, 
felt to his mortification, that the lady was not en- 
tertained. 

'• I am afraid you find it very dull here," said 
he : " shall we return 1" 

" 0, no ; do not let us return ! We have so 
ehort a time to be together, that we must not allow 
even one hour to be dull." 

As Vivian was about to reply, he heard the joy- 
ous voice of young Maximilian ; it sounded very 
near ; the royal party were approaching. The 
baroness expressed her earnest desire to avoid it ; 
and as to advance or retreat, in these labyrinthine 
walks, was almost equally hazardous, they retired 
into one of those green recesses which I have be- 
fore mentioned ; indeed, it was the very evergreen 
grove, in the centre of which the Nymph of the 
Fountain watched for her loved Carian youth. A 
shov^-er of moonlight fell on the marble statue, and 
showed the nymph in an attitude of consummate 
skill : her modesty struggling with her desire, and 
herself crouching in her hitherto pure waters, while 
her anxious ear listens for the bounding step of the 
regardless huntsman. 

" The air is cooler here," said the baroness, " or 
the sound of the falfing water is peculiarly refresh- 
ing to my senses. They have passed ; I rejoice 
that we did not return ; I do not think that I could 
have remained among those lamps another moment. 
How singular, actually to view with aversion a 
scene which appears to enchant all !" 

" A scene which I should have thought would 
have been particularly charming to you," said Vi- 
vian : " you are dispirited to-night V 

"Am 11" said the baroness. "I ought not to 
be ; not to be more dispirited than I ever am. To- 
night I expected pleasure ; nothing has happened 
which I did not expect, and every thing which I 
did. And yet I am sad ! Do you think that hap- 
piness can ever be sad 1 I think it must be so. 
But whether I am sorrowful, or happy, I can hard- 
ly tell ; for it is only within these few days that I 
have kno^vn either grief or joy." 

" It must be counted an eventful period in your 
existence, which reckons in its brief hours a first 
acquaintance with sucR passions]" said Vivian, 
with a searching eye and an inquiring voice. 

'• Yes ; an eventful ])eriod — certainly an eventful 
period," answered the baroness ; with a thoughtful 
air and in measured words. 

" I cannot bear to see a cloud upon that brow 1" 
said Vivian. " Have you forgotten how much was 
t) be done to-night 1 How eagerly you looked for- 
ward to its arrival 1 How bitterly we were to 
regret the termination of the mimic empire 1" 

" I have forgotten nothing : would that I had ! 
I will not look grave. I will be gay ; and yet 
when I remember how soon other mockery, besides 
this splendid pageant, must be terminated, why 
should I look gay 1 — why may I not weep 1" 

'• Nay, if we are to moralize on worldly felicity, 
I fear, that instead of inspiriting you, which is my 
wish, I shall prove but a too congenial companion ; 
but such a theme is not for you." 

" And why should it be for one, who though he 
lecture me with such gravity and gracefulness, can 
scarcely be entitled to play the part of Mentor by 
tlie weight of years 1" said the baroness with a 



smile ; " for one, who, I trust — who, T should think, 
as little deserved, and was as little inured to sorrow 
as myself!" 

" To find that you have cause to griei'e," said 
Vivian ; " and to learn from you, at the same time 
your opinion of my own lot, prove what I have too 
often had the sad opportunity of observing ; that 
the face of man is scarcely more genuine and less 
deceitful, than these masquerade dresses which we 
now wear." 

" But you are not unhappy ]" asked the baroness 
with a quick voice. 

" Not now," said Vivian. 

His companion seated herself on the marble 
balustrade which surrounded the fountain : she did 
not immediately speak again, and A'^ivian was silent, 
for he was watching her motionless countenance as 
her large brilliant eyes gazed with earnestness on 
the falling water sparkling in the moonlight. Surely 
it was not the mysterious portrait at Beckendorft's 
that he beheld ! How came he not to remark this 
likeness before ! 

She turned — she seized his hand — she pressed it 
with warmth. 

" friend ! too lately found ; why have we met 
to parti" 

" To part, dearest !" said he, in a low and 
rapid voice ; " to part ! and why should we part ? 
— why — " 

" ! ask not, ask not; your qjiiestion is agony." 
She tried to withdraw her hand, he pressed it with 
renewed energy, it remained in his, — she turned 
away her head, and both were silent. 

" ! lady," said Vivian, as he knelt at her side ; 
" why are we not happy V 

His arm is round her waist — gently he bends 
his head — their speaking eyes meet, and their 
trembling lips cling into a kiss ! 

A seal of love, and purity, and faith ! — and the 
chaste moon need not have blushed as she lit up 
the countenances of the lovers. 

" O I lady, why are we not happy V 
" We are, we are : is not this happiness — is not 
this joy — is not this bliss ? Bliss," she continued, 
in a low, broken voice, " to which I have no right, 
no title. O ! quit, quit my hand ! Happiness is 
not for me !" She extricated herself from his arm, 
and sprang upon her feet. Alarm, rather than 
aflection, was visible on her agitated features. It 
seemed to cost her a great eflfort to collect her scat- 
tered senses ; the effort was made with pain, but 
with success. ♦ 

" Forgive me, forgive me," she said^n a hurried 
and indistinct tone ; " forgive me ! I would speak, 
but cannot, — not now at least ; we have been long 
away, too long ; our absence will be remarked to- 
night ; to-night we must give up to the gratification 
of others, but I will speak. For yours, for my own 
sake, let us — let us go ! You know that we are to 
be very gay to-night, and gay we will be. Who 
shall prevent us ] At least the present hour is oui 
own ; and when the future ones must be so sad, 
why, why trifle with thisi" 



CHAPTER XIV. 



The reader is not to suppose that Vivian Grey 
thought of the young baroness, merely in the 
rapid scenes which I have sketched. There were 
S 



206 



D ' I S R A E L I ' S NOVELS. 



few moments in the tiay in which her image dirl 
not occupy his thoughts, and which indeed, he did 
not spend in her presence. From the first, her 
rharacter had interested him. His accidental, but 
extraordinary acquaintance with Beckendorfl" made 
him \ie\v any individual connected with that sin- 
gular man, with a far more curious feeling than 
could influence the young nobles of the court, 
who were ignorant of the minister's peisonaj 
character. There was an evident mystery about 
the character and situation of the baroness, which 
well accorded with the eccentric and romantic 
career of the prime minister of Reiscnberg. Of 
the precise nature of her connexion with Becken- 
dorli", Vivian was wholly ignorant. The world 
spoke of her as his daughter, and the affirmation 
of Madame Carolina conlirmed the world's report. 
Her name was still unknown to him ; and al- 
though, during the few moments that they had 
enjoyed an opportunity of conversing together 
alone, Vivian had made every exertion, of which 
good breeding, impelled by curiosity, is capable, 
and had devised many little artifices, with which a 
schooled address is well acquainted, to obtain it, his 
exertions had hitherto been perfectly unsuccessful. 
If there were a mystery, the young lady was com- 
petent to preserve ii ; and with all her naivete, her 
interesting ignorance of the world, and her evi- 
dently uncontrolled spirit, no hasty word ever fell 
from her cautious lips, which threw any light on 
the objects of his inquiry. Though impetuous, 
she was never indiscreet, and often displayed a 
caution which was little in accordance with her 
youth and temper. The last night had witnessed 
the only moment in which her passions seemed for 
a time to have striiggled with, and to have over- 
come, her judgment ; but it was only for a moment. 
That display of overpowering feeling had cost 
Vivian a sleepless night ; and he is at this instant 
pacing up and down the chamber of his hotel, 
thinking of that which he had imagined could 
exercise his thought no more. 

She was beautiful — she loved him ; — she was 
unhappy ! To be loved by any woman is flatter- 
ing to the feelings of every man, no matter how 
deeply he may have quaffed the bitter goblet of 
worldly knowledge. The praise of a fool is incense 
to the wisest of us; and though wc believe our- 
selves broken-hearted, it still delights us to find that 
we are loved. The memory of Violet Fane was 
still as fresh, as sweet, to the mind of Vivian Grey, 
as when he pressed her blushing cheek, for the first 
and only tittle. To love again — really to love as 
lie had done — he once thought was impossible; he 
thought so still. The character of the baroness, 
as I have said, had interested him from the first. 
Her ignorance of mankind, and her perfect ac- 
quaintance with the most polished forms of society ; 
her extreme beauty, her mysterious rank, her proud 
S|)iril and impetuous feelings; her occasional pen- 
siveness, her extreme waywardness, — had astonish- 
ed, perplexed, and enchanted him. But he had never 
felt in love. It never, for a moment, had entered 
into his mind, that his lonely bosom could again 
be a fit resting-place, for one so lovely, so young. 
Scared at the misery which bad always followed 
in his track, he would have shuddered ere he again 
asked a human being to share his sad and blighted 
fortunes. The partiality of the baroness for his 
society, without flattering his vanity, or giving rise 
k thoughts more serious than how he could most 



completely enchant for her the passing hour, had 
certainlv made the time passed in her presence, the 
least gloomy which he had lately experienced. At 
the same moment that he left the saloon of the 
fialace, he had supposed that his image quitted her 
remembrance ; and if she had again welcomed 
him with cheerfulness and cordiality, he had felt 
that his receplion was owing to not being, perhaps, 
quite as frivolous as the Count of Eberstein, and 
being rather more amusing than the Baron of 
Gernsbach. 

It was therefore vnth the greatest astonishment 
that, last night, he had found that he was loved — 
loved too, by this beautiful and haughty girl, who 
had treated the advances of the most distinguished 
nobles with ill-concealed scom; and who had so 
presumed upon her dubious relationship to the 
bourgeois minister, that nothing but her own sur- 
passing loveliness, and her parent's all-engrossing 
influence, could have excused or authorized her 
conduct. 

Vivian had yielded to the magic of the moment, 
and had returned the love, apparently no sooner 
proffered than withdrawn. Had he left the gardens 
of the palace the baroness' plighted lover, he might 
perhajis have deploredhis rash engagement ; and the 
sacred image of his first and hallowed love might 
have risen up in judgment against his violated 
afiection — but how had he and the interesting 
stranger parted 1 He was rejected, even while his 
affection was returned ; and while her flattering 
voice told him that he alone could make her 
happy, she had mournfully declared that happiness 
could not be hers. How was this 1 Could she 
be another's? Her agitation at the opera, often 
the object of his thought, quickly occuned to him. 
It must he so. Ah ! another's ! and who this 
rivall — this proved possessor of a heart which 
could not heat for him ! Madame Carolina's dc^ 
claiation that the baroness must be maiTied off, 
was at this moment remembered : her marked 
observation, that Von Sohnspeer was no son of 
BeckendortV's, not forgotten. The field-marshal 
too was the valued friend of the minister ; and it 
did not fail to occur to Vivian that it was not Von 
Sohnspeer's fault, that his attendance on the ba- 
roness was not as constant as his own. Indeed, 
the unusual gallantry of the commander-in-chief 
had been the subject of many a joke among the 
young lords of the court; and the reception of 
his addresses by their unmerciful object, net 
unobserved or unspared. But as for poor Von 
Sohnspeer, what could be expected, as Emilius 
von Ashngen observed, " from a man whose sotiest 
compliment was as long, loud, and obscure, as jn 
birth-day's salute !" 

No sooner was the affair clear to Vivian — no 
sooner was he convinced that a powerful obstacle 
existed to the love or union of himself and the 
baroness, than he began to ask, what right ihe 
interests of third persons had to interfere 'netween 
the muteal afiection of any individuals. }ie> 
thought of her in the moonlit garden, struggung 
with her pure and natural passion. He thought 
of her exceeding beauty — her exceeding love. He 
beheld this rare and lovely creature in the embrace 
of Von Sohnspeer. He turned from the picture in 
disgust and indignation, f^he was his — nature had 
decreed it. She should be the bride of no other 
man. Sooner than yield her up, he v^ould beard 
Beckendorff himself in his own retreat, and run 



VIVIAN GREY. 



207 



every hazard, and meet every danger, which the 
ardeit imagination of a lover could conceive. 
W?^ he madly to reject the happiness which pro- 
vide- no e, or destiny, or chance had at length oflered 
hi'n 1 If the romance of boyhood could never 
he realized, at least with this engaging being for 
M? companion, he might pass through his remain- 
ing years in calmness and in peace. His trials 
■were perhaps over. Alas ! this is the last delusion 
of unhappy men ! 

Vivian called at the palace, but the fatigues of 
the preceding night prevented either of the ladies 
from being visible. In the evening, he joined a 
very small and select circle. The party, indeed, 
only consisted of the grand-dvdve, madame, their 
visiters, and the usual attendants, himself, and Von 
Sohnspecr. The quiet of the little circle did not 
more strikingly contrast with the noise, and glare, 
and splendour of the last night, than did Vivian's 
subdued reception by the baroness, with her agitated 
demeanour in the garden. She was cordial but 
calm. He found it quite impossible to gain even 
one moment's private conversation with her. Ma- 
dame Carolina monopoUzed his attention, as much 
to favour the views of the field-marshal, as to dis- 
cuss the comparative merits of Pope, as a moralist 
and a poet; and Vivian had the mortification of 
observing his odious rival, whom he now thoroughly 
detested, discharge, without ceasing, his royal sa- 
lutes in the impatient ear of Beckendorfl''s lovely 
daughter. 

Towards tlie conclusion of the evening, a 
chamberlain entered the room, and whispered his 
mission to the baroness. She immediately rose 
and quitted the apartment. As the party was 
breaking up, she again entered. Her countenance 
was very agitated. Madame Carolina was being 
overwhelmed with the compliments of the grand- 
marshal, and Vivian seized the opportunity of 
reaching the baroness. After a few very hurried 
sentences she dropped her glove. Vivian gave it 
bei. So many persons were round them, that it 
waj impossible to converse except on the most 
co.imon topics. The glove was again dropped. 

'' I see," said the baroness, with a very meaning 
look, " that you are but a recreant knight, or 
else you would not part with a lady's glove so 
easily." 

Vivian gave a rapid glance round the room. 
No one w.as observing him, and the glove was im- 
mediately in his pocket. He hurried home, rushed 
up the staircase of the hotel, ordered lights, locked 
the door, and with a sensation of indescribable 
anxiety, tore the precious glove out of his pocket ; 
seized, opened, and read the enclosed and following 
note. It was written in pencil, in a very hurried 
hand, and some of the words were repeated. 

" I leave the court to-night. He is here him- 
self. No art can postpone my departure. Much, 
much, I wish to say to you; to say — to say — to 
you. He is to have an interview with the grand- 
duke to-morrow morning. Dare you come to his 
place in his absence ] You know the private 
road. He goes by the high-road, and calls in his 
Vv-ay on a forest counsellor : I forget his name, but 
it is the white house by the barrier — you know it. 
Watch him to-morrow morning ; about nine or 
ten I should think — here, here ; — and then for 
heaven's sake let me see you. Dare every thing ! 
Fail not — fail not ! Mind, by the private road — 



by the private road : — beware the other ! Yeu 
know the ground. God bless you ! 

" SlIilLLA." 



CHAPTER XV. 

Vivian read the note over a thousand times 
He could not retire to rest. He called Essper 
George, and gave him all necessary directions for 
the morning. About three o'clock Vivian lay 
down on a sofa, and slept for a few short hours. 
He started often in his short and feverish slumber. 
His dreams were unceasing and inexplicable. At 
first Von Sohnspeer was their natural hero ; but 
soon the scene shifted. Vivian was at Ems — 
walking under the well-remembered lime trees, 
and with the baroness. Suddenly, although it was 
mid-day, the sun became very large, blood-red, and 
fell out of the heavens — his companion screamed 
— a man rushed forward with a drawn sword. It 
was the idiot Crown Prince of Reisenberg. Vivian 
tried to oppose him, but without success. The 
infuriate ruffian sheathed his weapon in the heart 
of the baroness. Vivian shrieked, and fell upon 
her bodj^ — and to his horror, found himself em- 
bracing the cold corpse of Violet Fane ! 

Vivian and Essper mounted their horses about 
seven o'clock. At eight, they had reached a small 
inn near the forest counsellor's house, where 
Vivian was to remain until Essper had watched 
the entrance of the minister. It was a very few 
minutes past nine when Essper returned, with the 
joyful intelligence that Owlface and his master 
had been seen to enter the court-yard. Vivian 
immediately mounted Max, and telling Essper to 
keep a sharp watch, he set spurs to his horse. 

" Now, Max, my good steed, each minute is 
golden — serve thy master well !" He patted the 
horse's neck — the animal's erected ears proved 
hov/ well it understood it's master's wishes ; and 
taking advantage of the loose bridle, which was 
confidently allowed it, the horse sprang, rather 
than galloped to the minister's residence. Nearly 
an hour, however, was lost in gaining the private 
road, for Vivian, after the caution in the baroness's 
letter, did not dare the high-road. 

He is galloping up the winding rural lane, 
where he met Beckendoiif on the second morning 
of his visit. He has reached the little gate, and 
following the example of the grand-duke, ties Max 
at the entrance. He dashes over the meadows, 
not following the path, but crossing straight 
through the long and dewy grass — he leaps ov*>r 
the light iron railing — he is rushing up the walk 
— he takes a rapid glance, in passing, at the httie 
summer-house — the blue passion-flower is still 
blooming — the house is in sight — a white hand- 
kerchief is waving from the drawing-room windo vv ! 
He sees it — fresh wings are added to his course — 
he dashes through a bed of flowers, frightens the 
white peacock, darts through the library-window, 
is in the drawing-room ! 

The baroness was there : pale and agitated, she 
stood beneath the mysterious picture, with one 
arm leaning on the old carved mantelpiece. Over- 
come by her emotions, she did not move forward 
to meet him as he entered ; but V^ivian observed 
neither her constraint nor her agitation. 

" Sibylla ! dearest Sibylla ! say you arc mine !'' 



208 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



He caught her in his arms. She struggled not 
to disengage herself, but as he dropped upon one 
knee, she suffered liim gently to draw her down 
upon the other. Her head sank upon her arm, 
■which rested upon his shoulder. Ovei-powered, 
she sobbed convulsively. He endeavoured to 
calm her, but her agitation increased ; and many, 
many minutes elapsed, ere she seemed to be even 
sensible of his presence. At length she became 
more calm, and apparently making a struggle to 
compose herself, she raised her head. 

"Are you better, dearest?" asked Vivian, with 
a voice of the greatest anxiety, 

" Much ! much ! quite, quite well ! Let us 
walk for a moment about the room !" 

As Vivian was just raising her from his knee, 
he was suddenly seized by the throat with a strong 
grasp. He turned round — it was Mr. Beckendorff, 
with a face deadly white, his full eyes darting 
from their sockets like a hungry snake's, and the 
famous Italian dagger in his right hand. 

" Villain !" said he, in the low voice of fatal 
passion. " Villain ! is this your destiny ?" 

Vivian's fa-st thoughts were for the baroness; 
and turning his head from Beckendorff, he looked 
with the eye of anxious love to his companion. 
But, instead of fainting — instead of being over- 
whelmed by this terrible interruption, she seemed, 
on the contrary, to have suddenly regained her 
natural spirit and self-possession. The blood had 
returned to her hitherto pale cheek, and the fire to 
an eye before dull with weeping. She extricated 
herself immediately from Vivian's encircling arm ; 
and by so doingi enabled him to spring upon his 
legs, and to have struggled, if it had been neces- 
sary, more equally with the powerful grasp of his 
assailant. 

" Stand off, sir !" said the baroness, with an air 
of inexpressible dignity, and a voice which even at 
this crisis seemed to anticipate that it would be 
obeyed. " Stand off, sir ! stand off, I command 
vou !" 

Beckendorff, for one moment, was motionless : 
he then gave her a look of the most piercing 
earnestness, threw Vivian, rather than released 
him, from his hold, and flung the dagger, with a 
bitter smile, into the corner of the room. " Well, 
madam!" said he, in a choking voice, "you are 
obeyed !" 

" Mr. Grey," continued the baroness, " 1 regret 
that this outrage should have been experienced by 
you, because you have dared to serve me. My 
presence should have preserved you from this con- 
tumely; but what are we to expect from those 
who pride themselves upon being the sons of slaves ! 
Vou shall hear further from me." So saying, the 
ladv bowing to Vivian, and sweeping by the 
minister, with a glance of indescribable disdain, 
quitted the apartment. As she was on the point 
of leaving the room, Vivian was standing against 
the wall, with a ;;nie face and folded arms — Bcck- 
endcrfi'vriln !;ib Dack to the window, his eyes fixed 
on the ground — and Vivian to his astonishment 
perceived, what escaped the minister's notice, that 
while the lady bade him adieu with one hand, she 
made rapid signs with the other to some unknown 
person in the garden. 

Mr. Beckendorff and Vivian were left alone, and 
the latter was the first to break silence. 

• Mr. Beckendorff,'' said he, in a calm voice. 



have found me in your house this morning, I 
should have known how to excuse, and to forget, 
any irritable expressions which a moment of un- 
governable passion might have inspired. I should 
have passed them over unnoticed. But your un- 
justifiable behaviour has exceeded that line of 
demarcation, which sympathy with human feelings 
allows even men of honour to recognise. You 
have disgraced both me and yourself by giving me 
a blow. It is, as that lady well styled it, an out- 
rage — an outrage which the blood of any other man 
but yourself could only obliterate from my memory; 
but while I am inclined to be indulgent to your 
exalted station and your peculiar character, I at 
the same time expect, and now wait for an apo- 
logy." 

" An apology !" said Beckendorff, now begin- 
ning to stamp up and down the room ; " an apo- 
logy ! Shall it be made to you, sir, or the arch- 
dutchessl" 

" The archdutchess !" said Vivian ; "good God ! 
what can you mean 1 Did I hear you right ]" 

" I said, the archdutchess," answered Becken- 
dorff with firmness ; " a princess of the house 
of Austria, and the pledged wife of his royal high- 
ness the Crown Prince of Reisenberg. Perhaps 
you may now think that other persons have to 
apologize !" 

" Mr. Beckendorff," said Vivian, " I am over- 
whelmed ; I declare, upon my honour — " 

" Stop, sir ! you have said too much already — " 
"But, Mr. Beckendorff, surely you will allow 
me to explain — " 

" Sir ! there is no need of explanation. I know 
every thing — more than you do yourself. You 
can have nothing to explain to me ; and I presume 
you are now fully aware of the impossibility of 
again speaking to her. It is at present within an 
hour of noon. Before sunset you must be twenty 
miles from the court — so far you will be attended. 
Do not answer me — you know my power. A re- 
monstrance only, and I write to Vienna; your 
progress shall be stopped throughout the south of 
Europe. -For her sake, this business will be hushed 
up. An important and secret mission will be the 
accredited reason of your leaving Reisenberg. This 
will be confirmed by your official attendant, who 
will be an envoy's courier. Farewell !" 

As Mr. Beckendorff quitted the room, his confi- 
dential servant, the messenger to Turriparva, 
entered; and with the most respectful bow, in- 
formed Vivian that the horses were ready. In 
about three hours time, Vivian Grey, followed by 
the government messenger, stopped at his hotel. 
The landlord and waiters bowed with increaseil 
obsequiousness on seeing him so attended ; and in 
a few minutes Reisenberg was ringing with the 
news, that his appointment to the undcr-secrctai7- 
ship of state was now " a settled thmg." 



BOOK THE EIGHTH. 



CHAPTER L 

The landlord of the Grand Hotel of the Four 

Nations at Reisenberg was somewhat consoled for 

the sudden departure of his distinguished customer, 

•• considering the circumstances under vvluch you [ by scUing the plenipotentiary a travelling carriage, 



VIVIAN GREY. 



209 



lately taken for a doubtful bill from a gambling 
Russian general, at one hundred per cent, profit. 
In this convenient vehicle, in the course of a couple 
of hours after his arrival in the city, was Mr. A^ivian 
Grey borne through the Gate of the Allies. Essper 
George, who had reached the hotel about half an 
hour after his master, followed behind the carriage 
on his hack, leading Max. The courier cleared 
the road before, and expedited the arrival of the 
Special Envoy of the Grand-duke of ' Reisenberg 
at the point of his destination, by ordering the 
horses, clearing the barriers, and paying the pos- 
tillions in advance. Vivian had never travelled 
before with such style and speed. 

Our hero covered himself up with his cloak, and 
drew his travelling cap over his eyes, though it 
was one of the hottest days of this singularly hot 
autumn ; but the very light of heaven was hateful 
to him. Perfectly overwhelmed with his last 
crushing misfortune, he was unable even to mor- 
alize : — to reflect, or to regret, or even to remem- 
ber. Entranced in a revery, the only figure that 
occurred to his mind was the young archdutchess, 
and the only sounds that dwelt on his ear, were the 
words of BeckendorfF: but neither to the person of 
the first, nor to the voice of the second, did he an- 
nex any definite idea. 

After nearly three hours travelling, which to Vi- 
vian seemed both an age and a minute, he was 
roused from liis stupor by the door of his caleche 
being opened. He shook himself as a man does 
who has wakened from a benumbing and heavy 
sleep, although his eyes were the whole time wide 
open. The disturbing intruder was his courier ; 
who, bowing, with his hat in his hand, informed 
his excellency that he was now twenty miles from 
Reisenberg, and that the last postillions had done 
their duty so excedingly well, that he trusted liis 
excellency would instruct his servant to give them 
double the tariflf. Here he regretted that he was 
under the necessity of quitting his excellency, and 
he begged to present his excellency with his pass- 
port. " It is made out for Vienna," continued the 
messenger. " A private pass, sir, of the prime 
minister, and will entitle you to the greatest con- 
sideration." The messenger receiving a low bow 
for his answer and reward, took his leave. 

The carriage was soon again advancing rapidly 
to the next post-house ; when, after they had pro- 
ceeded about half a mile, Essper George calling 
loudly from behind, the drivers suddenly stopped. 
Just as Vivian, to whose tortured mind the rapid 
movement of the carriage was some relief — for it 
produced an excitement which prevented thought 
— was about to inquire the cause of this stoppage, 
Essper George rode up to the caleche. 

" Kind sir I" said he, with a very peculiar look, 
" I have a packet for you." 

•' A packet ! from whom 1 speak ! give it me !" 

" Hush ! hush ! hush ! softly, softly, good master. 

Here I am about to commit rank treason for your 

sake ; and a hasty word is the only reward of my 

rashness." 

" Nay, nay, good Essper, try me not now !" 
" I will not, I will not, kind sir ; but the truth is, 
I could not give you the packet while that double- 
faced knave was with us, or even while he was in 
sight. 'In good truth,' as Master Rodolph was 
wont to say — ah I when shall I see his sleekness 
again !" 
" But of this packet I" 

27 



" ' Fair and softly, fair and softly,' good sir ! as 
Plunsdrich the porter said, when I would have 
drunk the mulled wine, while he was on the cold 
staircase — " 

" Essper ! do you mean to enrage me ?" 
" ' By St. Hubert !' as that worthy gentleman, 
the grand-marshal, was in the habit of swearing, 
I—" 

" This is too much — what are the idle sayings of 
these people to me 1" 

" Nay, nay, kind sir, they do but show that each 
of us has his own way of telling a story ; and that 
he who would hear a talc, must let the teller's breath, 
come out of his own nostrils." 

"Well, Essper, speak on ! Stranger things have 
happened to me than to be reproved by my own 
servant." 

" Nay, my kind master, say not a bitter word to 
me, because you have slipped out of a scrape with 
your head on your shoulders. The packet is from 
Mr. Beckendorff's daughter." 

"Ah ! why did not you give it to me before 1" 
" Why do I give it you now 1 Because I'm a 
fool — that's why. What I you wanted it when 
that double-faced scoundrel was watching every 
eyelash of yours, as it moved from the breath of a 
^ 1 — a fellow who can see as well at the back of 
his head, as from his face. I should like to poke 
out his front eyes, to put him on an equality with 
the rest of mankind. He it was who let the old 
gentleman know of your visit this morning, and 
I shrewdly suspect that he has been nearer your 
limbs of late than you have imagined. Every dog 
has his day, and the oldest pig must look for his 
knife ! The devil was once cheated on Sunday, 
and I have been too sharp for puss in boots and his 
mousetrap ! Prowling about the forest counsel- 
lor's house, I saw your new servant, sir, gallop in, 
and his old master soon gallop out ; I was off as 
quick as they but was obliged to leave my horse 
within two miles of the house, and then trust to my 
legs. I crept through the shrubs like a land tor- 
toise ; but, of course, too late to warn you. How- 
ever, I was in for the death, and making signs to 
the young lady, who directly saw that I was a 
friend, — bless her ! she is as quick as a partridge, — 
I left you to settle it with papa, and after all, did 
that which I suppose your highness intended to do 
yourself — made my way into the young lady's — 
bed-chamber." 

" Hold your tongue, you rascal ! and give me 
the packet." 

" There it is, sir, and now we t^'ill go on ; but 
we must stay an hour at the next post, if your 
honoui pleases not to sleep there ; for both Max 
and my own hack have had a sharp day's work." 
Vivian tore open the packet. It contained a 
long letter, written on the night of her return to 
Beckendorff's ; she had stayed up the whole night 
writing. It was to have been fonvarded to Vivian, 
in case of their not being able to meet. In the en- 
closure were a few hurried lines, %vritten since the 
catastrophe. They were these : — " May this 
safely reach you ! Can yon ever forgive me ? The 
enclosed, you will see, was intended for you, in 
case of our not meeting. It anticipated sorrow : 
yet what were its anticipations to our reality !" 

The archdutchess' letter was evidently written 

under the influence of the most agitated feelings. 

I omit it ; because, as the mystery of her characteT 

is now explained, a great portion of her communi 

s2 



210 



D'lSRAELI'S xNOVELS. 



cation would be irrelevant to our tale. She spoke 
(if her exahed station as a woman — that station 
which so many women envy — in a spirit of the 
most agonizinc; bitterness. A royal princess is only 
the most flattered of state victims. She is a po- 
litical sacrilice, by which enraged governments are 
appeased, wavering allies conciliated, and ancient 
amities confirmed. Debarred by her rank and her 
education from looking forward to that exchange 
of equal affection, which is the great end and 
charm of female existence ; no individual finds 
more fatally, and feels more keenly, that pomp is 
not felicity, and splendour not content. 

Deprived of all those sources of happiness which 
seem inherent in woman, the wife of the sovereign 
sometimes seeks in politics and in pleasure, a 
means of excitement which may purchase oblivion. 
But the political queen is a rare character ; she 
must possess an intellect of unusual power, and 
her lot must be considered as an exception in the 
fortunes of female royalty. Even the political 
queen generalty closes an agitated career with a 
l)roken heart. And for the imhappy votary of 
pleasure, who owns her cold duty to a royal hus- 
band, we must not forget, that even in the niost 
dissipated courts, the conduct of the queen is ex- 
pected to be decorous ; and that the instances arg 
not rare, where the wife of the monarch has died' 
on the scaffold, or in the dungeon, or in exile, be- 
cause she dared to be indiscreet, where all were 
debauched. But for the great majority of royal 
wives, they exist witliout a passion ; they have 
nothing to hepe — nothing to fear — nothing to envy 
— nothing to want — nothing to confide — no- 
thing to hate — and nothing to love. Even their 
duties, though multitudinous, are mechanical ; and 
v/hile they require much attention, occasion no 
anxiety. Amusement is their moment of greatest 
emotion, and for thern amusement is rare; for 
amusement is the result of equal companionship. 
Thus situated, Ihc^y are doomed to become frivo- 
lous in their pursuits, and formal in their manners ; 
and the court chaplain, or the court confessor, is 
the only person who can prove they have a soul, by 
convincing them that it will be saved. 

The young archdutchess had assented to the 
])roposition of marriage with the Crown Prince of 
Keiscnberg without opposition; as she was con- 
vinced that requesting her assent, was only a cour- 
teous form of requiring her compliance. There 
was nothing outrageous to her feelings in marrying 
a man whom she had never seen ; because her edu- 
cation, from her tcnderest years, had daily prepared 
)ier for such an event. Moreover, she was aware 
that, if she succeeded in escajjing from the offers of 
the Crown Prince of Reisenberg, she would soon 
be under the necessity of assenting to those of some 
other suitor ; and if proximity to her own country, 
accordance with its sentiments and manners, and 
previous connexion with her own house, were 
taken into consideration, a union with the family 
'jf Reisenberg was even desirable. It was to be 
preferred, at least, to one which brought with it a 
foreign husband, and a foreign clime; a strange 
language and strange customs. The archdutchess 
— a girl of ardent feelings and lively mind — had 
not, however, agreed to become that all-command- 
ing slave — a queen — without a stipulation. 8hc 
rixjuired that she might be allowed, previous to her 
marriage, to visit her future court, incognita. This 
singular and unparalleled proposition Was not easily 



acceded to ; but the opposition with which it was re- 
ceived, only tended to make the young princess more 
determined to be gratified in her caprice. Her im- 
perial highness did not pretend that any end was to 
be obtained by this unusual procedure, and indeed 
she had no definite purpose in requesting it to bo 
permitted. It was originally the mere whim of the 
moment, and had it not been strongly opposed, it 
would not have been strenuously insi.sted upon. 
As it was, the young archdutchess persisted, threat- 
ened, and grew obstinate ; and the gray-headed 
negotiators of the marriage, desirous of its speedy 
completion, and not having a more tractable tool 
ready to supply her place, at length yielded to her 
bold importunity. Great difficulty, however, was 
experienced in carrying her wishes into execution. 
By what means, and in what character .she was to 
appear at court, so as not to excite suspicion or 
occasion discovery, were often discussed, without 
being resolved upon. At length it became neces- 
sary to consult Mr. BeckendortT. The upper hp 
of the Prime Minister of Reisenberg, curled, as the 
imperial minister detailed the caprice and contuma- 
cy of the princess ; and treating with the gieatest 
contempt this girli.sh whim, Mr. Beckendorft' ridi- 
culed those by whom it had been humoured, with 
no suppressed derision. The consequence of his 
conduct was an interview with the future grand- 
dutchess, and the consequence of his interview, an 
unexpected undertaking on his part to arrange the 
visit according to her highness's desires. 

The archdutchess had not yet seen the crown- 
prince ; but six miniatures, and a whole-length 
portrait had prepared her for not meeting an 
Adonis, or a Baron Trenck ; and that was all-— for 
never had the Correggio of the age of Charles the 
Fifth, better substantiated his claims to the office 
of court paintei% than Iw these accurate semblances 
of his royal highness; in which his hump was 
subdued into a Grecian bend, and his lack-lustre 
eyes seemed beaming with tenderness and admira- 
tion. His betrothed bride stipulated with Mr. 
Beckendorff, that the fact of her visit should be 
known only to himself and the grand-duke ; and 
before she appeared at court, she had received the 
personal [iledge, both of himself and his royal 
highness, that the affair should be kept a complete 
secret from the crown prince. 

Most probably, on her tirst introduction to her 
future husband, all the romantic plans of the young 
archdutchess, to excite an involuntary interest in 
his heart, vanished — but how this may be, it is 
needless for us to inquire : for that .same night in- 
troduced another character into her romance, for 
whom she was perfectly unprepared, and whose 
appearance totally disorganized its plot. 

Her inconsiderate, her unjustifiable conduct, in 
tampering with that individual's happiness and 
affection, was what the young haughty arch- 
dutchess deplored in the most energetic, the most 
leeling, and the most humble spirit ; and antici- 
pating, that after this painful disclosure, they 
would never meet again, she declared, that for his 
sake alone she regretted what had passed — and 
praying that he might be hap])ier than herself, she 
supplicated to be forgiven, and forgotten. 

Vivian read the archdutchess's letter over, and 
over again ; and then put it in his breast. At first 
he though L that he had lived to shed another tear ; 
but he was mistaken. In a few minutes he found 
himself quite roused from his late overwhelming 



VIVIAN GREY. 



211 



stupor — quite light-hearted — almost gay. Remorse, 
or regret for the past — care, or caution for the 
future, seemed at the same moment to have fled 
from his mind. He looked up to heaven, with a 
wild smile — half of despair, and half of defiance. 
It seemed to imply, that Fate had now done her 
worst ; and that he had at last the satisfaction of 
knowing himself to he the most unfortunate and 
uidiappy heing that ever existed. When a man, 
at the same time, believes in and sneers at his 
destiny, we may be sure that he considers his con- 
dition past redemption. 



CHAPTER n. 

Thkt stopped for an hour at the next post, ac- 
cording to Essper's suggestion. Indeed, he pro- 
posed resting there for the night, for both men and 
beasts much required repose ; but Vivian panted 
to reach Vienna, to which city two days travelling 
would now carry him. His passions were so 
roused, and his powers of reflection so annihilated, 
that while he had determined to act desperately, he 
was unable to resolve upon any thing desperate. 
Whether, on his arrival at the Austrian capital, he 
should plunge into dissipation, or into the Danube, 
was equally uncertain. He had some thought of 
joining the Greeks or Turks — no matter which — 
probably the latter — or perhaps of serving in the 
Americas. The idea of returning to England 
never once entered his mind : he expected to find 
letters from his father at Vienna, and he almost 
regretted it ; for, in his excessive misery, it was 
painful to be conscious that a being still breathed, 
who was his friend. 

It was a fine moonlight night, but the road was 
very mountainous ; and in spite of all the en- 
couragement of Vivian, and all the consequent 
exertions of the postilion, they were upwards of 
two hours and a half going these eight miles. To 
get on any farther to-night was quite impossible. 
Essper's horse was fairly knocked up, and even 
Max visibly distressed. The post-house was for- 
tunately an inn. It was not at a village ; and, as far 
as the travellers could learn, not near one ; and its 
appearance did not promise very pleasing accom- 
modation. Esspcr, who had scarcely tasted food 
for nearly eighteen hours, was not highly delighted 
with the prospect before them. His anxiety, how- 
ever, was not merely selfish ; he was as desirous 
that his young master shoidd be refreshed by a 
good night's rest, as himself; and anticipating that 
he should have to exercise his skill in making a 
couch for Vivian in the carriage, he proceeded to 
cross-examine the post-master on the possibility of 
his accommodating them. The host was a most 
pious-looking personage, in a black velvet cap, 
with a singularly meek and charitable expression 
of countenance. His long black hair was very 
exquisitely braided ; and he wore round his neck a 
collar of pewter medals, all which had been re- 
cently sprinkled with holy water, and blessed under 
the petticoat of the saintly Virgin ; for the post- 
master had only just returned from a pilgrimage to 
the celebrated shrine of the Black Lady of Altoting. 
" Good friend ;" said Essper, looking him cun- 
ningly in the face ; " I fear that we must order 
horses on : you can hardly accommodate two !" 



" Good friend !' answered the innkeeper, and he 
crossed himself very reverently at the same time : 
" it is not for man to fear, but to hope." 

" If your beds were as good as your adages," 
said Essper George, laughing, " in good truth, as a 
friend of mine would say, I would sleep here to- 
night." 

" Prithee, friend," continued the innkeeper, kiss- 
ing a medal of his collar very devoutly, " what 
accommodation dost thou lackl" 

" Why," said Essper, " in the way of accomms- 
dation, little — for two excellent beds will content 
us ; but in the way of refreshment — by St. Hubert ! 
as another friend of mine would swear — he would 
be a bold man who would engage to be as hungry 
before his dinner, as I shall be after my supper." 

" Friend !" said the innkeeper, " Our Lady for- 
bid that thou shouldst leave our walls to-night; for 
the accommodation, we have more than sufficient; 
and as for the refreshment — by holy mass ! we had 
a priest tarry here last night, and he left his rosary 
behind; I will comflirt my soul by telling my 
beads over the kitchen fire ; and for every pater- 
noster my wife shall give thee a rasher of kid, and 
for every ave a tumbler of Augsburg ; which, our 
Lady forget me, if I did not myself purchase, but 
yesterday se'ennight, from the pious fathers of the 
convent of St. Florian !" 

" I take thee at thy word, honest sir," said 
Essper. " By the creed ! I liked thy appearance 
from the first: nor wilt thou find me unwilling, 
when my voice has taken its supper, to join thee 
in some pious hymn or holy canticle. And now 
for the beds !" 

" There is the green room — t!ie be.'^t bedroom in 
my house," said the innkeeper. " Holy Mary for- 
get me ! if in that same bed have not stretched 
their legs, more valorous generals, more holy pre- 
lates, and more distinguished counsellors of our 
lord the emperor, than in any bed in all Austria." 

" That then for my master, — and for myself! — " 

" H — u — m !" said the host, looking very ear- 
nestly in Essper's face; "I should have thought 
that thou wert one more anxious after dish and 
flaggon, than curtain and eider down !" 

" By my mother ! I love good cheer," said 
Essper earnestly ; " and want it more at this moment 
than any knave that ever yet starved : but if thou 
hast not a bed to let me stretch my legs on after 
four-and-twenty hours' hard riding, by holy Vir- 
gin ! I will have horses on to Vienna." 

" Our Black Lady forbid !" said the innkeeper, 
with a quick voice, and with rather a dismayed 
look — " said I that thou shouldst not have a bed T 
St. Florian desert me ! if I and my wife would not 
sooner sleep in the chimney-corner, than that thou 
shouldst rniss one wink of thy slumbers !" 

" In one word, have you a bed 1" 

" Have I a bedl Where slept, I should like to 
know, the Vice-principal of the convent of Molk, 
on the day before the last holy Ascension 1 The 
waters were out in the morning ; and when will 
my wife forget what his reverence was pdcased to 
say, when he took his leave ! — ' Good woman !' 
said he, ' my duty calls me ; Init the weather is 
cold ; and, between ourselves, I am used to great 
feasts ; and I should have no objection, if I were 
privileged to stay, and to eat again of thy red cab- 
bage and crearA !' — what say you to thatl Do 
you thir^ we have got beds now ? You shaii 
sleep tonight, sir, like an Aulic couns*>llo'-." 



212 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



This adroit introJuction of the red cabbage and 
crcarn settled every thing — Vv'hen men are wearied 
diid famished, they have no inclination to be incre- 
dulous — and in a few moments Vivian was inform- 
ed by his servant, that the promised accommoda- 
tion was satisfactory ; and having locked up the 
carriage, and wheeled it into a small out-house, he 
and Essper were ushered by their host into a room, 
which, as is usual in small German inns in the 
south, served at the same time both for kitchen 
and saloon. The fire was lit in a platform of brick, 
raised in tlie centre of the floor : — the sky was 
visible through the chimney, which, although of a 
great breadth below, gradually narrowed to the top. 
A family of wandering Bohemians, consisting of 
the father and mother, and three children, were 
sealed on the platform when Vivian entered : the 
man was playing on a coarse wooden harp, without 
which the Bohemians seldom travel. The music 
ceased as the new guests came into the room, and 
the Bohemian courteously ofiered his place at the 
fire to our hero ; who, however, declined disturbing 
the family group. A small table and a couple of 
chairs were placed in a corner of the room by the 
inidieeper's wife — a bustling, active dame — who 
apparently found no difficulty in laying the cloth, 
•lusting the furniture, and cooking the supper, at 
the same time. At this table, Vivian and his ser- 
vant seated themselves ; and, in spite of his mis- 
fortunes, Vivian was soon engaged in devouring 
the often-supplied and savoury rashers of the good 
woman; nor, indeed, did her cookery discredit the 
panegyric of the Reverend Vice-principal of the 
convent of Molk. 

Alike wearied in mind and in body, Vivian soon 
asked for his bed ; which, though not exactly fit for 
an Aulic counsellor, as the good host perpetually 
avowed it to be, nevertheless afforded very decent 
accommodation. 

The Bohemian family retired to the hay-loft; 
and Essper George would have followed his mas- 
ter's example had not the kind mistress of the 
house tempted him to stay behind, by the produc- 
tion of a new platter of rashers ; indeed, he never 
remembered meeting with such hospitable people as 
the poht-master and liis wife. They had evidently 
taken a great firncy to him ; and, though extremely 
wearied, the lively little Essper endeavoured, be- 
tween his quick mouthfuls and long draughts, to 
reward and encourage their kindness by many a 
good story and sharp joke. With all these, both 
mine host and his wife were exceedingly amused ; 
seldom containing their laughter, and frequently 
protesting, by the sanctity of various saints, that 
this was the pleasantest night, and Essper the 
pleasantcst fellow, that they had ever met with. 

" Eat, cat, my friend !" said his host ; " by tlie 
mass! thou hast travelled far; and fill thy glass, 
and pledge with me our Black Lady of Altoting. 
By lioly cross ! I have hung up this week in her 
chapel a garland of silk roses ; and have ordered to 
■)e burned before her shruie, three pounds of per- 
fumed wax tapers! Fill again, fill again ! and thou 
too, good mistress ; a hard day's work hast thou 
had — a glass of wine will do thee no harm : join 
me with our new friend ! Pledge we together the 
Holy Fathers of St. Flarain, my worldly patrons, 
and my spiritual pastors : let us pray that his rever- 
ence the sub-prior may not have his Christmas 
attack of gout in the stomach ; and a better health 
to poor Father Felix ! Fill again, fill again ! this 



Augsburg is somewhat acid ; we will have a bottle 
of Hungary. Mistress, fetch us the bell-glasses, 
and here to the Reverend Vice-principal of jMolk ! 
our good friend : when will my wife forget what 
he said to her on the morning of the last holy As- 
cension 1 Fill again, fill again !" 

Inspired by the convivial spirit of the pious and 
jolly post-master, Essper George soon forgot his 
threatened visit to his Lied-room, and ate and drank, 
laughed and joked, as if he were again with his 
friend, Master Rodolph ; but wearied nature at 
length avenged herself for this unnatural exertion ; 
and leaning back in his chair, he was, in tlie course 
of an hour, overcome by one of those dead and 
heavy slumbers, the efiect of the united influence 
of fatigue and intemperance — in short, it was Ulce 
the midnight sleep of a fox-hunter. 

No sooner had our pious votary of the Black 
Lady of Altoting observed the efiect of his Hun- 
gary wine, than making a well understood sign to 
his wife, he took up the chair of Essper in his 
brawny arms ; and preceded by Mrs. Post-mistress 
with a lantern, he left the room with his guest. 
Essper's liostess led and lighted the way to an out- 
house, which occasionally served as a remise, a 
stable, and a lumber-room. It had no window ; 
and the lantern aflbrdcd the only light which exhi- 
bited its present contents. In one corner was a 
donkey tied up, belonging to the Bohemian ; and 
in another a dog, belonging to the post-master. 
Hearing the whispered voice of his master, this 
otherwise brawling animal was quite silent. Under 
a hayrack was a large child's cradle : it was of a 
very remarkable size, having been made for twins ; 
who to the great grief of the post-master and his 
lady, departed this life at an early, but promising 
age. Near it was a very low wooden sheep-tank, 
half filled with water, and which had been placed 
there for the refreshment of the dog and his feather- 
ed friends — a couple of turkeys, and a considerable 
number of fowls, who also at present were quietly 
roosting in the rack. 

The pious innkeeper very gently lowered to the 
ground the chair on which Essper was soundly 
sleeping ; and then, having crossed himself, he took 
up our friend with great tenderness and soUcitude, 
and dexterously fitted him in the huge cradle. This 
little change must have been managed with great 
skill — like all other skill, probably acquired by 
practice — for overwhelming as was Essper's stupor, 
it nevertheless required considerable time, nicety, 
and trouble, to arrange him comfortably on the 
mouldy mattrass of the deceased twins — so very 
fine was the fit ! However, the kind-hearted host 
had the satisfaction of retiring from the stable, with 
the consciousness, that the guest, whose company 
had so delighted him, was enjoying an extremely 
sound slumber; and fearing the watchful dog 
might disturb him, he thought it only prudent to 
take Master Rouseall along with him. 

About an hour past midnight, Essper George 
awoke. He was lying on his back, and excessively 
unwell ; and, on trying to move, he found, to his 
great astonishment, that he was rocking. Every 
circumstance of his late adventure was perfectly 
obliterated from his memory; and the strange move- 
ment, united with his peculiar indisposition, lef\ 
him no doubt that the dream, which was in fact the 
eflcct of his intemperance, combined with the rock- 
ing of the cradle on the slightest motion, was a 
melancholy reaUty ; and that what he considered 



VIVIAN GREY, 



213 



she greatest evil of life was now his lot — in short 
that he was on board a ship ! As i^ often the case 
when we are tipsy or nervous, Esspor had been 
woke by the fright of falling from some immense 
height ; and finding that his legs had no sensation, 
for tliey were quite benumbed, he concluded that 
he had fallen down the hatchway, that his legs 
were broken, and himself jammed in between some 
logs of wood in the hold ; and so he began to cry 
lustily to those above, to come down to his rescue. 
How long he would have continued hailing the 
neglectful crew, it is impossible to ascertain ; but, 
in the midst of his noisy alarm, he was seized with 
another attack of sickness, which soon quieted him. 
" O, Essper George !" thought he, " Essper 
George ! how came you to set foot on salt limber 
again ] Had you not had enough of it in the 
Mediterranean and the Turkish seas, that you must 
be getting aboard this lubberly Dutch galliot ! for I 
am sure she's Dutch, by being so low in the water. 
How did I get herel — Who am 11 — Am I Essper 
George, or am I not? — Where was I last]-^How 
came I to fall! — .' my poor legs! — How the 
vessel rocks ! — Sick again ! — Well they may talk 
of a sca-Iife, but for my part, I never even saw the 
use of the sea — 0, Lord ! how she rolls — what a 
heave ! I never saw the use of the sea. — Many a 
sad heart has it caused, and many a sick stomach 
has it occasioned ! The boldest sailor climbs on 
board with a heavy soul, and leaps on land with a 
light spirit. — ! thou indifferent ape of earth '] 
thy houses are of wood, and thy horses of canvass ; 
thy roads have no landmarks, and thy highways no 
inns ; thy hills are green without grass, and wet 
without showers ! — and as for food, what art thou, 
O, bully ocean ! but the stable of horse-fishes, the 
stall of cow-fishes, the sty of hog-fishes, and the 
kennel of dog-fishes ! — ! commend me to a 
fresh water dish for meager days ! — Seaweed, 
stewed with chalk, may be savoury stuff for a mer- 
man ; but, for my part, give me red cabbage and 
cream : and as lor drink, ii man may live in the 
midst of thee his whole life, and die for thirst at the 
end of it ! Besides, thou blasphemous salt lake, 
where is thy religion 1 Where are thy churches, 
thou heretic ! Thou wouldst be burnt by the In- 
quisition, were it not that thy briny water is fit for 
nothing but to extinguish an Auto-dc-Fe. Ah me! 
would that my legs were on my body again, and 
that body on terrafirma ! I am left to perish be- 
low, while the rascally surgeon above, is joining 
with the purser to defraud the Guinea pigs at dice. 
I'll expose him !'" So saying, Essper made a des- 
perate effort to crawl up the hold. His exertions, 
of course, set the cradle rocking with renewed vi- 
olence; and at last, dashing with great force 
against the sheep-tank, that pastoral piece of furni- 
ture was overset, and part of its contents poured 
upon the inmate of the cradle. 

" Sprung a- leak in the hold, by St. Nicholas !" 
bawled out Essper George. " Caulkers, a-hoy ! 
a-hoy ! Can't you hear, you scoundrels ! you 
stone-hearted rulfans ! — a-hoy ! a-hoy ! — I can't 
cr\', for the life of me ! They said I should be 
used to the rocking after the first month ; and here, 
by the soul of a seaman ! I can't even speak ! ! 
the liars, the wicked liars ! If the captain expect 
any thing from me, he is mistaken. I know what 
I sliall do when he comes. ♦ Captain !' I shall 
say, ' when you behave like a gentleman, you may 
expect to be treated as such.' " 



At this moment three or four fowls, roused by 
the fall of the tank, and the consequent shouts of 
Essper, began fluttering about the rack, and at last 
perched upon the cradle. " I'he live stock got 
loose ! " screamed Essper, in a voice of terror, in 
spite of a new attack of sickness ; " the live stock 
got loose! sprung a-lcak! below here! below! 
below ! and the breeze is getting stiffer every in- 
stant ! Where's the captain 1 I Vs'ill see him ; 
I'm not one of the crew : I belong to the court ! 
What court] what am I talking about 1 One 
would think that I was drunk. Court indeed ! what 
can I mean 1 I must have cracked my skull when 
I fell like a lubber down that confounded hatch- 
way ! Court indeed ! Egad ! I feel as if I had 
been asleep, and been dreaming I was at court. 
Well, it's enough to make one laugh, after all ! 
What's that noise ! why, here's a jackass in the 
hold ! this is not right — some job of that villanous 
purser! Well, he's found out at last! Rasher 
of kid indeed ! What business has he to put me 
off with rashers of kid, and give me sour wine! 
This is the first voyage that I ever heard of, where a 
whole crew were fed for months on rashers of kid, 
and sour wine. 0, the villain ! is this what he 

calls doing his duty 1 is this why, here are all 

the turkeys screaming ; all the live-stock loose — 
below here ! below ! Above deck a-hoy! ye lub- 
bers a-hoy ! live-stock loose ' sprung a-leak ! 
purser's job ! purser has got a jackass — purser's 
jackass — purser is a j — a — c — k — ^jack— jack — 
jack— jack— jackass ! " Here our sailor, overcome 
by his exertions and the motion of his vessel, again 
fell asleep. 

Presently he was awakened, not by the braying 
of the jackass, nor the screaming of the turkeys, 
nor the cackling of the chickens ! but by the sound 
of heavy footsteps over his head. These noises 
were at once an additional proof that he was in the 
hold, and an additional stimulus to his calls to 
those on deck. In fact, these sounds were oc- 
casioned by the Bohemians, who always rose be- 
fore break of day ; and consequently, in a few 
minutes, the door of the stable opened, and the 
Bohemian, with a lantern in his hand, entered. 

"Who are youl" hallooed out Essper George, 
greatly refreshed by his last slumber ; " what do ycu 
wantl" continued he; for the man astounded at 
hearing a human voice, at first could not reply. 
" I want my jackass," he at length said. 
"You do," said Essper, "do youl Now a'n't 
you a pretty fellow 1 You a purser ! A fellow who 
gives us rashers of kid a whole voyage ; nothing 
but kid, kid, kid, every day ! and here are detected 
keeping a jackass among the poultry ! a jackass, 
of all animals ! eating all the food of our live-stock, 
and we having kid every day — kid, kid, kid ! Pray- 
why didn't you come to me before 1 Why didn't 
you send the surgeon? Now, a'n't you a scoun- 
drel! Though both my legs are off, I'll have a 
fling at you !" — and so saying, Essper, aided by 
the light 'of the lantern, and with infinite exertion, 
scrambled out of the cradle, and taking up the shee'p- 
tank, sent it straight at the astonished Bohemian's 
head. The aim was good, and the man fell ; more, 
however, from fright thaia injury. Seizing his 
lantern, which had fallen out of his hand, Essper 
escaped through the stable-door, and rushed into 
the house. He found himself in the kitchen. The 
entrance reused the landlord and his 



wife, wno had been sleeping by the fire ; since, usH 



&14 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



having a single bed besides their own, they had 
given that up to Vivian; The countenance of the 
innkeeper etVectually dispelled the clouds which had 
been fast clearing ofi' from Essper's intellect. Giv- 
ing one wide stare, and then rubbing liis eyes, the 
whole truth lighted upon him ; and so, being in the 
humour for flinging, he sent the Bohemian's lantern 
at his landlord's head. The post-master seized the 
poker, and the post-mistress a fagot; and as the 
Bohemian, who had now recovered himself, had 
entered in the rear, Essper George certainly stood 
a fair chance of receiving a thorough drubbing : 
which doubtless he would have got, had not his 
master, roused by the suspicions noises and angry 
sounds which had reached his room, entered the 
kitchen with his pistols. The group is a good one; 
and I therefore will not disturb it till the next 
chapter. 



CHAPTER III. 

As it was now morning, Vivian did not again 
retire to rest, but took advantage of the disturbance 
in the inn, to continue his route at an earlier hour 
than he had previously intended. As he was in- 
formed that he would meet with no accommodation 
for the next fifty or sixty miles, his projected course 
lying through an extremely mountainous and wild 
tract in the vicinity of the Lake of Gmunden, he 
was fain to postpone his departure, until he and his 
attendant had procured their breakfasts ; and more- 
over, willingly acceded to a suggestion of the post- 
master, of taking with him a small basket, contain- 
ing some slight refreshment for their " noon meal." 
Accordingly the remnants of their breakfast, a cold 
fowl — a relation of the live-stock which had so 
terribly disturbed Essper during the night — some 
fruit, and a bottle of thin white wine, were packed 
by the dapper post-mistress in a neat little basket. 
The horses were now put to, and nothing remained 
to be done, but to discharge the innkeeper's bill. 
The conduct of mine host and his good wife, had 
been so exceedingly obliging — for Vivian had not 
even listened to Essper's complaint, treating the 
whole aflair as a drunken brawl — that Vivian had 
nearly made up his mind to wave the ceremony of 
having a regular bill presented to him ; and feeling 
that the greatest charge which the post-master 
could make for his accommodation, could not reward 
him for his considerate conduct, he was on the 
point of making him a very handsome present, 
vhen the account was sent in. To Vivian's aston- 
ishment, he found that the charge exceeded, by 
about five times as much, the amount of his in- 
tended, and, as he had considered it, rather extrava- 
gant gratuity. The first item was for apartments 
— a saloon, and two best bed-chambers ! Then 
came Vivian's light supper, figuring as a dinner 
pour un maitre ; and as for Essper George's feed, 
it was inserted under two different heads, " servant's 
dinner," and " servant's supper:" the retirement of 
A'ivian from the smoky kitchen, having been the 
event which distinguished the moment when the 
first meal had terminated, and the second com- 
menced. More ceremonious accuracy could not 
have been displayed in settling the boundaries of 
two empires or deciding the commencement of the 
Sabbath. And as for wine, the thin Augsburg, 
though charged by the dozen, did not co^Hip much 
as tue Hungary, charged by the bottle. I^)peared 



by the bill also, that there had been no slight break 
age of hell-glasses, nor was the sheep-tank, minus a 
leg by the overthrow of the Bohemian, forgotten ; but 
looked imposing under the title of '•injured bed-room 
furniture." Vivian scarcely got as far as their break- 
fasts, but even their excessive price passed from his 
mind, when his eye lighted on the enormous item 
which entitled them to the basket of provisions. 
It would have supported the poor Bohemians for 
a year. 

Our hero's indignation was excessive, particu- 
larly as he now felt it his duty to listen to Essper's 
bitter complaints. Vivian contented himself, how- 
ever, with returning the account of Essper to the 
post-master, who took care not to be in his cus- 
tomer's presence ; informing mine host that there 
was some little mistake in his demand, and request- 
ing him to make out a new charge. But the 
character of the pious, loquacious, complaisant, and 
convivial innkeeper, seemed suddenly to have 
undergone a very strange revolution. He had be- 
come sullen, and silent; listened to Vivian's mes- 
sage with imperturbable composure, and then re- 
fused to reduce his charge one single kreutzer. 

Vivian, whose calm philosophy had received 
rather a rude shock since his last interview with 
Mr. Beckendorff, and who was not therefore in the 
most amiable of humours, did not now conceal his 
indignation ; nor, as far as words could make an 
impression, spare the late object of his intended 
generosity. That pious person bore his abuse like 
a true Christian ; crossing himself at every oppro- 
brious epithet that was heaped upon him, with great 
reverence, and kissing a holy medal of his blessed 
necklace whenever his guests threatened vengeance 
and anticipated redress. But no word escaped the 
whole time fronr the mouth of the spiritual protege 
of the Holy Fathers of St. Florian : pale and pig- 
headed, he bore all with that stubborn silence, 
which proved him no novice in such scenes ; and 
not even our Black Lady of Altoting was called 
upon to interfere in his favour, or to forgive, or 
forget, his innocent imposition. But liis mild, and 
active, and obliging wife amply compensated, by 
her reception of our hero's complaints, for the rather 
uncourteous conduct of her husband. With arms 
a-kimbo, and flashing eyes, the vixen poured forth 
a volley of abvjse both of Vivian and his servai;t, 
which seemed to astonish even her experienced 
husband. To leave the house without satisfying 
the full demand was impossible; for the demaaidant, 
being post-master, could of course prevent the pro- 
gress of his victim. In this state of aflairs, irritated 
and defied, Vivian threatened to apply to the judge 
of the district. His threat bore with it no terrors: 
and imagiuing that the post-master reckoned that 
his guest was merely blustering, Vivian determined 
to carry the business through ; and asked of a few 
idle persons who were standing around, which of 
them would show him the way to the judge of the 
district. 

" I will myself attend your highness," said the 
innkeeper, with a bow of insolent politeness. 

Vivian, however, did not choose to rely upon the 
post-master's faith ; and so, attended by a young 
peysant, and followed at a few yards' distance liy 
their host, he and Essper proceeded to find the 
judge of the district. 'I'he judge lived at a small 
village two miles up the country ; but even this did 
not daunt our hero, who, in spite of the meek and 
constant smile of his host, bade his guide lead on. 



VIVIAN GREY. 



215 



Half an hour bA>ught them to the hamlet. They 
))rocee(led down the only street which it contained, 
until they came to a rather large, but most dilapi- 
dated hovise, which their guide informed them was 
the residence of the judge. The great front gates 
being evidently unused, they rang the rusty bell at 
a small white door at the side of the mansion ; and 
in a short time it was opened by a hard-working 
Austrian wench, wb.o stared very much at the 
demand, as if she were but little accustomed to the 
admission of suitors. She bade them (^jllow her 
down the court. Passing a heavy casement win- 
dow, thickly overshadowed by a vine, she opened a 
door into a small and gloomy room, and the party 
were ushered into the solemn presence of the dis- 
trict judge. His worship was seated at a table, on 
which a few very ancient and dusty papers at- 
tempted to produce a show of business. He was 
earnestly engaged with his chocolate, and wore a 
crimson velvet cap, with a broad fur border, and a 
very imposing tassel. I need not describe his ap- 
pearance very minutely — his worship being an 
individual whom we have had the honour of meet- 
ing with before ; he being no less a personage than 
that dignified, economical, convivial, and most ill- 
treated judge from the Danube, whose unlucky 
adventure about the bottle of Rudesheimer was 
detailed in an early chapter of these volumes; and 
who it will be recollected was, at that time, if more 
g'ood-humouredly, scarcely more courteously, treated 
by one of the present complainants, Essper George, 
than by his brutal boon companions — the Univensity 
students. 

" Pray, gentlemen, be seated : take a chair, sir !" 
said his worship as he raised himself on his elbows, 
staring in V ivian's face. — " H — u — u — m !" growled 
the fat judge, as he perceived the innkeeper stand- 
ing on the threshold. — "Come in there, and shut 
the door. Well, gentlemen what is your pleasure 1" 

Vivian very temperately and briefly detailed the 
occasion of his visit. The judge listened in pro- 
found silence : his pouting lips and contracted brow 
making it difficult to ascertain whether he were 
thoughtful or sulky. The innkeeper did not at- 
tempt to interrupt the complainant during his state- 
ment, at least not by speech ; but kept up a per- 
petual commentary on the various charges, by re- 
peatedly crossing himself, sighing, and lifting up 
his hands and eyes, as much as to say, " What 
liars men are !" and then humbly throwing out his 
arms, and bending his head, he seemed to forgive 
their mendacity, and at the same time, trust that 
Heaven would imitate his example. While this 
scene was acting, Essper George got wound up to 
such a pitch of frenzy, between the injustice which 
he considered his master was doing to their case, 
the hypocritical gesticulations of the defendant, and 
the restraint laid upon his perpetual interference by 
Vivian, and the looks of the judge; that he could 
only be compared to a wild cat in a cage, hissing, 
spitting, threatening with his pawing hands, and 
setting up his back, as if he were about to spring 
upon his adversary and throttle him. 

" Now !" said the judge sternly to the post-mas- 
ter, '• what have you to say 1 How can you answer 
to yourself for treating a foreign gentleman in this 
manner 7" 

" St. Florian be my help !" said mine host with 
downcast eyes, " I am confounde<l : this worthy 
gentleman has most unaccountably deceived him- 
self. Our Lady be my guide, while I speak the 



truth ! Late last night this noble traveller and hi< 
worthy attendant arrived at our poor dwelling. 1 
was busying myself to get horses for his carriage, 
when the gentleman complained of so much illness 
and fatigue, that his servant entreated me to strive 
to give him accommodation for the night. Indeed, 
poor gentlemen ! it is no wonder they were fatigued ; 
for the young man himself, as he will bear witness 
for me," said the speaker, pointing to Essper 
" declared, that for four-and-twenty hours he had 
scarcely been off his horse ; and had not, in that 
time, tasted food !" 

" Yes ! that was when you promised me the 
bed which the Vice-principal of Molk slept in," 
said Essper, stamping with such violence, that the 
old judge started with fright, and dro[)ped his 
spoon ! His worship looked angrily round, and 
Vivian again commanded Essper to be silent. 

" Go on with your story," said the judge to the 
defendant. 

" Hear me speak, your worship," said Essper ; 
" he'll never have done. When once a man begins 
lying, hell tell the truth on Tuesday se'ennight. 
The whole affair is this — " 

" This person must be kept silent," said the 
judge. " You go on," continued he, pointing to 
the innkeeper, who was crossing himself most 
devoutly. 

" The Mother of Mercy forgive me !" said tlie 
innkeeper, " if I have said anght unconsciously to 
hurt the feelings of any fellow-chiistian. If the 
tale told me were untrue, is it my fault that I gave 
it credit 1 My wife and I, pitying their sad condi • 
tion, determined to exert ourselves for their relief. 
Our house, by the blessing of St. Florian, was 
filled. A respectable Bohemian family, who, from 
the treatment they have invariably received, con- 
sider our house their home, had taken up their 
lodgings with us for the night. Of a verity, we 
had no beds remaining, except the one in which I 
and my wife repose ourselves after our hard day's 
labour ; and another which was made on purpose 
for, and scarcely ever used by any persons, except 
our two dear and lamented children !" 

" A mouldy cradle !" bawled Essper George. 

" Our two lovely children slept together in it !" 
said the innkeeper, with a softened voice and a 
starting tear. 

" A crib, I suppose 1" said the judge, 

" Verily a large sized crib ! Excuse this emo- 
tion," said mine host, swallowing a sob ; " it is a 
subject on which I unwilHngly dwell." 

In this manner were nearly two hours occupied ; 
the pious post-master calmly and charitably ex- 
plaining his conduct, defending himself against 
every count of the indictment, and never once 
giving way to an irritable expression, although 
constantly interrupted and abused by Essper 
George ; whose rage and mortification, at the 
complexion which the histoiy of his ill-treatment 
was assuming before the judge, exceeded all 
bounds. 

" Gentlemen !" said the judge, when the inn- 
keeper had finished, " it appears to me that this 
poor man's case has been a little misunderstood by 
you. In the first place, it seems, that far from de- 
siring you to stay under his roof, your lodging 
there must have put him to very serious inconve- 
nience. J^nd that his wife, who had been hard 
worked tfw whole day, and was, moreover, far 
from being in strong health, was obliged to give 



816 



D' ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



up her bed for the accommodation of her unex- 
pected guest ; and what more could 3'our servant 
desire, than the bed in which their own children 
were accustomed to repose 1 As to the charge ibr 
your meals, and wine, and the basket of provisions, 
you are little aware at how much cost and labour 
we, who live among these mountains, procure 
even the commonest provir^ions, now rendered 
doubly scarce by the excessive heat and drought 
of the season. (Here the judge poured out ano- 
ther cup of chocolate.) Remember, also, that this 
is not a large city, and that we are obliged to pro- 
vide at the beginning of the week for the wants 
of the remainder. You have probably, therefore, 
deprived this poor family of their sustenance for 
six days to come. Consider, also, that it was not 
necessary for the post-master to put himself to the 
expense of living in so large a house, and that it 
was entirely for the accommodation of respectable 
families travelling from Bohemia and Bavaria, and 
other places, that he has incurred the cost of main- 
taining this establishment ! It is only fair, there- 
fore, that you should properly remunerate him for 
the conveniences which, in such a country, you 
could hardly have expected to find, and for the 
extraordinary risk incurred by this hazardous in- 
vestment of his capital. Respecting the treatment 
of which you complain, from his wife, I put it to 
your own feelings, as a gentleman, whether great 
allowance should not be made in a case where 
such exertions and sacrifices may have produced a 
slight degree of irritability and discomposure — the 
natural result of female delicacy and overpowering 
fatigue. For her husband, the present defendant, 
I should feel I was not discharging my duty, if I 
did not declare that this is the first time I have 
heard word of complaint against him by man, 
■woman, or child ; and if I were called upon to 
pick out the most civil, obliging, conscientious, 
liberal, charitable, unassuming, and thoroughly 
honest, and truly pious man, within my district, 
it is this worthy person whom I now sec before 
me: and whose demand I feel it incumbent upon 
me to insist shall this moment be satisfied. My 
clerk is not in the way just now, but his fee you 
may leave upon the table: it is twenty per cent, 
upon the amount of the disputed sum. There is 
also one dollar due for the warrant ; which, though 
not issued in the present instance, must be ac- 
counted for to government." 

Vivian threw dovs'n the sum in disgust, without 
deigning to reply ; but Essper George was not so 
dignified. His rage was ludicrously excessive. 

" I knew it would end so ! You would not let 
me speak. Don't pay, sir — don't pay ! The fat 
rascal is the worst of the two ; and whenever I 
prosecute a person for stealing clothes off a naked 
man, or a beard from a child's elbow, I'll bring 
Ihcm before you, and they shall be found guilty !" 

"Fellow!" said the magistrate, " do you know 
who I ami" 

"Know youl" screamed Essper, with a mali- 
cious laugh: "know youl The very sight of you 
docs my heart good. How did that Rudesheimer 
at Coblcntz agree with you 1 I think you got a 
glass when the bottle was empty ! O you old 
cheat ! this is not the first time that you have 
wanted to make honest travellers pay for what 
they did not order ! shame ! shame !"^ 

" You loose-tongued rascal !" said W agonized 
and choking magistrate, as he shuflled back his 



chair, and threw his cup of chocolate at Essper's 
head. The knave, however, skilfully avoided it, 
and ran down the court after his master. His 
agility baffled the exertions of the gouty judge, 
who, thinking he was fairly rid of his tormentor, 
determined to forget his mortification in his per 
ccntage. He had just reseated himself in his easy 
chair, and was spinning the dollar on his thumb, 
revelling in his speculation, when Essper poked 
his head in at the opened casement. 

" I forgot one thing !" said he, in an exulting 
whisper: "pray — how is your — grandfather!" 



CHAPTER IV. 

This unsuccessful appeal to justice cost Vivian 
almost as many golden hours as it had golden 
sovereigns. At length, however, his carriage drove 
off. His host neither showed pique at his oppo- 
sition, nor triumph at his defeat : he was just as 
pious and polite as on the evening of their arrival, 
and crossed himself, and bowed to his departing 
guest, with emulative fervour. His wife, however, 
standing in the window, testified her exultation by 
clapping her hands and laughing as the carriage 
went off. 

The postilion drove so well, that Essper had 
difficulty in keeping up with the horses ; particu- 
larly as, when he had found himself safely mounted, 
he had lagged behind a few minutes to vent his 
spleen against the innkeeper's wife. 

" May St. Florian confound me, madam !" said 
Essper, addressing himself to the lady in the win- 
dow, " if ever I beheld so ugly a witch as yourself! 
Pious friend ! thy chaplet of roses was ill bestowed, 
and thou needest not have travelled so far to light 
thy wax tapers at the shrine of the Black Lady at 
Altoting ; for, by the beauty of holiness ! an image 
of ebony is mother of pearl to that soot-face whom 
thou callest thy wife. Fare thee well ! thou 
couple of saintly sinners; and may the next tra- 
veller who tarries in thy den of thieves, qualify 
thee for canonization by tliy wife's admiring pastor, 
the cabbage-eating Vice-principal of Molk." 

The postilion blew his horn with unusual spirit, 
to announce the arrival of a traveller of conse- 
quence, at the next post-house; and Vivian had 
the mortification of being whirled up to the gate- 
way of a large and well-appointed inn, situated in 
the high street of a smart-looking little town. The 
consciousness that he had been seduced into stay- 
ing at the miserable place where he had passed the 
night, under the pretence that there was no better 
accommodation within fifty miles, the sight of his 
costly basket of broken victuals, and the recollec- 
tion of the expense of time and money which he 
had incurred through his credulity, were not cal- 
culated to render his mood the most amiable. The 
postilion, perhaps observing a cloud ujwn his 
brow, and anticipating that he might sullcr for his 
master's villany, bowed very low when he came 
up to the door of the carriage to be paid, and 
trusted most respectfully that his drink-money 
would not be diminished for any thing that had 
happened. "I was very sorry, sir," continued he, 
" for what took place with my master ; but I could 
do nothing, sir: I could not drive you without an 
order. I am sorry to say, it is nothing particularly 
new, su'. It wasn't much use vour troubling your 



VIVIAN GREV. 



217 



Bolf to go to the judge, for he always sides with 
master. Master married his sister, sir !" 

VVliilc Vivian v^s speaking to the postiUon, he 
heard the sound of a hammer behind tlie carriage ; 
and, 'on looking round, perceived a man busily em- 
ployed in working at one of the' springs. This fel- 
low was one of those othcious smiths, who, on the 
Continent, regularly commence, without permission 
or necessity, their operations upon every carriage 
which drives up to the post-house. Vivian, con- 
vinced that his caleche did not, or ought not, to 
require the exercise of this artist's talents, after 
much trouble and some high talking, prevented 
him from proceeding. The man, however, ten- 
dered a demand for services which ought to have 
been performed, or ought to have been required. 
It was always the custom, he said, in that town, to 
have carriages examined and repaired ; and if his 
highness's did not require his attention, it was not 
his fault. He was ready to repair the carriage — it 
ought to have been broken. Vivian, of course, re- 
fused to satisfy the fellow's insolent demand ; and 
begged to assure him, that he was not one of those 
English lords, whom, evidently, the considerate 
smith was in the habit of practising upon. The 
man retired grumbling, with a most gloomy fice. 

On they went again, but not quite as comfortably 
as before: either the road was much worse, or the 
smith had been right in supposing that something 
was displaced. In the course of an hour Vivian 
was obliged to desire the postilion to drive care- 
fully ; and before the end of another, they had to 
ford a rivulet, running between two high banks. 
The scenery just here was particularly lovely, and 
Vivian's attention was so engrossed by it, that he did 
not observe the danger which he was about to incur. 

As this scene is important to the narrative, I shall 
describe it with great accuracy, and I hope that it 
will be understood. 

On the left of the road, a high range of rocky 
mountains abruptly descended into an open, but 
broken country ; and on the other side of the road 
was occasionally bounded by low undulating hills, 
partially covered with dwarf woods, not high 
enough to obstruct the view of the distant horizon. 
Rocky knolls jutted out near the base of the moun- 
tains ; and on the top of one of them, overlooked 
by a gigantic gray peak, stood an ancient and still 
inhabited feudal castle. Round the base of this 
insulated rock, a rustic village peeped above the 
encircling nut-woods — its rising smoke softening 
the hard features of the naked crag. On the side 
of the village nearest to Vivian, a bold sheet of wa- 
ter discharged itself in three separate falls, between 
the ravine of a wooded mountain ; and flowing 
round the village as a tine broad river, expanded, , 
before it reached the foundation of the castled rock, 
into a long and deep lake, which was also fed by 
numerous streams, the gulleys only of which vvcre 
now visible down the steep sides of the mountains 
— their springs having been long dried up. 

Vivian's view was interrupted by his sudden 
descent into the bed of the rivulet, one of the nu- 
merous branches of the mountain torrent, and by a 
crash which as immediately ensued. Through the 
unpaid assistance of the rejected smith, the spring 
of his carriage was broken, and various loosened 
nuts jolted out. The carriage of course fell over, 
but Vivian sustained no injury ; and while Essper 
George rode forward to the village for assistance, 
his master helped the postilion to extricate the 
28 



horses and secure them on the opposite bank. They 
had done all that was in their power some time be- 
fore Essper returned ; and Vivian, who had seated 
himself on some tangled beech roots, was prevent- 
ed growing impatient by contemplating the en- 
chanting scenery. The postilion, on the contrary, 
who had travelled this road every day of his life, 
and who fomid no gratification in gazing upon 
rocks, woods, and waterfalls, lit his pijie, and occa- 
sionally talked to his horses. So essential an attri- 
bute of the beautiful is novelty I Essper at length 
made his appearance, attended by five or six pea- 
sants, all dressed in holiday costume, with some 
fanciful decorations; their broad hats wreathed 
with wild flowers, their short brown jackets covered 
with buttons and fringe, and various-coloured ri- 
bands streaming from their knees. 

" Well, sir ! the grandson is born the day the 
grandfather dies ! a cloudy morning has often a 
bright sunset ! and though we are now sticking in 
a ditch, by the aid of St. Florian, we may be soon 
feasting in a castle ! Come, come, my meny men, 
I did not bring you here to show your ribands — 
the sooner you help us out of this scrape, the sooner 
you will be again dancing with the pretty maidens 
on the green ! Lend a hand ! lend a hand ! What's 
your nanie ]" asked Essper, of a sturdy red-haired 
lad ; " Wolf? if it is not, it ought to be ; and so, Mr. 
Wolf, put your shoulder to this fore-wheel, and 
you two go to the off-wheel, and Master Robert, as 
I thiidi they call you, help me here ! Now, all lift 
together — Ho-i-g-h ! ho-i-g-h ! sharp there, behind ! 
once more — ho-i-g-h ! pull — pull — pull ! — there ! 
gently, gently, that's it !" 

The caleche ajipeared to be so much shattered, 
that they only ventured to put in one horse ; and 
Vivian, leaving his carriage in charge of Essper and 
the postilion, mounted Max, and rode to the village, 
attended by the peasants. He learned from them, 
on the way, that they were celebrating the mar- 
riage of the daughter of their lord ; who, having 
been informed of the accident, had commandoj 
them to go immediately to the gentleman's assist- 
ance, and then conduct him to the castle. Vivian 
immediately made some excuse for not accepting 
their master's hospitable invitation, and requested 
to be shown to the nearest inn. He learned, to his 
dismay, that the village did not boast a single one ; 
the existence of such an establishment not being per- 
mitted by their lord, who, hov^'ever, was always most 
happy to entertain any stranger at his castle. As 
his caleche was decidedly too much injured to pro- 
ceed farther that day, Vivian had evidently, from 
the account of these persons, no alternative ; and 
therefore allowed himself to be introduced accord- 
ing to their instructions. 

They crossed the river over a light stone bridge 
of three arches, the key-stone of the centre one 
being decorated with a very splendidly sculptured 
shield. • 

" This bridge appears to be very recently built," 
said Vivian to one of his conductors. 

" It was opened, sir, for the first time, yesterday, 
to admit the bridegroom of my young lady, and the 
foundation-stone of it was laid on the day she was 
born." 

" I see that your good lord was detennined that 
it should be a solid structure." 

" Why, sir, it was necessary that the foundation 
should be st»ng, because three succeeding winters 
it was washed away by the rush of that mountain 



218 



D'ISKAELI'S NOVELS. 



torrent. — Turn tills way, if you please, sir, through 
the village." 

Vivian was much struck with tlic appearance of 
the little settlement as he rode thioush it. It did 
not consist of more than fifty houses, but they were 
ail detached, and each beautifully embowered in 
trees. The end of the village came upon a large 
rising-green, leading up to the only accessible side 
of the castle. It presented a most animated scene, 
being covered with various groups, all intent upon 
dill'erent rustic amusements. An immense pole, 
the stem of a gigantic fii-trce, was fixed nearly in 
the centre of the green, and crowned with a chap- 
h't — the reward of the most active young man of 
the village, whose agility might enable him to dis- 
play his gallantry, by presenting it to his mistress ; 
she being allowed to wear it during the remainder 
of the sports. The middle-aged men were proving 
their strength by raising weights ; while the elders 
of the village joined in the calmer and more scien- 
tific diversion of skittles, which, in Austria, are 
played with bowls and pins of very great size. 
Others were dancing ; others sitting under tents, 
chattering or taknig refreshments. Some were 
walking in pairs, anticipating the speedy celebra- 
tion of a wedding-day — happier to them, if less gay 
to others. Even the tenderest infants, on, this fes- 
tive day, seemed conscious of some unusual cause 
of excitement ; and many an urchin, throwing him- 
self forward in a vain attempt to catch an elder 
brother or a laughing sister, tried the strength of 
his leading-strings, and rolled over, crowing, in the 
soft grass. 

At the end of the green a splendid tent was 
erected, with a large white bridal-flag waving from 
its top, embroidered in gold, with a true-lover's 
knot. . From this pavilion came forth, to welcome 
the strangers, the lord of the village. He was an 
extremely tall, but verj' thin bending figure, with a 
florid benevolent countenaricc, and a great quantitv 
of long white hair. This venerable person cor- 
diallj' offered his hand to Vivian, regretted his acci- 
dent, but expressed much pleasure that he had come 
to partake of their happiness. " Yesterday," con- 
tinued he, "was my daughter's wedding-day, and 
both myself and our humble friends are endeavour- 
ing to forget, in this festive scene, our approaching 
loss and separation. If you had come yesterday, 
you would have assisted at the opening of my new 
bridge. Pray, what do you think of it 1 But I 
will show it to you myself, which I assure you will 
give me great jjleasure ; at present, let me intro- 
duce you to my family, who will be quite delighted 
to see you. It is a pity that you have missed the 
regatta; my daughter is just going to reward the 
.successful candidate : you see the boats upon the 
lake ; the one with the white and purple streamer 
was the conqueror. You will have the ])leasure, 
too, of seeing my son-in-law : I am sure you will 
like him — he quite enjoys our sports. We shall 
have a fete cliam{>etre to-morrow, and a dance on 
tlu' green to-night." 

The old gentleman paused for want of breath, 
and having stood a moment to recover himself, he 
introduced his new guest to the inmates of the tent: 
first, his maiden sister, a softened fac-simile of 
liimself ; behind her stood his beautiful and blush- 
ing daughter, the youthful bride, wearing on her 
head a coronal of white roses, and supported by 
three bride's-maids, the only relief to whose snowy 
dresses were large bouquets on their left side. The 



bridegroom was at first shaded by the curtain ; but, 
as he came forward, Vivian started when he recog- 
nised his ■ Heidelberg friend, ^ugcne von Konig- 
stein ! 

Their mutual delight and astonishment were so 
great, that for an histant neither of them could 
speak ; but when the old man learned from his 
son-in-law, that the stranger was his niost valued 
and intimate friend, and one to whom he was un- 
der the greatest personal obligations, he absolutely 
declared that he would have the wedding — to wit- 
ness which appeared to him the height of human 
felicity — solemnized over again. The bride blush- 
ed, the bride's-maids tittered ; the joy was univer- 
sal. 

" My dear sister!" .said the old lord, bawling 
very loud in her ear; "very likely your deafness 
prevented you understanding that this gentleman 
is Eugene's particular friend. Poor dear !" con 
tinned he, lowering his tone ; " it is a great misfor 
tune to be so very deaf!" 

" I dare say you will soon perceive, sir," said the 
old lady to Vivian, while his lordship was speaking, 
" that my dear brother is debarred, in a great de- 
gree, from enjoying your society, by his unfortu- 
nate deafness : he scarcely ever hears even what I 
say to him ; though he has been accustomed to my 
voice so many years. Poor creature, it is a great 
denial to him !" 

It was quite curious to observe how perfectly 
unconscious were this excellent pair of their own 
infirmity, though quite alive to each other's. 

V^ivian inquired alter the baron. He learned 
from Eugene that he had quitted Europe about a 
month ago, having sailed as minister to one of the 
new American states. " My uncle, " continued the 
young man, " was neither well, nor in spirits be- 
fore his departure : ,1 cannot understand why he 
plagues himself so about politics ; however, I trust 
he will like his new appointment; you found him, 
I am sure, a most delightful companion V 

" Come ! you two young gentlemen," said the 
father-in-law, " put off your chat till the evening. 
The business of the day stops ; for I see the pro- 
cession coming forward to receive the regatta prize. 
Now, my dear! where is the scarf ? — You know 
what to say 1 Remember, I particularly wish to do 
honour to tlie victor ! The sight of all these happy 
faces makes me feel quite young again. I declare 
I tliink I shall live a hundred years !" 

The procession advanced. First came a band of 
young children strewing flowers ; then followed 
four stout boys carrying a large purple and white 
banner. The victor, proudly preceding the other 
candidates, strutted forward, with his hat on one 
side, a light scull decorated with purple and white 
ribands in his right hand, and his left arm round 
his wife's waist. The wife, a beautiful young wo- 
man, to whom were clinging two fat flaxcn-headeJ 
children, was the most interesting figure in the pro- 
cession. Her tight dark boddice set off her round 
full figure, and her short red petticoat displayed her 
springy foot and ankle. Her neatly braided and 
plaited hair was pai'tly concealed by a silk cap, 
covered with gold-spangled gauze, flattened rather 
at the top, and finished at the back of the head with 
a large bow. This costly head-gear, tlie highest 
fashion of her class, was presented to the wearer by 
the bride, and was destined to be kejit for festivals. 
After the victor tmd his wife, came six girls and six 
boys, at tlie side of whom walked a very bustling 



VIVIAN GREY. 



219 



personage in black, who seempd extremely interest- 
ed about the decorum o.f the procession. A lonij; 
train of villagers succeeded. 

" Well !" said liie old lord to Vivian, " this must 
be a very gratifyingc sij^ht to you ! how fortunate 
that your carriage broke down just at my castle ! 
I think my dear girl is acquitting herself admirably. 
Ah! Eugene is a happy fellow; and I have no 
doubt that she wdl be happy too. The young 
sailoi" receives his honours very properly : they 
are as nice a family as I know. Observe, they arc 
moving off' now to make way for the pretty girls 
and boys ! That person in black is our abbe — as 
i)cnevolent, svorthy a creature as ever lived ! and 
veiy clever too : you'll see in a minute. Now 
tliey are going to give us a little bridal chorus, after 
the old fashion ; and it is all the abbe's doing. I 
understand that there is an elegant allusion to my 
new bridge in it, which I think will please you. 
Who ever thought that bridge would be opened for 
my girl's wedding ] Well ! I am glad that it was 
not finished before. But we must be sdent! You 
will notice that part about the bridge ; it is in the 
fifth verse, I am told; beginning with something 
about Hymen, and ending with something about 
roses." 

By this time the procession had formed a semi- 
circle before the tent ; the abbe standing in the 
middle, with a paper in his hand, and dividing the 
two bands of choristers. He gave a signal with 
his cane, and the girls commenced : — 

Chorus of Maidens. 
Hours fly I it is Morn : she has left the bed of 
Love : she follows him with a strained eye, when 
his figure is no longer seen : she leans her head 
upon her arm. She is faithful to him, as the lake 
to the mountain I 

Chorus of Yoiilhs. 
Hours fly ! it is Noon : fierce is the restless sun ! 
While he labours, he thinks of her ! while he 
controls others, he will obey her ! A strong man 
subdued by love, is like a vineyard silvered by the 
»uoon ! 

Chorus of Youths and Maidens. 
Hours fly ! it is Eve : the soft star lights him to 
/lis home ! she meets him as his shadow falls on 
the threshold ! she smiles, and their child, stretch- 
ing forth its tender hands from its mother's bosom, 
struggles to lisp " Father !" 

Chorus of Maidens. 
Years glide ! it is Youth : they sit within a 
secret bower. Purity is in her raptured eyes — 
Faith in his warm embrace. He must fly ! He 
kisses his farewell : the fresh tears are on her 
cheek ! He has gathered a lily witli the dew upon 
its leaves ! 

Chorus of Youths. 
Years glide! it is Manhood. He is in the fierce 
camp; he is in the deceitful court. He must min- 
gle sometimes with others, that he may be always 
with her ! In the false world, she is to him like a 
green olive among rocks ! , 

Chorus of Youths and Maidens. 

Yciirs glide ! it is Old Age. They sit beneath 
a branching elm. As the moon rises on the sun- 
set green, their children dance before them ! Her 



hand is in his ; they look upon their children, and 
then upon each other ! 

" The fellow has some fancy," said the old lord, 
"but given, I think, to conceits. I did not exactly 
catch the {lassage about the bridge, but I have no 
doubt it was all right." 

Vivian was now invited to the pavilion, where 
refreshments were prepared. Here our hero was 
introduced to many other guests, relations of the 
family, who were on a visit at the castle, and who 
had been on the lake at the moment of his arrival. 

" This gentleman," said the old lord, pointing to 
Vivian, " is my son's most particular friend, and I 
am quite sure that you are all delighted to see him. 
He arrived here quite accidentally — his carriage 
having fortunately broken down in passing one 
of the streams. All those rivulets should have 
bridges built over tljem ! A single arch would do : 
— one bold single arch ; of the same masonry as 
my new bridge, with a very large key-stone, and 
the buttresses of the arch rounded, so that the 
water should play against them — no angles to be 
eaten, and torn, and crumbled away. A fine 
bridge, with the arches well' proportioned, and the 
key-stones bold, and the buttresses well rounded, is 
one of the grandest and most inspiriting sights I 
know. I could look at my new bridge forever. 
I often ask myself, ' Now how can such a piece of 
masonry ever be destroyed]' It seems quite im- 
possible ; does noi it 1 We all know — experience 
teaches us all — that every thing has an end ; and 
yet, whenever I look at that bridge, I often think 
that it can only end when all things end. I will 
tak^ you over it myself, Mr. Grey : it is not fair, 
because you came a day too late, that you should 
miss the finest sight of all. If you had only been 
here yesterday, I am sure you would have said it 
was the happiest day in your life !" 

The old gentleman proceeded to give Vivian a 
long description of the ceremony. He was terribly 
disappointed, and equally annoyed, when he found 
that our hero could not be present at the festivities 
of the morrow. At first my lord was singularly 
deaf; he could not conceive the bare idea of the 
possibility of any person wishing to leave him at 
the present moment; but when his guest assured, 
and finally, by frequent repetition, made him un- 
derstand, that nothing but the most peremptory 
business could command, under such circumstances, 
his presence at Vienna ; the old gentleman, a great 
stickler for duty, and a great respecter of public, 
business, which he had persuaded himself could 
alone prevail upon Vivian to make such a sacrifice, 
kuidly commiserated his situation ; and consoled 
him by saying, that he thought he was the most 
unlucky fellow with whom he ever had the plea- 
sure of beingacquaintcd. " To come just one day 
after the bridge ! and then to go off just the morn- 
ing before the fete champetrc ! It is very hard for 
you ! I quite pity you ; don't you, my dear sis- 
ter 1" bawled he to the old lady. "But what is 
the use of speaking to her, poor dear ! it is a great 
misfortune to be so very deaf! It seems to me 
that she gets worse every day," 

" I am glad, sir," said the old lady to Vivian, 
seeing that she was spoken to ; '• I am glad that 
we shall have the pleasure of your company at the 
fete to-morrow. My dear brother !" bawled she to 
the old gentlemen, " you feel, I am sure, very 
happy that Eugene's friend has arrived so for- 



220 



D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. 



tunately to participate in the pleasures of the fete. 
But what is the use of speaking- to him ! poor 
creature ! it is a great denial to him to be so very 
deaf! I fear it gains on him hourly !" 

In the evening they all waltzed upon the green. 
The large yellow moon had risen ; and a more 
agreeable sight, than to witness two or three hun- 
dred persons so gayly occupied, and . in such a 
scene, is not easy to imagine. How beautiful was 
the stern old castle, softened by the moonlight, the 
illumined lake, the richly silvei-ed foliage of the 
woods, and the white brilliant cataract ! 

Vivian waltzed with the bride, little qualified as 
he now was to engage in the light dance ! But to 
refuse the distinguished honour was impossible ; 
and so, in spite of his misery, he was soon spin- 
ning on the green. The mockeiy, however, 
could not be long kept up ; and pleading over- 
whelming fatigue, from late travelling, and gently 
hinting to Eugene, that from domestic circum- 
stances the present interesting occasion could alone 
have justified him in the slightest degree joining 
in any thing which bore the appearance of light- 
ness and revelry, he left the green. 

His carriage was now being repaired by the cas- 
tle smith ; and by the advice and with the assist- 
ance of the old lord, he had engaged the brother 
of the family steward, who was a voiturier, about 
to set of!" for Vienna the next morning, to take 
charge of his equipage and luggage, as far as 
Burkesdorff, which was about ten miles from 
Vienna. At that place Vivian and Essper were 
also to arrive on the afternoon oi' their second 
day's journey. They would there meet the car- 
riage, and get into Vienna before dusk. 

As the castle was quite full of visiters, its hos- 
pitable master apologized to Vivian for lodging him 
for the night, at the cottage of one of his favourite 
tenants. Nothing could give greater pleasure to 
Vivian than this circumstance, nor more annoy- 
ance to the worthy old gentleman. 

The cottage belonged to the victor in the regatta, 
who himself conducted the visiter to his dwelling, 
Vivian did not press Essper's leaving the revellers, 
so great an acquisition did he seem to their sports ! 
Teaching them a thousand new games, and play- 
ing all manner of antics ; but perhaps none of his 
powers surprised them more, than the extraordi- 
nary facility and freedom with which he had ac- 
quired, and used all their names. The cottager's 
pretty wife had gone home an hour before her hus- 
band, to put her two fair-haired children to bed, 
and prepare her guest's accommodation for the 
night. Nothing could be more romantic and lovely 
than the situation of the cottage. It stood just on 
the gentle slope of the mountain's base, not a hun- 
dred yards from the lower waterfall. It was in the 
middle of a patch of highly cultivated ground, 
which bore creditable evidence to the industry of its 
proprietor. Fruit trees, Turkey corn, vines, and 
liax, flourished in the greatest luxuriance. The 
dwelling itself was covered with myrtle and arlni- 
tus, amd the tall lemon jilant perfumed the window 
of the sitting-room. The casement of Vivian's 
chamber opened full on the foaming cataract. The 
distant murmur of the mighty waterfall, the gentle 
sighing of the trees, the .soothing influence of the 
moonlight, and the faint sounds occasionally caught 
of dying revelry — the joyous exclamation of some 
•successful candidate in the day's games, the song 
of some returning lover, tlic plash of an oar in the ' 



lake — all combined to produce that pensive mood, 
in which we find ourselves involuntarily reviewing 
the history of our life. 

As Vivian was musing over the last harassing 
months of his burthensome existence, he could not 
help feeling that there was only one person in the 
world on whom his memory could dwell with 
solace and satisfaction ; and this person was Lady 
Madeleine Trevor ! 

It was true that with her he had passed some 
most agonizing hours; but he could not forget the 
angelic resignation with which her own afHiction 
had been borne ; and the soothing converse by which 
his had been alleviated. This train df thought was 
pursued till his aching mind was sunk into inde- 
finiteness. He sat, for some little time, almost 
unconscious of existence, till the crying of a child, 
waked by its father's return, brought him back to 
the present scene. His thoughts naturally ran to 
his friend Eugene. Surely this youthful bride- 
groom mis;ht reckon upon happiness ! Again Lady 
Madeleine recurred to him.' Suddenly he observed 
a wonderful appearance in the sky. The moon 
was paled in the high heavens, and surrounded by 
luminous rings — almost as vividly tinted as th© 
rainbow — spreading, and growing fainter, till they 
covered nearly half the firmament. It was a gl> 
rious, and almost unprecedented halo ! 



CHAPTER V. 

The sun rose red, the air was tWck and hot. 
Anticipating that the day would be very oppressive, 
Vivian and Essper were on their horses' hacks at an 
early hour. Already, however, many of the rustia 
revelers were aliout, and preparations were commeii- 
cing for the fete champetre, which this day was t<» 
close the wedding festivities. Many and sad were th> 
looks which Essper George cast behind him, at the 
old castle on the lake. "No good luck can come 
of it!" said he to his horse; for Vivian did not 
encourage conversation. " ! master of mine, 
when wilt thou know the meaning of good quar- 
ters ! To leave such a place, and at such a time ! 
Why, Turriparva was nothing to it ! The day 
before marriage, and the hour before death, is when 
a man thinks least of his purse, and most of his 
neighbour. — And where are we going ! I slept the 
other night in a cradle : and, for aught I know, I 
may sleep this one in a coflin ! I, who am now as 
little fit for rough riding, and rough eating, and 
rough sleeping, as a pet monkey with a scalded 
tail ! O ! man, man, what art thou, that the eye 
of a girl can make thee so pass all discretion, that 
thou wilt sacrifice fjr the whim of a moment good 
cheer enough to make thee last an age !" 

Vivian had intended to stop and breakfast after 
riding about ten miles ; but he had not j)roceeded 
half that way, when, from the extreme sultriness of 
the morning, he found it impossible to advanc» 
without refreshment. Max, also, to his rider's sur- 
prise, was much distressed ; and on turning rourxl 
to his servant, Vivian found E.ssper's hack [>anting, 
and jjufling, and" breaking out, as if, instead of com- 
mencing their day's work, they were near reaching 
their point of destination. 

" Why, how now, Essper 1 One would think 
that we had been riding all night What ails the 
beast?" 



I 



VIVIAN GREY. 



221 



" In truth, sir, that which ails its rider ; the poor 
1*11 nib brute has more sense than some — not ex- 
actly brutes, — who have the gift of speech. Who 
ever heard of a liorse leaving good quarters without 
much regretting the indiscretion ; and seeing such 
a promising road as this before him, without much 
desiring to retrace his steps ! Is there marvel, your 
highness'!" 

" The closeness of the air is so oppressive, that I 
do not wonder at even Max being distressed. Per- 
haps when the sun is higher, and has cleared away 
the vapours, it may be more endurable ; as it is, I 
think we had better stop at once and breakfast here. 
This wood is as inviting as, I trust, are the contents 
of your basket I" 

"St. J'lorian devour them I" said Essper, in a 
very pious voice, " if I agree not with your high- 
ness ; and as for the basket, although we have left 
the land of milk and honey, by the blessing of our 
Black Lady ! I have that within it, which would put 
courage in the heart of a caught mouse. Although 
we may not breakfast on bride-cake and heccalkos, 
yet is a neat's tongue better than a fox's tail ; and 
I have ever held a bottle of Rehnish to be superior 
to rain-water, even though the element be filtered 
through a gutter. Nor, by all saints ! have I forgot- 
ten a bottle of kcrchen wasser, from the Black 
Forest ; nor a keg of Dantzic brandy, a glass of 
which, when travelling at night, I am ever accus- 
tomed to take after my prayers ; for 1 have always 
observed, that though devotion doth sufficiently 
warm up the soul, the body all the time is rather 
the colder for stooping under a tree to tell its beads." 

The travellers, accordingly, led their horses a 
few yards into the wood, and soon met, as they had 
expected, with a small green glade. — It was sur- 
rounded, except at the slight opening by which 
they had entered it, with fine Spanish chestnut 
trees ; which now loaded with their large brown 
fruit, rich and ripe, clustered in the starry fohage, 
atlbrded a retreat as beautiful to the eye, as its 
siiade was grateful to their senses. Vivian dis- 
mounted, and stretching out his legs, leaned back 
against the trunk of a tree ; and Essper, having 
fastened Max and his own horse to some branches, 
proceeded to display his stores. Vivian was silent, 
thoughtful, and scarcely tasted anything; Essper 
George, on the contrary, was in unusual and even 
troublesome spirits : and had not his appetite ne- 
cessarily produced a few pauses in his almost 
perpetual rattle, the patience of his master would 
have been fairly worn out. At length Essper had 
devoured the whole supply ; and as Vivian not 
only did not encourage his remarks, but even in a 
peremptory manner had desired his silence, he was 
fain to amuse himself by trying to catch in his 
mouth a large brilliant fly, which every instant was 
dancing before him. Two individuals more singu- 
larly contrasting in their appearance than the 
master and the servant, could scarcely be conceived ; 
and Vivian, lying with his back against a tree, with 
his legs stretched out, his arms folded, and his eyes 
fixed on the ground : and Essper, though seated, 
in perpetual motion, and shifting his posture with 
feverish restlessness — now looking over his shoul- 
der for the fly, then making an unsuccessful bite at 
it, and then wearied with his frequent failures, 
amusing himself with acting punch with his thumbs 
— altogether presented two figures, which might 
have been considered as not inapt personifications 
of tlic rival systems of idealism and materialism. 



At length Essper became silent for the saa.e 
variety ; and imagining from his master's example, 
that there must be some sweets in meditation hi- 
therto undiscovered by him ; he imitated Vivian's 
posture ! So perverse is human nature, that the 
moment Vivian was aware that Essper was perfectly 
silent, he began to feel an incUnation to converse 
with him. 

" Why, Essper !" said he, looking up and smiling, 
" this is the first lime during our acquaintance, that 
I have ever seen thought upon your brow. What 
can now be puzzling your wild brain V 

" I was thinking, sir," said Essper, with a very 
solemn look, " that if there were a deceased field- 
mouse here, I would moralize on death." 

" What ! turned philosopher !" 

" Ay ! sir — it appears to me," said he, taking up 
a husk which lay on the turf, " that there is not a 
nutshell in Christendom, which may not become 
matter for very grave meditation I' 

" Can you expound that?" 

" Verily, sir, the whole philosophy of life, seems 
to me to consist in discovering the kernel. When 
you see a courtier out of favour,. or a merchant out 
of credit — when you see a soldier without pillage, 
a sailor without prize-money, and a lawyer without 
papers — a bachelor with nephews, and an old maid 
with nieces — be assured the nut is not worth the 
cracking, and send it to the winds, as I do this husk 
at present." 

" Why, Essper !" said Vivian, laughing, "con- 
sidering that you have taken your degree so lately, 
you wear the doctor's cap with authority ! Instead 
of being in your novitiate, one would think that 
you had been a philosopher long enough to have 
outlived your system." 

'■ Bless your highness ! for philosophy, I sucked 
it in with my mother's milk. Nature then gave me 
the hint, which I have ever since acted on ; and I 
hold, that the sum of all learning, consists in milk- 
ing another man's cow. So much for the recent 
acquisition of my philosophy ! I gained it, you 
see, your highness, with the Ih-st wink of my eye; 
and though I lost a great portion of it by sea-sick- 
ness in the Mediterranean, nevertheless, smce I 
served your highness, I have assumed my old 
habits ; and do opine that this vain globe is but a 
large foot ball, to be kicked and cufied about by 
moody philosophers !" 

" You must have seen a great deal in your life, 
Master Essper," said Vivian, who was amused by 
his servant's quaint humour. 

" Like all great travellers," said Essper, " I have 
seen more than I remember, and remember more 
than I have seen." 

" Have you any objection to go to the East 
again 1" asked Vivian. " It would require but httle 
persuasion to lead me there." 

" I would rather go to a place where the religion 
is easier : I wish your highness would take me to 
England !" 

" Nay, not there with me — if with others." 

" With you — or with none." 

" I cannot conceive, Essper, what can induce 
you to tie up your fortunes with those of such a. 
sad-looking personage as myself." 

" In truth, your highness, there is no accounting 
for tastes. My grandmother loved a brindled cat I" 

"Your grandmother, Essper! Nothing would 
amuse me more .than to be introduced to ycui 
family." 

t2 



222 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" My family, sir, are nothinp; more, nor less, than 
what all of us must be counted — worms of five feet 
long — mortal ani^cls — the world's epitome — heaps 
of atoms, which nature has kneaded with blood 
into solid flosh — little worlds of living clay — sparks 
of heaven — inches of earth — Nature's quintessence 
— moving dust — the little all — smooth-faced cheru- 
bim, in whose souls the king of stars has drawn 
the image of himself !" 

" And how many years has breathed the worm 
of five feet long, that I am now speaking to ?" 

"Good, your highness, I was no head at calcu- 
lating from a boy ; but I do remember that I am 
two days older than one of the planets." 

" How is that V 

" There was one born in the sky, sir, the day I 
was christened with a Turkish crescent." 

" Come, Essper," said Vivian, who was rather 
interested by the conversation ; Essper having, 
until this morning, skilfully avoided any discourse 
upon the subject of his birth or family, adroitly 
turning the conversation whenever it chanced to 
approach those suljects, and silencing inquiries, if 
commenced, by some ludicrous and evidently ficti- 
tious answer. " Come, Essper," said Vivian, " I 
feel by no means in the humour to quit ttiis shady 
retreat. You and I have known each other long, 
and gone through much together. It is but fair 
that I should become better acquainted with one 
■who, to me, is not only a faithful servant, but 
what is more! valuable, a faithful friend — I might 
now almost add, my only one. What say you to 
whiling away a passing hour, by giving liic some 
sketch of your curious and adventurous life. If 
there be any thing that 3"ou wish to conceal, pass it 
over; but no invention; nothing but the truth, if 
you please — the whole truth, if you like." 

" Why, your highness, as for this odd knot of 
soul and body, which none but the hand of Hea- 
ven could have twined, it was first seen, I believe, 
near the very spot where we are now sitting ; for 
my mother, when I saw her first, and last, lived ui 
Bohemia. She was an Egyptian, and came her- 
self from the Levant. I lived a week, sir, in the 
seraglio, when I was at Constantinople, and I saw 
there the brightest women of all countries; Geor- 
gians, and Circassians, and Poles ; in truth, sir, na- 
ture's master-pieces ; and yet, by the Gods of all 
nations ! there was not one of them half as lovely 
as the lady who gave me this tongue !'' Here Ess- 
per exhibited at full length, the enormous feature, 
which had so much enraged the one-eyed sergeant 
at Frankfort. 

" When I first remember myself," he contiinied, 
" I was playing with some other gipsy-boys, in the 
midst of a forest. Here was our settlement ! It 
was large and powerful. My mother, probably 
from her beauty, possessed great influence, particu- 
larly among the men -, and yet, I found not among 
them all a father. On the contrary, every one 
of my companions had a man whom he reverenced 
as his parent, and who taught him to steal ; but I 
was called by the whole tribe, ' the mother-son,' and 
was honest, from my first year, out of mere wil- 
fulness; at least, if I stole any thing, it was always 
from our own people. Many were the quarrels I 
occasioned ; since, presuming on my mother's 
love and power, I never called mischief a scrape; 
but acting just as my fancy took me, I left those 
who suffered by my conduct to ajjologizc for my 
ill-behaviour. Ueinsj thus an idle, unjirofitable, 



impudent, and injurious member of this pure com- 
jnunity, they determined one day to cast me out 
from their bosom ; and in spile of my mother's 
exertions and entreaties, the ungrateful vipers suc- 
ceeded in their purpose. As a compliment to my 
parent, they allowed me to tender my resignation, 
instead of receiving my expulsion. My dear 
mother gave me a donkey, a wallet, and a ducat, 
a great deal of advice about my future conduct, 
and, w hat was more interesting to me, much in- 
formation about my birth. 

" ' Sweet child of my womb I' said my mother, 
pressing me to her bosom, ' be proud of thy 
white hands and straight nose ! Thou gottest 
them not from me, and thou shall take them from 
whence they came. Thy father is a Hungarian 
prince; and though I would not have parted with 
thee, had I thought that thou wouldst ever have 
prospered in our life — even if he had made thee 
his child of the law, and lord of his castle — still, 
as thou canst not tarry with us, haste thou to him ! 
Give him this ring and this lock of hair ; tell him, 
none have seen Ihem but the father, the mother, 
and the child ! He will look on them, and re- 
member the days that are past ; and thou shall be 
unto him as a hope for his lusty years, and a prop 
for his old age !' 

" My mother gave me all necessary directions, 
which I well remembered ; and much more ad- 
vice, which I directly forgot. 

" Although tempted, now that I was a free man, 
to follow my own fancy, I slill was too curious to 
SCO what kind of a person was my unknown 
father, to deviate cither i'rom my route or my ma- 
ternal instructions ; and in a fortnight's time I had 
reached my future [)rincipality. 

"The sun sunk behind the proud castle of my 
princely father, as, trotting slowly along upon my 
humble beast, with my wallet slung at my side, 1 
approached it through his park. A guard, con- 
sisting of twenty or thirty men in magnificent 
uniforms, were lounging at the portal. I — but, 
your highness, what is the meaning of this dark- 
ness ] I always made a vow to myself, that I 
never would tell my history — Ah ! murder ! mur- 
der 1 what ails me 1" 

A large eagle fell dead at their feet. 

" Protect me, master !" screamed Essper, seizing 
Vivian by the shoulder : " what is coming 1 I 
cannot stand — the cailh seems to tremble I Is it 
the wind that roars and rages 'I or is it ten lliou- 
sand cannon blowing this globe to atoms 1" 

" It is — it must be the wind I" said Vivian, very 
agitated. " Wc arc not safe under these trees — 
look to the horses!" 

" I will, I will," taid Essper, " if I can stand. 
Out — out of the forest ! Ah ! look at Max !" 

Vivian turned, and beheld his spirited horse 
raised on his hind legs, and dashing his foro feet 
against the trunk of the tree to which they had 
tied him. The terrilied and furious creature was 
struggling to disengage himself, and would proba- 
bly have sustained or infiicti'd some terrible injury, 
had not the wind suddenly hushed. Covered wilh 
foam, he stood panlin'g, while Vivian patted and 
encouraged him. Essper's less spirited beast had, 
from the first, crouched u|)on the earth, covered 
with sweat, his limbs quivering, and his tongue 
hanging out. 

" Master !" said Essper, " what shall we do ■• 
Is there any chance of getting back to the castle? 



VIVIAN GREY. 



293 



I am sure our very li res are in clanger. See that 
tremendous cloud ! It looks like eternal night ! 
Whitlicr shall we go 1 What shall we do 1" 

" Miike for the castle — the castle !" said Vivian, 
mounting. 

They h;id just got into the road, when another 
terrific gust of wind nearly took them off their 
horses, and bhnded them with the clouds of sand 
which it drove out of the crevices of the moun- 
tains. 

They looked round on every side, and hope gave 
way before the scene of desolation. Immense 
branches were shivered from the largest trees ; small 
ones were entirely stripped of their leaves ; the 
long grass was bowed to the earth ; the waters 
were whirled in eddies out of the little rivulets ; 
birds deserting their nest to seek shelter in the cre- 
vices of the rocks, unable to stem the driving air, 
flapped their wings, and fell U[)on the earth ; the 
frightened anim.als of the plain — almost suflocated 
by the impetuosity of the wind — sought safety, and 
found destruction ; some of the largest trees were 
torn up by tlie roots ; the sluices of the mountains 
were filled, and innumerable torrents rushed down 
the before empty gulleys. The heavens now open, 
and lightning and thunder contend with the hor- 
rors of the wind ! 

In a moment all was again hushed. Dead 
silence succeeded the bellow of the thunder — the 
roar of the wind — the rush of the waters — the 
moaning of the beasts — the screaming of the birds ! 
Nothing was heard save the plash of the agitated 
lake, as it beat up against the black rocks which 
girt it in. 

" Master !'' again said Essper, " is this the day 
of doom 1" 

" Keep by my side, Essper ; keep close ; make 
the best of this pause ; let us but reach the vil- 
lage !" 

Scarcely had Vivian spoken, when greater dark- 
ness enveloped the trembling earth. Again the 
heavens were rent with lightning, which nothing 
could have quenc'.^cd but the descending deluge. 
Cataracts poured down from the lowering firma- 
ment. In an instant the horses dashed around — 
beast and rider blinded and stilled by the gushing 
rain, tmd gasping for breath. Shelter was no- 
where. The quivering beasts reared, and snorted, 
and sunk upon their knees. The horsemen were 
dismounted. With wonderful presence of mind, 
Vivian succeeded in hoodwinking Max, who was 
still furious. The other horse appeared nearly ex- 
hausted. Essper, beside himself with terror, could 
only hang over its neck. 

Another awful calm. 

" (Courage, courage, Essper !'' said Vivian. " We 
are still safe : look up, my man ! the storm cannot 
last long thus — and, see I I am sure the clouds are 
breaking." 

The heavy mass of vapour which had seemed 
to threaten the earth with instant destruction, sud- 
denly parted. The red and lurid sun was visible, 
but his light and heat were quenched in the still 
impending waters. 

" Mount! mount, Essper !" said Vivian ; " this 
i^ our only chance ; five minutes good speed will 
Uilic us to the village." 



Encouraged by his master's example, Essper 
once more got upon his horse ; and the panting 
animals, relieved by the cessation of the hurricane, 
carried them at a fair pace towards the village, 
considering that their road was now impeded by 
the overflowing of the lake. 

" Master ! master !" said Essper, " cannot wc 
get out of these waters 1" 

He had scarcely spoken, before a terrific burst — 
a noise, they knew not what — a Tush, they could 
not understand — a vibration, which shook them on 
their horses — made them start back and again dis- 
mount. Every terror sunk before the appalling 
roar of the cataract. It seemed that the might v 
mountain, unable to support its weight of waters, 
shook to the foundation. A lake had burst on its 
summit, and the cataract became a falling ocean. 
The source of the great deep appeared to be dis- 
charging itself over the range of mountains ; the 
great gray peak tottered on its foundations ! It 
shook ! It fell ! and buried in its ruins, the castle, 
the village, and the bridge ! 

Vivian, with starting eyes, beheld the wholif 
washed away : instinct gave him energy to throw 
himsflf on the back of his horse — a breath — and 
he had leaped up f.he nearest hill ! Essper George, 
in a state of distraction, was madly laughing as he 
climbed to the top of a high tree. His horse was 
carried off in the drowning waters, which had now 
reached the road. 

" The desolation is complete !'' thought Vivian, 
At this moment the wind again rose — the rain 
again descended — the heavens again opened — the 
lightnmg again flashed ! An amethystine flarne 
hung upon rocks and waters, and through the 
raging elements a yellow fork darted its fatal point 
at Essper's resting place. The tree fell ! Vivian's 
horse, with a maddened snort, dashed down tiie 
hill : his master, senseless, clung to his neck ; the 
frantic animal was past all government — he stood 
upright in the air — flung his rider — and fell dead ! 

Here leave wc Vivian ! It was my wish to 
have detailed, in the present portion of this work, 
the singular adventures which befell him in one 
of the most delightful of modern cities — light- 
hearted Vienna ! But his history has expanded 
under my pen, and I fear that I have, even nov/, 
too much presumed upon an attention which, ])ro- 
bably, I am not entitled to commaml. I am, ar. 
yet, but standing without the gate of the Garden 
of Romance. True it is, that as I gaze through 
the ivory bars of its golden portal, I vi'ould fain 
believe that, following my roving fancy, I might 
arrive at some green retreats hitherto unexplored, 
and loiter among some leafy bowers where none 
have lingered before me. But these exj)ectations 
may be as vain as those dreams of onr youth, over 
which we have all mourned. The disappointment 
of manhood succeeds to the delusion of youth : 
let us hope that the heritage mf old age is uot 
despair ! 

Sweet reader ! I trust that neither you nor my 
self have any cause to repent our brief connexion 
I sec wc part good friends — and 80 I press yoa 
gently by the hand ! 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



29 



225 



THE yOUNG DUKE. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

Theue is a partial distress, or universal, — and 
the aflairs of India must really be settled; but we 
must also be amused. I send over my quota ; for, 
though absent, I am a patriot ; besides, I am de- 
sirous of contributing to the diffusion of useful 
knowledge. 

I have only one observation to make, and that 
is quite unnecessary, because no one will attend to 
it ; therefore I suppress it. The great mass of my 
readers (if 1 have a mass, as I hope) will attribute 
the shades that flit about these volumes to any 
substances they please. That smaller portion of 
society who are most competent to decide upon the 
subject, will instantly observe, that however I may 
have availed myself of a trait or an incident, and 
often inadvertently, the whole is ideal. To draw 
caricatures of our contemporaries is not a very 
difficult task : it requires only a small portion of 
talent, and a g^reat want of courtesy. 

In the absence of the author, wlio is abroad, the 
publishers think it necessary to add, that the present 
novel was written before the accession of his present 
majesty. 'I'he reader, as he peruses this volume, 
will see the necessity of this explanation. 



BOOK THE FIRST. 



CHAPTER I. 

Georre Augustus FnnnEnicK, Duku of St. 
James, completed his twenty-first year, an event 
wluch created as great a sensation among the aris- 
tocracy of England as the P^orman conquest, or 
the institution of Almack's. A minority of tvifenty 
j"ears had converted a family, always among the 
wealthiest of Great Britain, into one of the richest 
in Europe. The Duke of St. James possessed es- 
tates in the north and in the west of England, be- 
sides a whole province in Ireland. In London, 
there was a very handsome square and four streets 
all made of bricks, Vv'hich brouglit him in yearly 
more cash than all the palaces of Vicenza are 
worth in fee-simple, with those of the grand canal 
of Venice to boot. As if this were not enough, he 
was an hereditary patron of internal navigation ; 
and although perhaps in his two palaces, three 
castles, four halls, and lodges ad libitum, there 
Vine more fires burnt than in any other establish- 
ment in the empire, this was of no consequence, 
because the coals were his own. His rent-roll ex- 
hibited a sum total, very neatly written, of two 



hundred thousand pounds ; but this was inde- 
pendent of half a million in the funds, which I 
had nearly forgotten, and which remained from 
the accumulations occasioned by the unhappy 
death of his father. 

The late Duke of St. James had one sister, who 
was married to the Earl of Fitz-pompey. To the 
great surprise of the world — to the perfect asto- 
nishment of the brother-in-law — his lordship was 
not appointed guardian to the infant minor. The 
Earl of Fitz-pompey had always been on the best 
possible terms witli his grace ; the countess had, 
only the year before his death, accepted from his 
fraternal hand a diamond necklace with the most 
perfect satisfaction : the Lord Viscount St. Mau- 
rice, future chief of the house of Fitz-pompey, 
had the honour not only of being his nephew, but 
his godson. Who could account, then, for an 
action so perfectly unaccountable ! It was quite 
evident that his grace had no intention of dying. 

The guardian, however, that he did appoint, 
was a Mr. Dacre, a Catholic gentleman of very 
ancient family and very large fortune, who had 
been the companion of his travels, and was hi? 
neighbour in his family county. Mr. Dacre had 
not been honoured with the acquaintance of Lord 
Fitz-pompey previous to the decease of his noble 
friend ; and after that event, such an acquaintance 
would probably not have been productive of very 
agreeable reminiscences. For from the moment 
of the opening of the fatal will, the name of Dacre 
was wormwood to the house of St. Maurice. 
Lord Fitz-pompey, who, though the brother-in- 
law of a whig magnate, was a tor}', voted against 
the Catholics with renewed fervour. 

Shortly after the death of his friend, Mr. Dacre 
married a noble lady of the house of Howard, who, 
after having presented him with a daughter, fell ill, 
and became that extremely common character, a 
confirmed invalid. In the present day, and espe- 
cially among women, one would almost suppose 
that health was a state of unnatural existence. 
The illness of his wife, and the non-possession of 
parliamentarj' duties, caused Mr. Dacre's visits to 
his town-mansion extremely to resemble those of 
an angel, and the mansion in time was let. 

The young duke, with the exception of an oc- 
casional visit to his uncle, Lord Fitz-pompey, 
passed the early years of his life at Castle Dacre, 
At seven years of age he was sent to a preparatory 
school at Richmond, which was entirely devoted 
to the early culture of the nobility ; and where the 
principal, the Eeverend Dr. Coronet, was so ex 
trcmely exclusive in his system, that it was re- 
ported that he had once refused the son of an Irish 
peer. Miss Coronet fed her imagination with the 
hope of meeting her father's noble pupils in after- 

227 



228 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



life, and in the mean time read fashionable no- 
vels. 

The moment that the young duke was settled at 
Richmond, all the intrigues of the Fitz-pompcy 
family were directed to that quarter; and as Mr. 
Dacre was hy nature the most unsuspicious of hu- 
man beings, and was even extremely desirous that 
his ward should cultivate the friendship of his only 
relatives, the St. Maurice family had the gratifi- 
cation, as they thought, of completely deceiving 
him. Lady Fitz-pompcy called twice a week at 
the Crest House, with a copious supply of pine- 
apples or honbans, and the Rev. Dr. Coronet 
bowed in adoration. Lady Isabella St. Maurice 
gave a china cup to Mrs. Coronet, and Lady Au- 
gusta a paper-cutter to Miss. The family was se- 
cured. All discipline was immediately set at de- 
fiance, and the young duke passed the greater part 
of the half year with his atlcctionate relations. His 
grace, charmed with the bonlmns of his aimt, and 
the kisses of his cousins, which were even sweeter 
than the sugar-plumbs; delighted with the pony of 
St. Maurice, w hich, of course, immediately became 
his own ; and inebriated by the attentions of his 
uncle, who, at eight years of age, treated him, as 
his lordship styled it, " like a man ;" contrasted this 
life of early excitement with what now appeared 
the gloom and the restraint of Castle Dacre, and 
he soon entered into the conspiracy, which had 
long been hatching, with genuine enthusiasm. He 
wrote to his guardian and obtained an easy per- 
mission to spend his vacation with his uncle. Thus, 
through the united indulgence of Dr. Coronet and 
Mr. Dacre, the Duke of t^t. James became a mem- 
ber of the family of St. Maurice. 

No sooner had Lord Fitz-pompey secured the 
affections .of the ward, than he entirely changed 
his system towards the guardian. He wrote to 
Mr. Dacre, and, in a manner equally kind and dig- 
nified, courted his acquaintance. He dilated upon 
the extraordinary, though exti-emcly natural, affec- 
tion which Lady Fitz-pompey entertained for the 
only offspring of her beloved brother, — upon the 
happiness whicli the young duke enjoyed with his 
cousins, — upon the great and evident advantages 
which his grace would derive from companions of 
his own age, of the. singular friendship which he 
had already formed with St. Maurice ; and then, 
after paying Mr. Dacre many compliments upon 
the admirable manner in which he had already ful- 
filled the duties of "h.is import;int office, and urging 
the lively satisfaction that a visit from their brother's 
friend would confer both upon Lady Fitz-pompey 
and himself, he requested permission for his nephew 
to renew the visit in which he had been " so 
happy !" The duke seconded the earl's diplomatic 
scrawl in the most graceful round-text. The mas- 
terly intrigues of Lord Fitz-|iompey, assisted by 
Mrs. Dacrc's illness, which daily increased, and 
which rendered the most perfect quiet indispensa- 
ble, were successful, and the young duke arrived at 
his twelfth year without revisiting Dacre. Every 
year, however, when Mr. Dacre made a short visit 
to London, his ward spent a few days in his com- 
pa?iy, at the house of an old-fashioned Catholic 
nobleman, a visit which only afforded a dull con- 
trast to the gay society and constant animation of 
his uncle's establishment. 

it would seem that fate had determined to coun- 
teract the intentions of tlie late Duke of St. James, 
and to achieve those of the Earl of Fitz-pompey. 



At the moment that the noble minor was about to 
leave Dr. Coronet for Eaton, Mrs. Dacrc's state 
was declared hopeless, except from the assistance 
of an Italian sky, and Mr. Dacre, whose attachment 
to his lady was of the most romantic description, 
determined to leave England immediately. 

It was with deep regret that he parted from his 
ward, whom life tenderly loved ; but all considera- 
tions merged in the paramount one; and he was 
consoled by the reflection that he was, at least, left 
to the care of liis nearest connexions. Mr. Dacre 
was not unaware of the dangers to which his 
youthful pledge might be exposed, by the indis- 
criminate indulgence of his uncle ; but he trusted 
to the impartial and inviolable system of a public 
school to do much; and he anticipated returning to 
England before his ward was old enough to form 
those habits which are generally so injurious to 
yoimg nobles. In this hope, Mr. Dacre was dis- 
appointed. Mrs. Dacre lingered, and revived, and 
lingered for nearly eight years, now filling the mind 
of her husband and her daughter with unreasonable 
hope, now delivering them to that renewed anguish, 
that heart-rending grief, which the attendant upon 
a declining relative can alone experience; adilition- 
ally agonizing, because it cannot be indulged. Mrs. 
Dacre died, and the widower and his daughter re- 
turned to England. In the mean time, the Duke 
of St. James had not been idle. 



CHAPTER n. 

The departure, and, at length, the total absence 
of Mr. Dacre from England, yielded to Lord Fitz- 
pompey all the opportunity he had long desired. 
Hitherto he had contented him.'self with quietly 
sapping the influence of the guardian ; now, that 
influence was openly assailed. All occasions were 
seized of depreciating the character of Mr. Dacre, 
and open lamentations wre poured forth on the 
strange and unhappy indi.scrction of the father, 
who had confided the guardianship of his son, not 
to his natural and devoted friends, but to a harsh 
and repulsive stranger. Long before the young 
duke had completed his sixteenth year, all memory 
of the early kindness of his guardian, if it had ever 
been imprinted on his mind, was carefully oblite- 
rated from it. It was constantly impressed upon 
him that nothing but the exertions of his aunt and 
uncle had saved him from a life of stern privation 
and irrational restraint ; and the man who had 
been the chosen and cherished confidant of the fa- 
ther was looked upon by the son as a grim tyrant 
from whose clutches he had escaped, and in which 
he determined never again to find himself. " Old 
Dacre," as Lord Fitz-pompey described him. was a 
phantom enough at any time to frighten his youth- 
ful ward. The great object of the uncle was to 
tease and mortify the guardian into resigning his 
trust, and infinite were the contrivances to bring 
about tills desirable result ; but Mr. Dacre was ol>- 
stinate, and. although absent, contrived by corres- 
ponding with his confidential agent, to carry on 
and conqdete the system for the management of 
the Hauleville pro])eity, which he had so benefi- 
cially established, and so long pursued. 

In quitting England, alinough he had appohited 
a fixed allowance for his noble ward, Mr. Dacre 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



229 



had thoup^ht proper to delegate a discretionary 
authority to Lord Fitz-])ompey to furnish him with 
what iniftht be called extraordinary necessaries. 
His lordship availed himself with such dexterity of 
this power, that his nephew appeared to be in- 
debted for every indulgence to his uncle, who 
invariably accompanied every act of this description 
with an insinuation that he might thank Mrs. ])a- 
cre's illness for the boon. 

'• Well, George," he w^ould say to the young 
Etonian, "you /hall have the boat, though I hardly 
know how I shall pass the account at head-quarters : 
and make yourself easy about Flash's bill, Ihough 
I really cannot approve of such proceedings. Thank 
your stars you have not got to present that account 
to old Dacre. Well, I am one of those who arc 
always indulgent to young blnod. Mr. Dacre and 
I diffi'r. He is your guardian-, though. Everything 
is in his power ; but you shall never want while 
your uncle can help you ; and so run ofl" to Caro- 
line ; for I see you want to be with her." 

The Lady Isabella and the Lady Augusta, who 
had so charmed Mrs. and Miss Coronet, were no 
longer in existence. Each had knocked down her 
carl. Brought up by a mother exquisitely adroit 
in female education, the Ladies St. Mauiice had 
run but a brief though brilliant career. Beautiful, 
and possessing every accomplishment which ren- 
ders beauty valuable, under the unrivalled chaperon- 
age of the countess, they had played their popular 
parts without a single blunder. Always in the 
best set, never flirting with the wrong man, and 
never speaking with the wrong W'oman, all agreed 
that the Ladies St. Maurice had fairly won their 
coronets. Their sister, Caroline, was much 
younger; and although she did not promise to 
develope as unblemished a character as themselves, 
she was, in default of another sister, to be the 
Dutchess of St. James. 

Lady Caroline St. Maurice was nearly of the 
same age as her cousin, the young duke. They 
had been playfellows since his emancipation from 
the dungeons of Castle Dacre, and every means 
had been adopted by her judicious parents to foster 
and to confirm the kind feelings which had been 
first engendered by being partners in the same 
toys, and sharing the same sports. At eight years 
old, the little duke was taught to call Caroline his 
" wife ;" and as his grace grew in years, and could 
better appreciate the qualities of his sweet and 
gentle cousin, he was not disposed to retract the 
title. When George rejoined the courtly Coronet, 
Caroline invariably mingled her tears with those 
of her sorrowing .spouse ; and when the time at 
length arrived for his departure for Eton, Caroline 
knitted him a purse, and presented him with a 
watch-riband. At the last moment she besought 
her brother, who was two years older, to guard 
over him, and soothed the moment of final agony 
iiy a promise to correspond. Had the innocent 
and soft-hearted girl been acquainted with, or been 
able to comprehend the purposes of her crafty 
parents, she could not have adopted means more 
calculated to accomphsh them. The young duke 
Kissed her a thousand times, and loved her better 
than all the world. 

In spite of his private house and his private 
tutor-, his grace did not make all the progress in his 
classical studies which means so calculated to pro- 
mote abstraction and to assist acquirement would 
seem to promise. The fact is, that as his mind 



began to unfold itself, he found a pci-petual, and a 
more pleasing source of study in the contempla- 
tion oi^ himself His early initiation in the school 
of Fitz-pompey had not been tlirown away. He 
had heard much of nobility, and beauty, and riches, 
and fashion, and power; he had seen many indi- 
viduals highly, though differently considered for the 
relative quantities which they possessed of these qua- 
lities ; it appeared to the Duke of St. James that, 
among the human race, he possessed the largest 
quantity of tliem all, — he cut his private tutor, who 
had been appomted by Mr. Dacre, remonstrated to 
Lord Fitz-pompey, aiid with such success, that he 
thought proper shortly after to resign his situation. 
Dr. Coronet begged to recommend his son, the Rev. 
Augustus Granville Coronet. The Duke of St, 
James now got on rapidly, and also found suflicient 
time for his boat, his tandem, and his toilet. 

The Duke of St. James appeared at Christ 
Church. His conceit kept him alive for a few terms. 
It is delightful to receive the homage of two thou- 
sand young men of the best families in the country, 
to breakfast with twenty of them, and to cut tlie 
rest. In spite, however, of the glories of the golden 
tuft, and a delightful and peculiar private establish- 
ment, which he and his followers maintamed in the 
chaste suburbs, of Alma Mater, the Duke of St. 
James felt emjuyc'd. Consequently, one clear 
night, they set fire to a pyramid of caps and gowns 
in Pcckwater. It was a silly thing for any one ; it 
was a sad indiscretion for a duke — but it was done. 
Some were expelled ; his grace had timely notice, 
and having before cut tlie Oxonians, now cut Ox- 
ford. 

Like all young men who get mto scrapes, the 
Duke of St. James determined to travel. The Da- 
cres returned to England before he did. He dex- 
terously avoided coming into contact with them in 
Italy. Mr. Dacre had written to liim several times 
during the first years of his absence ; and although 
the didvc's answers were short, seldom, and not 
very satisfactory, Mr. Dacre persisted in occasionally 
addressing him. When, however, the duke had ar- 
rived at an age when he was at least morally respon- 
sible for his own conduct, and entirely neglected 
answermg bis guardian's letters, Mr. Dacre became 
altogether silent. 

The travellmg career of the young duke may be 
easily conceived by those who have wasted their 
time, and are compensatc<I for that silliness by 
being called men of the world. He gamed a little 
at Paris ; he ate a good deal at Vienna ; and he 
studied the fine arts in Italy. In all places his 
homage to the fair sex was renowned. The Pa- 
risian dutchess, the Austrian prmcess, and the Ita- 
lian countess spoke ui the most enthusiastic terms 
of the ifnglish nobility. At the end of three years, 
the Duke of St. James was of opinion that he had 
obtained a great knowledge of mankind. He was 
mistaken ; — travel is not, as is imagined, the best 
school for that sort of science. Knowledge of man- 
kind is a knowledge of their passions. The travel- 
ler is looked upon as a bird of passage, whose visit 
is short, and which the vanity of the visited wishes 
to make agreeable. All is show, all false, and al 
made up. Coterie succeeds coterie, equaUy smiling 
— the explosions take place in his absence. Even 
a giand passion, wliich teaches a man more, per- 
haps, than any thing else, is not very easily excited 
by the traveller. The women know that, sooner 
or later, he must disappear : and though this is Um 
U 



230 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



case with all lovers, the sweet sonis do not lilce to 
miss the possibility of delusion. Thus the heroines 
keep in tlie background, and the visiter, who is 
alwiiys in a huiTv, falls mto the net of the first 
flirtation that oliVrs. 

The Duke of St. James had, however, acquired a 
great knowledge — if not of mankind, at any rate of 
manners. He had visited all courts, and sparkled 
in the most brilliant circles of the Continent. He 
returned to his own country with a taste extremely 
relined, a mamier most polished, and a person liighly 
accomplished. 



CHAPTER III. 

A SORT of scrambling correspondence had been 
kept up between the young duke and his cousui 
Lord St. Maurice, who had for a few months been 
his f(!llow-traveller. By virtue of these epistles, 
notice of the movements of their interesting relative 
occasionally reached the circle at Filz-pompey 
House, although St. Maurice was very scanty m the 
much-desired communications; because, hke most 
young Englishmen, he derived singular pleasure 
from depriving his fcllow-creatiu-es of all that small 
information which every one is so desirous to obtain. 
The announcement, however, of the approachmg 
arrival of the young duke was duly made. Lord 
Fitz-pompey wrote, and offered apartments at 
Fitz-pompey House. They were refused. Lord 
Fitz-pompey wrote agam to require instructions for 
the preparation of Hauteville House. His letter 
was unanswered. Lord Fitz-pompey was quite 
puzzled. 

" When does your cousin mean to come, 
Charles! — Where does your cou.sin mean to go, 
Charles? — What does your cousin mean to do, 
Charles ?" These were the hourly queries of the 
noble uncle. 

At Icnoth, in the middle of Januaiy, when no 
soul expected him, the Duke of St. James dashed 
into London, and rolled to Mivart's. He was at- 
tended by a French cook, an Italian valet, a Ger- 
man jager, and a Greek page. At this dreary sea- 
.son of the year, this party was perhaps the most 
distinguished in the metropolis. 

Three years' absence, and a little knowledge of 
life, had somewhat changed theDukeof St. James's 
feelings with regard to his noble relative. He was 
quite disembarrassed of that Panglossian philo.sophy 
which had hitherto induced him to believe that the 
Earl of Fitz-pompey was the best of ail possible 
uncles. On the contrary, his grace rather doubted 
whether the course which his relations had pur- 
sued towards him was quite the most proper and 
the most prudent; and he took great credit to him- 
self for having, with such unbounded indulgence, 
on the whole, deported himself with so remarkable 
a teni|ierancc. His grace, too, could no longer in- 
nocenily delude himself with the idea, that all the 
atteiiiion which had been lavished upon him was 
solely occasioned by the impulse of consanguinity. 
Finally, the young duke's conscience often mis- 
gave him when he thought of Mr. Dacre. He de- 
tennineil, therefore, on returning to England, not 
♦o coiiimil himself too decidedly with the Fitz-poin- 
peys ; and he had cautiously guarded himself from 
being entrapped into becoming their guest. At the 
same time, the recollection of old intimacy, the ge- 



neral regard which he really felt for them all, and 
the sincere affection which he entertained for his 
cousin Caroline, would have deterred him from giv- 
ing any outward signs of his altered feelings, even 
if other considerations had not intervened. 

And other considerations did intervene. A duke, 
and a young duke, is a very important personage ; 
but he must still be introduced. Even our hero 
mi'j^ht make a bad tack on his first cruise. Almost 
as important personages have committed the same 
blunder. Talk,of Catholic emancipation! O I thou 
imperial parliament, emancipate the forlorn wretches 
who have gone into a bad set I Even thy om- 
nipotence must fail there I Now the Countess of 
Fitz-pompey was a brilliant of the first water. Un- 
der no better auspices could the Duke of St. James 
bound upon the stage. No man in town could 
arrange his club-affairs for him with greater celerity 
and greater tact than the earl: and the married 
daughters were as much like their mother as a pair 
of diamond earrings are like a diamond necklace. 

The duke, therefore, though he did not choose 
to get caged in Fitz-pompey House, sent his page, 
Spiridion, to the countess, on a special embassy of 
announcement on the evening of his arrival ; and 
on the following morning his grace himself made 
his appearance at an early hour. 

Lord Fitz-pompey, who was as consummate a 
judge of men and manners as he was an inditierent 
speculator on affairs, and who was almost as 
finished a man of the world as he was an imper- 
fect philosopher, soon perceived that considerable 
changes had taken place in the ideas as well as in the 
exterior of his nephew. The duke, however, was 
extremely cordial, and greeted the family in terms 
almost of fondness. He shook his uncle by the 
hand with a fervour with which few noblemen had 
communicated for a considerable period ; and he 
saluted his aunt on the cheek with a delicacy which 
did not disturb the rouge. He turned to his cousin. 

Lady Caroline St. Maurice was indeed a right 
beautiful being. Her, whom the young duke had 
left merely a graceful and kind-hearted girl, three 
years had changed into a somewhat dignified, but 
most lovely woman. A little, perhaps of her 
native ease had been lost, — a little perhaps of a 
mantier rather too artificial had supplanted that ex- 
quisite address which nature alone had prompted : 
but at this moment, her manner was as unstudied 
and as genuine as when they had gamboled to- 
gether in the bowers of Malthorpe. Her white and 
delicate arm was extended with eager elegance ; 
her full blue eye beamed with tender affection ; and 
the soft blush that rose on her fair cheek, exqui- 
sitely contrasted with the clusters of her dark brown 
hair. 

The duke was struck, almost staggered. He 
remembered their intimt loves ; he recovered with 
ready address. He bent his head with graceful 
aflection, qjid pressed her lips. He repented that 
he had not accepted his uncle's offer of hospitality. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Loni) FiTz-poKPET was a little consoled for the 
change which he had observed in the character of 
the duke, by the remembiance with which his 
grace had greeted Lady Caroline. Never uideed 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



231 



did a process which hai«, through the lapse of so 
many ages, occasioned so much delight, produce 
more lively satisfaction than the kiss in question. 
Lord Fitz-pornpey had given up his plan of ma- 
naging tlie duke, after the family dinner which his 
nephew had the pleasure to join the first day of his 
first visit. The duke and he were alone, and his 
lordship availed himself of the rare opportunity 
with that adroitness for which he was celebrated. 
Nothing could be more pohte, more affable, more 
kind, than his grace's manner ; but the uncle cared 
little for politeness, or aflability, or kindness. The 
crafty courtier wanted candour, and that was ab- 
sent. That ingenuous openness of disposition, that 
frank and affectionate demeanour, for which the 
Duke of St. James had been so remarkable in his 
early youth, and with the aid of which Lord Fitz- 
pompey had built so many Spanish castles, had 
quite disappeared. Nothing could be more artifi- 
cial, more conventional, more studied, than his 
whole deportment. In vain Fitz-pompey pumped : 
the empty bucket invariably reminded him of his 
lost labour. In vain his lordship laid his little di- 
plomatic traps to catch a limit of the purposes, or 
an intimation of the inclinations of his nephew : 
the bait was never seized. In vain the earl aflect- 
ed unusual conviviality, and boundless alTection ; 
the duke sipped his claret, and admired his furni- 
ture. Nothing would do. An air of habitual calm, 
a look of kind condescension, and an inclination to 
a smile, which never burst into a beam, announced 
that the Duke of St. James was perfectly satisfied 
with existence, and conscious that he was himself, 
of that existence, the most distinguished ornament. 
In fact, he was a sublime coxcomb, one of those 
rare characters whose finished manner and shrewd 
sense combined prevent their conceit from being 
contemptible. After many consultations, it was 
determined between the aunt and uncle, that it 
would be most prudent to aflect a total non-interfe- 
rence with their nephew's afiairs, and, in the mean 
lime, to trust to the goodness of Providence and 
the charms of Caroline. 

I^ady Fitz-pompey determined that the young 
duke should make his debut at once, at her house. 
Although it was yet January, she did not despair 
of collecting a select band of guests — Brahmins of 
the highest caste. Some choice spirits were in of- 
fice, like her lord, and therefore in town ; others 
were only passing through ; but no one caught a 
flying-fish with more dexterity than the countess. 
The notice was short, the whole was unstudied. 
It was a felicitous impromptu ; and twenty guests 
were assembled, who were the Corinthian capitals 
of the temple of fashion. 

There was the premier, who was invited, not 
because he was a minister, but because he was a 
hero. There was another duke not less celebrated, 
whose palace was a breathing shrine which sent 
forth tlie oracles of mode. True, he had ceased to 
be a young duke, but be might be consoled for the 
vanished lustre of youth by the recollection that he 
had enjoyed it, and by the present inspiration of an 
aixomplishcd manhood. There were the Prince 
and the Princess Protocoli. His highness, a first 
rate diplomatist, unrivalled for his management of 
an opera ; and his consort, with a countenance like 
Cleopatra and a tiara hke a constellation, famed 
alike for her shawls and her snuff. There were 
Lord and Lady Bloomerly, who were the best 
friends oa earth. My lord, a sportsman, but soft 



withal; his talk the Jockey club, filtered through 
White's. My lady, a little blue and very beautiful. 
Their daughter. Lady Charlotte, rose hy her mo- 
ther's side like a tall bud by a full-blown flower. 
There was the Viscountess Blaze, a peeress in her 
own right ; and her daughter. Miss Blaze Dasha- 
way, who, besides the glory of the future coronet, 
moved in all the confidence of independent thou 
sands. There was the Marquess of Macaroni, who 
was at the same time a general, an ambassador, 
and a dandy ; and who, if he had liked, could have 
worn twelve orders, but this day, being modest, only 
wore six. There, too, was the marchioness, with a 
stomacher stiff with brilliants, extracted from the 
snuff-boxes presented to her husband at a congress. 

There was Lord Sunium, who was not only a 
peer but a poet; and his lad}% a Greek, who just 
looked finished by Phidias, There, too, was Poco- 
curante, the Epicurean and triple millionnaire, who, 
in a political country, dared to despise politics ; in 
the most aristocratic of kingdoms had refused no- 
bility, and in a land which showers all its honours 
upon its cultivators, invested his whole fortune in 
the funds. He lived in a retreat like the villa of 
Hadrian, and maintained himself in an elevated 
position chiefly by his wit, and a little by his 
wealth. There, too, was his noble wife, thorough- 
bred to her fingers' tips, and beaming like the even- 
ing star, and his son, who was an M. P. and 
thought his father a fool. In short, our party was 
no coimnon party, but a band who formed the very 
core of civilization, — a high court of last appeal, 
whose word was a fiat, whose sign was a hint, 
whose stare was death, and sneer — damnation ! 

The Graces befriend me ! I have forgotten the 
most important personage. I will venture to oK 
serve, that it is the first time in his life that Charles 
Annesley has been neglected. It will do him good . 

Dandy has been voted vulgar, and beau is nov» 
the word. I doubt whether the revival will stand , 
and as for the exploded title, though it had its faults 
at first, the muse of Byron has made it not only 
English, but classical. However, I dare say I can 
do without either of these words at present. Charles 
Annesley could hardly be called a dandy or a beau. 
There was nothing in his dress : though some mys- 
terious arrangement in his costume — some rare 
simplicity — some curious happiness — always made 
it distingiiished ; there was nothing, however, in 
his dress which could account for the influence 
which he exercised over the manners of his con- 
temporaries. Charles Annesley was about thirty. 
He had inherited from his father, a younger brothfT, 
a small estate ; and though heir to a wealthy earl- 
dom, he had never abused what the world called 
" his prospects." Yet his establishment — his little 
house in May Fair — his horses — his moderate stud 
at Melton, were all unique, and every thing con- 
nected with him was unparalleled for its elegance, its 
invention, and its refinement. But his manmer 
was his magic. His natural and subdued noncha- 
lance, so different from the assumed non-emotion of 
a mere dandy ; his coldness of heart, which was 
hereditary, not acquired ; his cautious courage, and 
his unadulterated self-love ; had permitted him to 
mingle much with mankind without being too 
deeply involved in the play of their passions , while 
his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly revealed 
those weaknesses to him which his delicate satire 
did not spare, even while it refrained from wound- 
ing. All feared, many admired, and none hated 



232 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



him. He was too powerful not to dread, too dex- 
terous not to admire, too superior to hate. Perhaps 
tlie great secret of his manner was his exquisite 
superciliousness ; a quality which, of all, is the most 
difficult to manage. Even with his intimates he 
was never confidential, and perpetually assumed his 
public character with the private coterie which he 
loved to rule. On the whole, he was unlike any 
of the leading men of modern days, and rather 
reminded one of the fine gentlemen of our old bril- 
liant comedy, — the Dorimants, the Bellairs, and the 
Mirabels. 

Charles Annesley was a member of the distin- 
guished party who were this day to decide the fate 
of the young duke. I am not ashamed of my hero. 
Let him come forward ! 

His grace moved towards them, tall and elegant 
in figure, and wilh that air of aflable dignity which 
becomes a noble, and which adorns a court, — none 
of that affected indifference which seems to imply 
that nothing can compensate for the exertion of 
moving, and "which makes the dandy, while it 
mars the man." His large and somewhat sleepy 
gray eye, his clear complexion, his small mouth, his 
aquiline nose, his transparent forehead, his rich 
brown hair, and the delicacy of his extremities, pre- 
sented when combined a very excellent specimen 
of that style of beauty for which the nobility of 
England are remarkable. Gentle, — for he felt the 
importance of the tribunal, — never loud, ready, yet 
a little reserved, he neither courted nor shunned 
examination. His finished manner, his experience 
of society, his pretensions to taste, the gayety of his 
temper, and the liveliness of his imagination, gradu- 
ally developed themselves with the developing hours. 
The banquet was over: the Duke of St. James 
passed his examination with unqualified approval ; 
and having been stamped at the mint of fashion as 
a sovereign of the brightest die, he was flung forth, 
like the rest of his golden brethren, to corrupt the 
society of which he was the brightest ornament. 



CHAPTER V. 

The morning after the initiatory dinner, the 
young duke drove to Hautevilic House, his family 
mansion, situated in his family square. His grace 
particularly prided himself on his knowledge of the 
arts; a taste for which, among other things, he in- 
tended to introduce into England. Nothing could 
exceed the horror with which he witnessed the 
exterior of his mansion, except the agony with 
which he paced through the interior. 

" Is this a palace ?" thought the young duke, — 
"this hospital a palace !" 

He entered. The marble hall — the broad and 
lofty double staircase painted in fresco, were not 
unpromising, in spite of the dingy gilding; but with 
what a mixed feeling of wonder and disgust did the 
duke roam through clusters of those queer chambers 
which in England are called drawing-rooms. 

" Where are the galleries, — where the symmotri- 
rai saloons, — where the lengthened suite, — where 
the collateral cabinets, sacred to the statue of a 
nymph or the mistress of a painter, in which I have 
been accustomed to reside? What page would 
condescend to lounge in this antechamber ] And 
is this gloomy vault, that you call a dining-room, to 
ae my hah of Apollo ? — Order my carriage." 



The duke dashed away in disgust, and sent im- 
mediately for Sir Carte Blanche, the successor, in 
England, of Sir Christopher Wren. His grace com- 
municated, at the same time, his misery and his 
grand \icws. Sir Carte was astonished with his 
grace's knowledge, and sympathized with his grace's 
feelings. He offered consolation, and promised 
estimates. They came in due time. Hauteville 
House, in the dravv^ing of the worthy knight, might 
have been mistaken for the Louvre. Some adjoin- 
ing mansions were, by some magical process for 
which Sir Carte was famous, to be cleared of their 
present occupiers, and the whole side of the square 
was, in future, to be the site of Hauteville House. 
The difficulty was gi-eat, but the object was greater. 
The expense, though the estimate made a bold at- 
tack on the half million, was a mere trifle, " con- 
sidering." The duke was delighted. He conde- 
scended to make a slight alteration in Sii Carte's 
drawing, which Sir Carte affirmed to be a great 
improvement. Now it was Sir Carte's turn to be 
delighted. The duke was excited by his architect's 
admiration, and gave him a dissertation on Schonn- 
brunn. 

Although Mr. Dacre had been disappointed in his 
hope of exercising a personal influence over the 
education of his ward, he had been more fortunate 
in his plans for the management cf his ward's pro- 
perty. Perhaps there never was an instance of the 
opportunities afforded by a long minority having 
been used to greater advantage. The estates had 
been greatly increased and greatly improved ; all 
and very heavy mortgages had been paid off, and 
the rents been fiiirly apportioned. Mr. Dacre, by 
his constant exertions, and able dispositions, since 
his return to England, also made up for the neglect 
with which an important point had been a littlo 
treated ; and at no period had the parliamentary 
influence of the house of Hauteville been so exten 
sive, and so decided, and so well bottomed as when 
our hero became its chief. 

In spite of his proverbial pride, it seemed that 
Mr. Dacre was determined not to be ofl'ended by 
the conduct of his ward. The dulce had not yet 
announced his arrival in England to his guardian; 
but about a month after that event, he received a 
letter of congratulation from Mr. Dacre, who, at the 
same time, expressed a desire to resign a trust into 
his grace's hand, which, he believed, had not been 
abused. The duke, who rather dreaded an inter- 
view, wrote, in return, that he intended very shortly 
to visit Yorkshire, when he should have the plea- 
sure of avaiUng himself of the kind invitation to 
Castle Dacre ; and having thus, as he thought, dex- 
terously got rid of the old gentleman for the present, 
he took a ride wilh Caroline St. Maurice. 



CHAPTER VL 

Parliament assembled, the town filled, and 
every moment in the day of the Duke of St. James 
was engrossed. Sir Carte and his tribe filled up 
the morning. Then there were endless visits to 
endless visiters ; dressing, riding, chiefly with Lady 
Caroline ; luncheons, and the bow window at 
White's. Then came the evening with all its crash 
and glare ; the banquet, the opera, and the ball. 

The Duke of St. James took the oaths and hia 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



"iS'i 



seat. He was introduced by Lord Fitz-pompcy. 
He heard a debate. We laugh at such a thing, 
especially in the upper house ; but, on the whole, 
the affair is imposing, particularly if we talce a part 
in it. Lord Ex-Chamberlain thought the nation 
going on wrong; and he made a speech full of cur- 
rency and constitution. Baron Deprivyseal seconded 
him wilh great effect, brief but bitter, satirical, and 
sore. The Earl of Quarterday answered these, full 
of confidence in the nation and in himself. When 
the debate was getting heavy. Lord Snap jumped 
up to give them something light. The lords do not 
encoura<^ wit, and so are obliged to put up with pert- 
ness. But Viscount Memoir was very statesman- 
like, and spouted a sort of universal histoiy. Then 
there was Lord Ego, who vindicated his character, 
when nobody knew he had one, and explained his 
motives, because his auditors could not understand 
his acts. Then there was a maiden speech, so in- 
audible that it was doubted whether, after all, the 
young orator really did lose his virginity. In the 
end, up started the premier, who, having nothing to 
say, was manly, and candid, and liberal ; gave credit 
to his adversaries, and took credit to himself, and 
then the motion was withdrawn. 

While all this was going on, some made a note, 
some made a bet ; some consulted a book, some 
their ease; some yawned, a few slept: yet, on the 
whole, there was an air about the assembly which 
can be witnessed in no other in Europe. Even tlie 
most indifferent looked as if he would come forward, 
if the occasion should demand him ; and the most 
imbecile, as if he could serve his country, if it re- 
quired him. When a man raises his eyes from his 
bench, and sees his ancestor in the tapestry, he 
begins to understand the pride of blood. 

The young duke had not experienced many 
weeks of his career before he began to sicken of 
living in a hotel. Hitherto he had not reaped any 
of the fruits of the termination of his minority. He 
was a cavalier setil, highly considered, truly, but 
yet a mer-e member of society. He had been this 
for years. This was not the existence to enjoy 
which he had hurried to England. He aspired to 
be society itself. In a word, his tastes were of the 
most magnificent description, and he sighed to be 
ourrounded by a court. As Hauteville House, even 
with Sir Carte's extraordinary exertions, could not 
be ready for his reception for three years, which to 
him appeared eternity, he determined to look about 
for an establishment. He was fortunate. A noble- 
man who possessed an hereditary mansion of the 
first class, and much too magnificent for his re- 
sources, suddenly became diplomatic, and accepted 
an embassy. The Duke of St. James took every 
thing off' his hands : house, furniture, wines, cooks, 
servants, horses. Sir Carte was sent in to touch 
up the gilding, and make a few temporary improve- 
ments; and Lady Fitz-pompcy pledged herself to 
organise the whole establishment, ere the full season 
commenced, and the early Easter had elapsed, 
which had now arrived. 

It had arrived, and the young duke had departed 
to his chief family seat, Hauteville Castle, in York- 
shire. He intended at the same time to fulfil his 
long-pledged engagement at Castle Dacre. He 
arrived at Hauteville amid the ringing of bells, the 
roasting of oxen, and the crackling of bonfires. 
The castle, unlike most Yorkshire castles, was a 
Gothic edifice, ancient, vast, and strong ; but it had 
icceived numerous additions in various stvlcs of 
SO 



architecture, which were at the same time great 
sources of convenience, and great violations of 
taste. The young duke was seized with a violent 
desire to live in a genuine Gothic castle : each 
day his refined taste was outraged by discovering 
Roman windows and Grecian doors. He deter- 
mined to emulate Windsor, and he sent for Sir Carte. 

Sir Carte came as quick as lightning after thun- 
der. He was immensely struck with Haute;' le, 
particularly with its capabilities It was a suj.erb 
place, certainl}', and might be rendered unrivalled. 
The situation seemed made for the pure Gothic. 
The left wing should decidedly be pulled down, 
and its site occupied by a knight's hall ; the old 
terrace should be restored ; the donjon-keep should 
be raised, and a gallery, three hundred feet long, 
thrown through the body of the castle. Estimates, 
estimates, estimates I But the time ] This was a 
greater point than the ex])ense. Wonders should 
be done. There were now five hundred men 
working for Hauteville House; there should be a 
thousand for Hauteville Castle. Carte blanche ! 
Carte blanche! Carte blanche! 

On his arrival in Yorkshire the duke had learned 
that the Dacres were in Norfolk on a visit. As 
the castle was some miles off', he saw no necessity 
to make a useless exertion, and so he sent his 
jager with his card. He had now been ten days 
in his native county. It was dull, and he was 
restless. He missed the excitement of perpetual 
admiration, and his eye drooped for constant glitter. 
He suddenly returned to town, just when the 
county had flattered itself that he was about to 
appoint his public days. 



CHAPTER VIL 

Eastf.r was over, the sun shone, the world was 
mad, and the young duke made his debut at 
Almack's. He determined to prove that he had 
profited by a winter at Vienna. His dancing was 
declared consummate. He galloped with grace, 
and waltzed with vigour. It was difficult to decide 
which was most admirable, the elegance of his 
prance, or the precision of his whirl. A fat 
Russian prince, a lean Austrian count, a little 
German baron, who, somehow or other, always 
contrived to be the most marked characters of the 
evening, disappeared in despair. 

There was a lady in the room who very much 
attracted the notice of our hero, whom, as a hero, I 
will back against any one of his inches. As I am 
approaching a catastrophe, I will take a new pen. 
She — the lady, not the pen — was a very remarka- 
ble personage. There are some sorts of beauty 
which defy description, and almost scrutiny. Some 
faces rise upon us in the tumult of life, like stars 
from out the sea, or as if they had moved out of a 
picture. Our first impression is any thing but 
ileshly. We are struck dumb — we gasp for breath 
— our limbs quiver — a faintness glides over our 
frame — we are awed ; instead of gazing upon the 
apparition, we avert the eyes, which yet will feed 
upon its beauty. A strange sort of unearthly pain 
mixes wilh the intense pleasure. And not till, 
with a struggle, we call back to our memory the, 
commonplaces of existence, can we recover ous 
commonplace demeanour. These, indeed, are rare 
V 2 



•J34 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



visions — these, indeed, are early feelings, when our 
young e.visteiirc leaps with its mountain torrents ; 
but as the river of our life rolls on, our eyes grow 
dimmer, or our blood more cold. 

Some effect of this kind was produced on the 
Duke of St. James by the unknown dame. He 
turned away his head to collect his senses. His 
eyes again rally ; and this time, being prepared, he 
was more successful in his observations. 

The lady was standing against the wall ; a 
young man was addressing some remarks to her 
which apparently were not very interesting. She 
was tall and young, and, as her tiara betokened, 
married ; dazzling fair, but without colour ; with 
locks like night, and features delicate, but precisely 
defined. Yet all this did not at first challenge the 
observation of the duke. It was the general and 
peculiar expression of her countenance which had 
caused in him such emotion. There was an ex- 
jiression of resignation, or repose, or sorrow, or 
serenity, which in these excited chambers was 
strange, and singular, and lone. She gazed like 
some genius invisible to the crowd, and mourning 
over its degradation. 

He stopped St. Maurice, as his cousin passed 
by, to ituiuire her name, and learned that she was 
Lady Aphrodite Grafton, the wife of Sir Lucius 
Grafton. 

" What, Lucy Grafton !" exclaimed the duke. 
" I remember, I was his fag at Eton. He was a 
handsome dog, — but I doubt whether he deserves 
.such a wife. Introduce me." 

Lady Aphrodite received our hero with a gentle 
bow, and did not seem quite as impressed with his 
importance as most of those to whom he had been 
presented in the course of the evening. The duke 
had considerable tact with women, and soon per- 
ceived that the common topics of a hack flirtation 
would not do in the present case. He was there- 
fore very mild and modest, rather piquant, some- 
what rational, and, apparently, perfectly unaffected. 
Her ladyship's reserve wore away. She refused to 
dance, but conversed with some animation. The 
duke did not leave her side. The women began 
to stare, the men to bet, — Lady Aphrodite against 
the field. Ir. vain his grace laid a thousand plans 
1o arrange a tea-room trte-a-tele. He was unsuc- 
cessful. As he was about to return to the charge, 
her ladyship desired a passer-by to summon her 
carriage. No time was to be lost. . The duke 
began to talk hard about his old friend and school- 
fellow. Sir Lucius. A greenhorn would have 
thought it madness to take an interest in such a 
person, of all others ; but women like you to enter 
their house as their husband's friend. Lady 
Aphrodite could not refrain from expressing her 
conviction that Sir Lucius would be most happy 
to renew his acquaintance with the Duke of St. 
James, and tht Duke of St. James immediately 
said that he would take the earliest opportunity of 
giving liim that pleasure. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

SiK Lccius Grafton^ was five or six years 
older than the Duke of St. James, although he had 
been his contemporary at Eton. He too had been 
8 minor, and had inherited an estate capable of 



supporting the becoming dignity of an ancient 
fomily. In appearance, he was an Antinous. 
There was, however, an expression of firmness, 
almost of ferocity, about his mouth, which quite 
prevented his countenance from being effeminate, 
and broke the dreamy voluptuousness ri the rest 
of his features. In mind, he was a roue. De- 
voted to pleasure, he had reached the goblet at an 
early age ; and before he was five-and-twenty, 
procured for himself a reputation which made all 
women dread, and some men shun him. In the 
very wildest moment of his career, when he was 
almost marked like Cain, he had met Lady Aphro- 
dite Maltravers. She was the daughter of a noble- 
man, who justly prided himself, in a degenerate 
age, on the virtue of his house. Nature, as if in 
recompense for his goodness, had showered all her 
blessings on his only daughter. Never was daugh- 
ter more devoted to a widowed sire — never was 
woman influenced by principles of purer mo- 
rality. 

This was the woman who inspired Sir Lucius 
Graftim with an ungovernable passion. Despair- 
ing of success by any other method, conscious 
that, sooner or later, he must, for family considera- 
tions, propagate future l>aronets of the name of 
Grafton, he determined to solicit her hand. But 
for hiin to obtain it he was well aware was difficult. 
Confident in his person, his consummate know- 
ledgf of the female character, and his unrivalled 
pouvrs of dissimulation. Sir Lucius arranged his 
dispositions. The daughter feared, the father 
hated him. There was, indeed, much to be done ; 
but the remembrance of a thousand triumphs sup- 
ported the adventurer. Lady Aphrodite was at 
length persuaded that she alone could confirm the 
reformation, which she alone had originated. She 
yielded to a passion which her love of virtue had 
alone kept in subjection. Sir Lucius and Lady 
Aphrodite knelt at the feet of the old earl. . The 
tears of his daughter, ay, and of his future son-in- 
law — for Sir Lucius luicw when to weep — were 
too much for his kind and generous heart. He 
gave them his blessing, which faltered on his 
tongue. 

A year had not elapsed ere Lady Aphrodite 
woke to all the wildness of a deluded woman. 
The idol on whom she had lavished all the incense 
of her innocent affections became every day less 
like a true divinity. At length, even the ingenuity 
of passion could no longer disguise the hideous- 
and bitter truth. She was no longer loved. She 
thought of her father. Ah ! what was the mad- 
ness of her memory. 

The agony of her mind disappointed her hus- 
band's hope of an heir, and the promise was never 
renewed. In vain she remonstrated to the being to 
whom she was devoted : in vain .she sought, by 
meek endurance, again to melt his heart. It was 
cold — it was callous. Most women would have 
endeavoured to recover their lost induence by dif- 
ferent tactics ; some, perhaps, would have forgotten 
their mortification in their revenge. But Lady 
Aphrodite had been tlie victim of passion, and now 
was its slave. Slur could not dissemble. 

Not so her spouse. Sir Lucius knew too well 
the value of a good character to part very ea.sily 
with that which ho had so unexpectedly regained. 
Whatever were his excesses, they were prudent 
ones. He felt that boyhood could alone cxcus*i 
the folly of glorying in vice ; and he knew tliat, to 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



235 



tesppct virtue, it was not absolutely necessary to be 
virtuous. No one was, apparently, more choice in 
his companions than Sir Lucius Grafton ; no hus- 
band was seen oftener with his wife ; no one paid 
more respect to age, or knew better when to wear a 
grave countenance. The world praised the magi- 
cal influence of Lady Aphrodite ; and Lady 
Aphrodite, in private, wept over her misery. In 
public, she made an efiort to conceal all she felt ; 
and, as it is a great inducement to every woman to 
conceal that she is neglected by the man whom she 
adores, her effort was successful. • Yet her counte- 
nance might indicate that she was little interested 
in the scene in which she mixed. She was too 
proud to weep, but too sad to smile. Elegant and 
lone, she stood among her crushed and lovely 
hopes, like a column amid the ruins of a beautiful 
temple. 

The world declared that Lady Aphrodite was 
desperately virtuous — and the world was right. A 
thousand fire-flies had sparkled round this myrtle, 
and its fresh and verdant hue was still unsullied 
and unscorched. Not a very accurate image, but 
pretty ; and those who have watched a glancing 
shower of these glittering insects, will confess that, 
poetically, the bush might burn. The truth is, 
that Lady Aphrodite still trembled when she re- 
called the early anguish of her broken sleep of love, 
and had not courage enough to hope that she 
might dream again. Like the old Hebrews, she 
had been so chastened for her wild idolatry, that 
ehe dared not again raise an image to animate the 
wilderness of her existence. Man she, at the same 
time, feared and despised. Compared with her 
husband, all who surrounded her were, she felt, in 
appearance inferior, and were, she believed, in 
mind the same. 

I know not how it is, but love at first sight is a 
subject of constant ridicule ; but somehow, I sus- 
pect that it has more to do with the affairs of this 
world than we are willing to own. Eyes meet 
which have never met before ; and glances thrill 
with expression which is strange. We contrast 
these pleasant sights and new emotions, with hack- 
neyed objects and worn sensations. Another 
glance, and another thrill — and we spring into 
each other's arms. What can be more natural 1 

Ah ! that we should awake so often to truth so 
bitter ! Ah, that charm by charm should evapo- 
rate from the talisman which had enchanted our 
existence ! 

And so it was with this sweet woman, whose 
feelings glow under my pen. She had repaired to 
a splendid assembly, to play her splendid part with 
the consciousness of misery — without the expecta- 
tion of hope. She awaited, without interest, the 
routine which had been so often uninteresting ; 
she viewed without emotion the characters which 
had never moved. A stranger suddenly appeared 
upon the stage, fresh as the morning dew, and 
glittering like the morning star. All eyes await — 
all tongues applaud him. His step is grace — his 
countenance is hope — his voice is music! And 
was such a being born only to deceive and be de- 
ceived ? Was he to run the same false, palling, 
ruinous career, which had fdled so many hearts 
with bitterness, and dimmed the radiance of so 
many eyes 1 Never ! The nobility of his soul 
spoke from his glancing eye, and treated the foul 
suspicion with scorn. Ah, would that she had 
such a brother to warn, to guide, to — love I 



So felt the Lady Aphrodite ; So felt — we will 
not say, so reasoned. When once a woman allows 
an idea to touch her heart, it is miraculous with 
what rapidity the idea is fathered by her brain. 
All her experience, all her anguish, all her despair, 
vanished like a long frost in an instant, and in a 
night. She felt a delicious conviction that a knight 
had at length come to her rescue, a hero worthy 
of an adventure so admirable. The image of the 
young duke filled her whole mind; she had no ear 
for others' voices ; she mused on his idea with the 
rapture of a votary on the mysteries of a new faith. 
Yet, strange, when he at length approached her 
— when he addressed her — when she had replied 
to that mouth which had fascinated even before it 
had* spoken, she was cold, reserved, constrained. 
Some talk of the burning cheek and the flashing 
eye of passion ; but if I were not a quiet man, and 
cared not for these things, I should say, give me 
the woman who, when I approach her, treats me 
almost with scoi-n, and trembles while she affects 
to disregard me. 

Lady Aphrodite has returned home : she hur- 
ries to her apartment — she falls into a sweet revery 
— her head leans upon her hand. Her soubrette, 
a pretty and chatteririg Swiss, whose republican 
virtue had been corrupted by Paris, as Rome by 
Corinth, endeavours to divert her lady's ennui : 
she excruciates her beautiful mistress with tattle 

about the admiration of Lord B , and the 

sighs of Sif Harrj'. Her ladyship reprimands her 
for lier levit}', and the soubrette, grown sullen, re- 
venges herself for her mistress's reproof, by con- 
verting the sleepy process of brushing into the 
most lively torture. 

The Duke of St. James called upon Lady 
Aphrodite Grafton the next^ay, and at an hour 
when he trusted to find her alone. He was not 
disappointed. More than once the silver-tongued 
pendule sounded during that somewhat protracted, 
but most agreeable visit. He was, indeed, greatly 
interested by her ; but he was an habitual gallant, 
and always began by feigning more than he felt. 
She, on the contrary, who wa.s really in love, 
feigned much less. Yet she was no longer con- 
strained, though calm. Fluent, and even gay, she 
talked as well as listened, and her repartees more 
than once put her companion on his mettle. She 
displayed a delicate and even luxurious taste, not 
only in her conversation, but — the duke observed 
it with delight — in her costume. She had a pas- 
sion for music and for flowers: she sang a ro- 
mance, and gave him a rose. He retired, per- 
fectly fascinated. 

O god — or gods of love ! — for there are two 
Cupids — which of you it was that inspired the 
Duke of St. James I pretend not to decide. Per- 
haps, last night, it was thou, son of Erebus and 
Nox ! To-d;iy, perhaps, it was the lady's mind. 
All I know is, that when I am led to the universal 
altar, I beg that both of you will shoot your- darts ! 



CHAPTER TK. 

I FiTfD this writing not so difficult as I had 
imagined. I see the only way is to rattle on, just 
as you talk. The moment that you anticipate 
your pen in forming a sentence, you get as stiff as 



23 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



a gentleman in stays. I use my pen as my horse 
— I guide it, and it carries me on. 

Sir Lucius Grafton called on the Duke of St. 
James. They did not immediately swear an eter- 
nal friendship, like the immortal heroines of the 
Rovers, but they greeted each other with con- 
siderable warmth, talked of old times, and old 
companions, and compared their former sensations 
with their present. No one could be a more 
agreeable companion than Sir Lucius, and this 
day he left a very favourable impression with his 
young friend. From this day, too, the duke's 
visits at the baronet's were frequent ; and as the 
Graftons were intimate with the Fitz-pompeys, 
scarcely a day elapsed without his having^ the 
j)lpasure of passing a portion of it in the company 
of Lady Aphrodite. His attentions to her were 
marked, and sometimes mentioned. Lord Fitz- 
jiompey was rather in a flutter. George did not 
ride so often with Caroline, and never alone with 
her. This was disagreeable ; but the earl was a 
man of the world, and a sanguine man withal. 
These things will happen. It is of no use to 
.]uarrel with the wind ; and, for his part, lie was 
not sorry that he had the honour of the Grafton 
acquaintance: it secured Caroline her cousin's 
company ; and as for the liaison, if there were one, 
why it must end, and probably the difficulty of ter- 
minating it might even hasten the catastrophe 
which he had so much at heart. ".So, Laura, 
dearest, let the Graftons be asked to most of our 
dinners." 

In one of those rides to which Caroline was not 
admitted, for it was with Lady Aphrodite alone, 
the Duke of St. James took his way to the Re- 
gent's Park, a wild sequestered spot, whither he 
invariably repaired when he did not wish to be 
)ioticed ; for the inhabitants of this pretty suburb 
are a distinct race, and although their eyes are not 
unobscrving, from their inability to speak the lan- 
guage of London they are unable to communicate 
their observations. 

The spring sun was setting, and flung a crimson 
flush over the blue waters and white houses. The 
scene was rather imposing, and reminded our hero 
of days of travel. A sudden thought rushed into 
his head. Would it not be delightful to build a 
beautiful retreat in this sweet and retired land, and 
be enabled in an instant to fly from the formal 
magnificence of a London mansion 1 Lady Aphro- 
dite was charmed with the idea ; for the ena- 
moured are always delighted with what is fanciful. 
Tha duke determined immediately to convert the 
ilea into an object. To lose no time, was his 
grand motto. As he thought that Sir Carte had 
enough upon his hands, he determined to apply to 
an artist whose achievements had been greatly 
vaunted to him by a very distinguished and very 
noble judge. 

M. Bijou de Millecolonnes, chevalier of the 
liegion of Honour, and member of the Academy of 
St. Luke's, except in his title, was the very anti- 
podes of Sir Carte Blanche. Sir Carte was all 
solidity, solemnity, and correctnes.s. Bijou de 
Millecolonnes, all lightness, gayety, and originality. 
fSir Carte was ever armed with the Parthenon, 
Pailadio, and St. Peter's. Bijou de Millecolonnes 
laughed at the ancients, called Pailadio and Mi- 
chel barbarians of the middle ages, and had him- 
self invented an order. Bijou was not as plausible 
as Sir Carte ; but he was infinitely more enter- 



taining. Far from being servile, he allowed no 
one to talk but himself, and made his fortune by 
his elegant insolence. How singular it is, that 
those who love servility are always the victims of 
impertinence I 

Gayly did Bijou de Millecolonnes drive his pea- 
green cabriolet to the spot in que.stion. He formed 
his plan in an instant. " The occasional retreat 
of a noble should be something picturesque and 
poetical. The mind should be led to voluptuous- 
ness by exquisite associations, as well as by the 
creations of art. It is thus their luxury is rendered 
more intense by the reminiscences that add past 
experience to present enjoyment ! For instance, 
if you sail down a river, imitate the progress of 
Cleopatra. And here — here, where the opportu- 
nity is so ample, what think you of reviving the 
Alhambra?" 

Splendid conception ! The duke already fan- 
cied himself a caliph. " Lose no time, chevalier ! 
Dig, plant, build !" 

Nine acres were obtained from the woods and 
forests ; mounds were thrown up, shrubs thrown 
iu ; the paths emulated the serpent ; the nine 
acres seemed interminable. All was surrounded 
by a paling eight feet high, that no one might 
pierce the mystery of the preparations. 

A rumour was- soon current, that the Zoological 
Society intended to keep a Bengal tiger au natu- 
rel, and that they were contriving a residence which 
would amply compensate him for his native jungle. 
The Regent's Park was in despair ; the landlords 
lowered their rents, and the tenants petitioned the 
king. In a short time, some hooded domes, and 
Saracenic spires rose to sight, and the truth was 
then made known, that the young Duke of St. 
James was building a villa. The Regent's Park 
was in rapture; the landlords raised their rents, 
and the tenants withdrew their petition. 



CHAPTER X 

Mr. Dache again wrote to the Duke of St. 
James. He regretted that he had been absent from 
home when his grace had done him the honour of 
calling at Castle Dacre. Had he been aware of 
that intended gratification, he could with ease, and 
would with pleasure, have postponed his visit to 
Norfolk. He also regretted that it would not be in 
his power to visit London this season ; and as he 
thought that no further time should be lost in re- 
signing the trust with which he had been so ho- 
noured, he begged leave to forward his accounts to 
the duke, and with them some notes, which he be- 
lieved would convey some not unimportant infor- 
mation to his grace for the future management of 
his property. Tlie young duke took a rapid glance 
at the sum total of his rental, crammed all his 
papers into a cabinet, with a determination to ex- 
amine them the first opportunity, and then rolled 
off to a morning concert, of which he was tlie 
patron. 

The intended opportunity for the examination 
of the important papers was never caught, nor was 
it surprising that it escaped capture. It is difhcult to 
conceive a career of more various, more constant, 
or more distracting excitement than tliat in which 
the Duke of St. James was now engaged. His 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



2-^ 



life was an ocean of enjoyment, and each hour, hke 
each wave, threw up its pearl. How dull was the 
ball in which he did not bound ! How dim the 
banquet in which he did not glitter ! His presence 
in the gardens compensated for the want of flow- 
erij, — his vision in the Park, for the want of sun. 
In public breakfasts he was more indispensable than 
pine-apples ; in private concerts, more noticed than 
an absent singer. How fair was the dame on whom 
he smiled ! How brown was the tradesman on 
whom he frowned ! 

1'hink only of prime ministers and princes, to 
say nothing of princesses — nay ! think only of 
managers of operas and French actors, to say no- 
thing of French actresses. — think only of jewellers, 
milliners, artists, horse-dealers, all the shoals who 
hurried for his sanction, — think only of the two or 
three thousand civilized beings for whom all this 
population breathed, and who each of them had 
claims upon our hero's notice ! Think of the 
statesmen, who had so much to ask and so much 
to give, — the dandies to feed with, and to be fed, 
— the dangerous dowagers, and the desperate 
mothers, — the widows wild as early partridges, — 
the budding vii-gins, mild as a summer cloud and 
soft as an opera hat ! Think of the drony bores 
with their dull hum, — think of the chivalric guards- 
men, with their horses to soil, and their bills to 
discoimt, — think of Willis, think of Crockford, 
think of White's, think of Brookes' — and you 
may form a very faint idea how the young duke had 
to talk, and eat, and flirt, and cut, and pet, and 
patronise ! 

You think it impossible for one man to do all 
this. My friend ! there is yet much behind. You 
may add to the catalogue. Melton and Newmarket ; 
and if to hunt without any appetite, and to bet 
without an object, will not sicken you, why build 
a yacht ! 

The Duke of St. James gave his first grand en- 
tertainment for the season. It was like the assem- 
bly of the immortals at the first levee of Jove. All 
hurried to pay their devoirs to the young king of 
fashion ; and each, who succeeded in becoming a 
member of the court, felt as prouil as a peer with 
a new title, or a baronet with an old one. An air 
of regal splendour, an almost imperial assumption, 
was observed in the arrangements of the fete. A 
troop of servants in new and the richest liveries 
filled the hall ; grooms lined the staircase ; Spiri- 
dion, the Greek page, lounged on an ottoman in 
an antechamber, and, with the assistance of six 
young gentlemen in crimson and silver uniforms, 
announced the coming of the cherished guests. 
Cart-loads of pine-apples were sent up from the 
Yorkshire castle, and wagons of orange trees from 
the Twickenham villa. 

A brilliant cuterie, of which his grace was a 
member, had amused themselves a few nights be- 
fore, by representing in costume the court of 
Charles the First. They agreed this night to re- 
appear in their splendid dresses ;and the duke, who 
was Vilhers, supported his character, even to the 
gay shedding of a shower of diamonds. In his 
cap was observed an hereditary sapphire, which 
blazed like a volcano, and which was rumoured to 
be worth his rent-roll. 

There was a short concert, at which the most 
celebrated signora made her debut; there was a 
single vaudeville, which a white satin jilaybill, pre- 
eented to each guest as they entered the temporary 



theatre, indicated to have been written for the occa- 
sion ; there was a ball in which was introduced a new 
dance. Langueurs were skilfully avoided, and the 
excitement was so rapid that every one had an ap- 
petite for supper. 

A long gallery lined with bronzes and bijouterie, 
with cabinets and sculpture, with china and with 
paintings, — all purchased for the future ornament 
of Hauteville House, and here stowed away in ur- 
pretending, but most artificial, confusion, — ofiered 
accommodation to all the guests. To a table 
covered with gold, and placed in a magnificent tent 
upon the stage, his grace loyally led two princes 
of the blood and a diild of France, and gave a 
gallant signal for the commencement of operations, 
by himself ofVering thtm, on his bended knee, a 
goblet of tokay. Madame de Protocol!, Lady Aph- 
rodite Grafton, the Dutchess of Shropshire, and 
Lady Fitz-pompey, shared the honours of the 
pavilion, and some might be excused for envv- 
ing a party so brilliant, and a situation so distin- 
guished. Yet Lady Ajihrodite was an unwilling 
member of it ; and nothing but the personal solici- 
tations of Sir Lucius would have induced her to 
consent to the wish of their host. 

A pink and printed cnrte succeeded to the white 
and satin playbill. Vitellius might have been 
pleased with the banquet. Ah I how shall I des- 
cribe those soups, which surely must have been the 
magical elixir] How shall I paint those ortolans 
dressed by the inimitable artiste, it la St. James, for 
the occasion, and which looked so beautiful in 
death, that they must surely have preferred such 
an euthanasia, even to flying in the perfumed air 
of an Ausonian heaven I 

Sweet bird ! though thou hast lost thy plumage, 
thou shalt fly to my mistress ! Is it not better to 
he nibbled by her, than mumbled by a cardinal ? 
I too v^'ill feed on thy delicate beauty. Sweet bird ! 
thy companion lias fled to my mistress ; and now 
thou shall thrill the nerves of her master! 0, doll', 
then, thy waistcoat of vine-leaves, pretty rover, and 
show me that bosom more delicious even than wo- 
man's ! What gushes of rapture! What a fla- 
vour ! How peculiar ! Even how sacred ! Hea- 
ven at once sends both manna and quails. An- 
other little wanderer ! Pray follow my example ! 
Allow me. All paradise opens ! Let me die eat- 
ing ortolans to the sound of soft music ! The 
flavour is really too intensely exquisite. Give me 
a tea-spoonful of maraschino ! 

Even the supper was l)rief though brillian*, and 
again the cotillon and the quadrille, the waltz and 
galloppe I At no moment of his life had the young 
duke felt existence so intense. Wherever he turn- 
ed his eye he found a responding glance of beauty 
and admiration ; wherever he turned his ear the 
whispered tones were soft and sweet as summer 
winds. Each look was an oifcring, each word was 
adoration ! His soul dilated, the glory of the scene 
touched all his passions. He almost determined 
not again to mingle in society ; bvit, like a monarch, 
merely to receive the world which worshipped him. 
The idea was sublime : was it even to him im- 
practicable 1 In the midst of his splendour, he fell 
into a reveiy, and mused on his magnificence. He 
could no longer resist the conviction that he was 
a superior essence even to all around him. The 
world seemed cieated solely for his enjoyment. 
iS'or man nor woman could withstand him. From 
this hour he delivered himself up to a sublime self 



238 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



ishness. With all his passions and all his pro- 
fusion, a callousness crept over his heart. Hia 
sympathy for those he believed his inferiors and 
his vassals vs'as slight. Where we do not respect, 
we soon cease to love — when we cease to love, 
virtue weeps and flies. His soul wandered in 
dreams of omnipotence. 

This picture perhaps excites your dislike — it 
may be, your hatred — perchance, your contempt. 
Pause ! Pity him ! Pity his fatal youth ! 



CHAPTER XI. 

The Lady Aphrodite at first refused to sit in the 
duke's pavilion. Was she then in the habit of re- 
fusing ? Let us not forget our Venus of the waters. 
Shall I whisper to you where St. James first dared 
to hope 1 No, you shall guess. Je vims le donne en 
trots. The gardens 1 — The opera 1 — The tea-room 1 
— No ! no ! no ! You are conceiving a locality much 
more romantic. Already you have created the bow- 
er of a Parisina, where the waterfall is even more 
musical than the birds, more lulling than the evening 
winds ; where all is pale except the stars 1 all hush- 
ed except their beating pulses ! Will this do 1 
No ! What think you then of a Bazaak? 

! thou wonderful nineteenth century, — thou 
that believest in no miracles, and dost sq many, 
has thou brought this, too, about, the ladies' hearts 
should be won — and gentlemen's also — not in 
courts, or tourney, or halls of revel, but over a 
counter and behind, a stall ! We are, indeed,la na- 
tion of shopkeepers ! /, 

The King of Otaheite, — Mr. Peel and thfe State- 
paper office must be thanked for this narrative, — 
though a despot, was a reformer. He discovered 
that the eating of bread-fruit was a barbarous cus- 
tom, which would infallibly prevent his people from 
being a great nation. He determined to introduce 
French rolls. A party rebelled ; the despot was 
energetic ; some were executed ; the rest ejected, 
^'he vagabonds arrived in England. As they 
had been banished in opposition to French rolls, | 
they were declared to be a British interest. They 
professed their admiration of civil and religious 
liberty, and also of a subscription. When they 
had drunk a great deal of punch, and spent all 
their money, they discovered that they had nothing 
to eat, and would infallibly have been starved 
had not an Hibernian marchioness, who had never 
been in Ireland, been exceedingly shocked that 
men should die of hunger, — and so, being one of 
the bustlers, she got up a fancy sale, and a Sand- 
■svjcH IsLU Bazaar. 

All the world was there, and of course our hero. 
Never was the arrival of a comet watched by as- 
tronomers who had calculated its advent with more 
anxiety than was the appearance of the young 
duke. Never did man pass through such dangers. 
It was the fiery ordeal. St. Anthony himself was 
not assailed with more temptations. Now he was 
saved from the lustre of a blonde face by the supe- 
rior richness of a blonde lace. He would infallibly 
have been ravished by that ringlet, had he not been 
nearly reduced by that ring, which sparkled on a 
hand like the white cat's. He was only preserved 
from his unprecedented dangers by their number. 
No, no ! He had a belter talisman : — ^liis conceit. 



" Ah, Lady Balmont !" said his grace to a smil 
ing artist, who offered him one of her own draw 
ings of a Swiss cottage, "for me to be a tenant, it 
must be love and a cottage!" 

"What! am I to buy this ring, Mrs. Abercroft! 
Point de jour. O! dreadful phrase! Allow me 
to present it to you, for you are the only one whom 
such words cannot make tremble." 

"This chain. Lady Jemina, for my glass! I 
will teach me where to direct it." 

"Ah! Mrs. Fitzroy !" — and he covered his face 
with affected fear. — " Can you forgive me? Your 
beautiful note has been half an hour unanswered. 
The box is yours for Tuesday." 

He tried to pass the next stall with a smiling 
bow, but he could not escape. It was Lady de 
Courcy, a dowager, but not old. Once beautiful, 
her channs had not yet disappeared. She had a 
pair of glittering eyes, a skilfully carmined cheek, 
and locks yet raven. Her eloquence made her now 
as conspicuous as once did her beauty. The young 
duke was her constant object, and her occasional 
victim. He hated above all things a talking wo- 
man, he dreaded, above all others, Lady de Courcy. 
He could not shirk. She summoned him by 
name so loud, that crowds of barbarians stared, and 
a man called to a woman, and said, ''My dear! 
make haste, here's a duke!" 

Lady de Courcy was prime confidant of the Irish 
marchioness. She affected enthusiasm about the 
poor sufferers. She had learned Otaheitan — she 
lectured about the bread-fruit — and she played upon 
a barbarous thrum-thrum, the only musical instru- 
ment in those savage wastes, ironically called the 
Society Islands, because there is no society. She 
was dreadful. The duke in despair took out his 
purse, poured forth from the pink and silver deli- 
cacy, worked by the slender fingers of Lady Aph- 
rodite, a shower of sovereigns, and fairly scampered 
oft'. — At length he reached the lady of his heart. 

"I fear, said the young duke with a smile, and 
in a soft sweet voice, "that you will never speak to 
me again, fori am a ruined man." 

A beam of gentle affection reprimanded him even 
for badinage upon such a subject. 

" I really came here to buy up all your stock ; but 
that gorgon. Lady de Courcy, captured me, and my 
ransom has sent me here free, but a beggar. I do 
not know a more ill-fated fellow than myself Now, 
if }'0U had only condescended to make me prisoner, 
I might have saved my money; for I should have 
kissed my chain." 

"My chains, I fear, are neither verj' alluring, 
nor veiy strong." She spoke with a thoughtful 
air, and he answered her only with his eye. 

"I must bear off something from your stall," he 
resumed, in a more rapid and gayer tone ; " and as I 
cannot purchase, you must present. Now for a gift!" 
" Choose !" 
"Yourself." 

"Your grace is really spoiling my sale. See! 
poor Lord Bagshot. What a valuable purchaser !"' 
"Ah! Bag, my boy!" said the duke to a slang 
young nobleman whom he abhorred, but of whom 
he sometimes made a butt, — '• am I in your way ] 
Here! take this, and this, and this, and give me 
your purse. I'll pay her ladyship." And so the 
duke again showered some sovereigns, and return- 
ed the shrunken silk to its dcfi-auded owner, who 
stared, and would have remonstrated, but his gract 
turned his back upon him. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



239 



"There, now," he continued, to Lady Aphrodite, 
" there is two hundred per cent, profit for 3-ou. 
You are not half a marchande. I will stand here, 
and be your shopman. — Well, Annesley," said he, 
as that dignitary passed, " what will you buy of my 
mistress! I advise you to get a place. 'Pon my 
soul, 'tis pleasant! Try Lady de Courcy. You 
know you arc a favourite." 

"I assure your grace," said Mr. Annesley, speak- 
ing very slowly, "that that story about Lady de 
Courcy is quite untrue, and very rude. I never 
turn my back on any woman, only my heel. We 
are on the best possible terms. — She is never to 
speak to me, and I am always to bow to her. — But 
I really must purchase. Where did you get tliat 
glass-chain, St. James] Lady Afy, can you ac- 
commodate me"?'' 

" Here is one prettier ! But are you near-sight- 
ed too, Mr. Annesley 1" 

" Very. I look upon a long-sighted man as a 
brute who, not being able to see with his mind, is 
obliged to see with his body. — The price of this?" 

" A sovereign," said the duke — " cheap ; but we 
consider you as a friend." 

" A sovereign ! You consider me a young duke 
rather. Two shillings, and that a severe price — a 
charitable price. Here is half-a-crown — give me six- 
pence. I was not a minor. Farewell ! I go to the 
little Pomfret. She is a sweet flower, and I intend to 
wear her in my button-hole. Good-bye, Lady Afy !" 

The gay morning had worn away, and St. James 
never left his fliscinating position. Many a sweet, 
and many a soft thing he uttered. Sometimes he 
was baffled, but never beaten, and always returned 
to the charge with spirit. He was confident, be- 
cause he was reckless : the lady had less trust in 
herself, because she was anxious. Yet she com- 
bated well, and repressed the passion which she 
could hardly conceal. 

Many of her colleagues had already departed. 
She requested the duke to look after her carriage. 
A bold plan suddenly occurred to him, and he exe- 
cuted it with rare courage and rarer felicity. 

"Lady Aphrodite's carriage!" 

"Here, your grace!" 

"O! go home. Your lady will return with 
Madame de Protocoli." 

He rejoined her. 

" I am sorry that, by some blunder, j'our carriage 
has gone. What could you have told them !" 

"Impossible! How provoking ! How stupid!" 

" Perhaps you told them that you would return 
with the Fitz-pompeys, but they are gone; or Mrs. 
Aberleigh, and she is not here ; — or, perhaps, — but 
they have gone too. Every one has gone." 

"What shall I do! How distressing! I had 
better send. Pray, send; or I will ask Lady de 
Courcy." 

" ! no, no ! I really did not like to see you 
with her. As a favour — as a favour to me, I pray 
you not" 

" What can I dol I must send. Let me beg 
your grace to send." 

"Certainly, certainly ; but, ten to one, there will 
be some mistake. There always is some mistake 
when you send these strangers. And, besides, I 
forgot, all this time, my carriage is here. Let me 
take you home." 

"No, no!" 

" Dearest liady Aphrodite, do not distress your- 
self. I can wait here till the carriage returns, or I 



can walk ; to be sure, I can walk. Pray, pray taka 
the carriage ! As a favour — as a favour to me !" 

"But I cannot bear you to walk. I know you 
dislike walking." 

" Well, then, I will wait." 

" Well, if it must be so— but I am ashamed to 
inconvenience you. How provoking of these men! 
Pray, then, tell the coachman to drive fast, that you 
may not have to wait. I declare, there is scarcely 
a human being in the room; and those odd people 
are staring so !" 

He pressed her arm, as he led her to his carriage. 
She is in ; and yet, before the door shuts, he lin- 
gers. 

"I shall certainly walk," said he. "I do not 
think the easterly wind will make me very ill. 
Good-bye ! O, what a ccup de vent/" 

" Let me get out, then ; and pray, pray take the 
carriage. I woulil much sooner do any thing than 
go in it. I would much rather walk. lam sure 
you will be ill !" 

" Not if I be with you /" He pressed her hand 
with impassioned warmth — he spoke to her in a 
voice soft with adoration. Their eloquent eyes 
met — and he leaped in. 

"Drive home!" said the young duke. 

! moment of triumph ! 



CHAPTER XIL 

Therk was a brilliant levee, — all stars and gar- 
ters ; and a splendid drawing-room, — all plumes and 
seduisantes. Many a bright eye and its ovener 
fought its way down St. James's street, shot a wist- 
ful glance at the enchanted bow-window where the 
duke and his usual companions, Sir Lucius, Charles 
Annesley, and Lord Squib, lounged and laughed, 
stretched themselves and sneered : many a bright 
eye, that for a moment pierced the futmity, that 
painted her going in state as Dutchess of St. James, 

His majesty summoned a dinner party, a rare 
but magnificent event, — and the chief of the house 
of Hauteville appeared among the chosen vassals. 
This visit did the young duke good; and a few 
more might have permanently cured the conceit 
which the present one momentarily calmed. His 
grace saw the plate, and was filled with envy ; his 
grace listened to his majesty, and was filled with 
admiration, O ! father of thy people ! if thou 
wouldst but look a little oftener on thy younger 
sons, their morals and their manners might be alike 
improved. O ! George, the magnificent and the 
great! — for hast thou not rivalled the splendour of 
Lorenzo, and the grandeur of Louis? — smile on 
the praises of one who is loyal, although not a poet- 
laureate, and who is sincere, though he sips no 
sack. 

Hisnnajesty, in the course of the evening, with 
his usual good-nature, signaled out for his notice 
the youngest, and not the least distinguished of his 
guests. He complimented the young duke on the 
accession to the ornaments of liis court, and said, 
with a smile, that he had heard of conquests in 
foreign ones. The duke accounted for his slight 
successes by reminding his majesty that he had the 
honour of being his godson, — and this he said in 
a slight and easy way, not smart or quick, or as a 
repartee to the royal observation — for "it is not 



240 



D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. 



decorous tobamly compliments with your sovereign." 
His majesty asked some questions about an empe- 
ror, or an archdutchess, and his grace answered lo 
the purpose, but short and not too pointed. He 
listened rather than spoke, and smiled more assents 
than he uttered. The king was pleased with his 
young subject, and marked his approbation by con- 
versing with that unrivalled afllibility which is gall 
o a round-head, and inspiration to a cavalier. 
There was a ban niof, which blazed with all the 
soft brilliancy of sheet lightning. What a contrast 
to the forky flashes of a regular wit! Then there 
was an anecdote of Sheridan — the royal Sheridan- 
iaiia are not thrice-told tales — recounted with that 
curious felicity which has long stamped the illus- 
trious narrator as the most consummate raconteur 
(1) in Europe. Then — but the duke knew when 
to withdraw; and he withdrew with renewed loy- 
alty. 

When I call to mind the unlimited indulgence 
which solicits, from the earliest age, the passions 
of a king, I pardon their crimes and revefence their 
virtues. But if I view a .sovereign, who, with all 
those advantages which can seduce others and 
himself, commits in a brilliant youth at the worst 
but a brilliant folly ; if I view the same individual 
on the throne, exercising all those powers which 
adorn the intrusted chieftain of a free people with 
the calm wisdom which belongs only to that man 
who dares to ponder on a past error — of such a 
monarch I am proud, and such a monarch I call a 
true philosopher. 

O ! people of England, be contented ! You 
know not what might have been your lot. I might 
have been your king: and, although you have 
already conceived me as the very prosopopoeia of 
amiability, the dreaded, the stern, the mortifying 
truth must no longer be concealed, — I should have 
been a tyrant ! 

But what a tyrant! I would have smothered 
j'ou in roses, shot you with bon-bons, and drowned 
3'ou with eau de Cologne. I would have banged 
up your parliaments, knocked up ycfur steam-en- 
gines, shut up all societies for the ditl'usion of any 
thing. I would have republished the Book of 
Sports, restored holidays, revived the drama. Every 
parish should have had its orchestra, every village 
its dancing-master. I would have built fountains, 
and have burned fireworks. 

But I am not a king. Bitter recollection ! Yet 
something may turn up, — Greece, for instance. In 
the mean time I will take a canter. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

The Duke of St. James had been extremely de- 
sirous of inducing the fair Aphrodite to accept 
ome gage d'amnur, but had failed in all his plans, 
which annoyed him. 

One day, looking in at his jeweller's, to see 
some models of a shield and vases, which were ex- 
ecuting for him in gold, — ever since he had dined 
with his majesty that unhappy sideboard of plate 
nad haunted him at all hours — he met Lady Aph- 
rodite and the Fitz-pompeys. Lady Aphrodite 
was speaking to the jeweller about her diamonds, 
whioh were to be reset, or something, for her ap- 
proaching fete. The duke took the ladies up-stairs 



to look at the models, and while they were intent 
upon them and other curiosities, his absence for a 
moment was unperceived. He ran down stairs, 
and caught Mr. Garnet. 

" Mr. Garnet ! I think I saw Lady Aphrodite 
give you her diamonds 1" 

" Yes, your grace." 

" Are they valuable 1" in a careless tone. 

" Hum ! very pretty stones, — ver}^ pretty stones, 
indeed. Few baronets' ladies have a prettier set, 
worth perhaps 1000/. — say 1200/. — Lady Aphro- 
dite Grafton is not the Dutchess of St. James, you 
know," said Mr. Garnet, as if he anticipated fur- 
nishing that future lady with a very different set of 
brilliants. 

"Mr. Garnet, you can do me the greatest fa- 
vour." 

" Your grace has only to command me at all 
times." 

" Well, then, in a word, for time presses. Can 
you contrive without particularly altering, that is, 
without altering the general appearance of these 
diamonds, ^an you contrive to change the stones, 
and substitute the most valuable that you have — 
consistent, as I must impress upon you, with 
maintaining their general appearance, as at pre- 
sent?" 

" The most valuable stones," musingly repeated 
Mr. Garnet, — " general appearance, as at present. 
We cannot deceive her ladyship." 

" If that be absolutely impossible, then we must 
give that point up; but generally, generally can 
you preserve their present character?" 

" The most valuable stones !" repeated Mr. Gar- 
net ; " your grace is aware that we may run up 
some thousands even in this set?" 

" I give you no limit." 

" But the time," rejoined Mr. Garnet. "They 
must be ready for her ladyship's party We shall 
be hard pressed. I am afraid of the time." 

" Cannot the men work all night? Pay them 
any thing." 

" It shall be done, your grace. Your grace may 
command me in any thing." 

" This is a secret between us, Garnet. Your 
partners — " 

" Shall know nothing. And as for myself, I am 
as close as an emerald in a seal-ring." 



CHAPTER XIV. 

HrssEix Pasha, "the favourite," not only of 
the Marquis of Mash, but of Tattersall's, unac- 
countably sickened, and died. His noble master, 
full of chagrin, took to his bed, and followed his 
steed's example. The death of the marquis caused 
a vacancy in the stewardship of the approaching 
Doncaster. Sir Lucius Grafton was the other 
steward, and he proposed to the Duke of St. James, 
as he was a Yorkshireman, to become his colleague. 
His grace, who wished to pay a compliment to his 
county, closed with the' proposition. Sir Lucius 
was a first-rate jockey ; his colleague was quite ig- 
norant of the noble science in all its details, but 
that was of slight importance. The baronet was 
to be the working partner, and do the business, — 
the duke, the show member of the concern, and do 
the magnificence : as one banker, you may observe, 
lives always in Portland Place, reads the Court 



THE YOUNG DUKE 



241 



Journal all the morning, and lias an opera-box-, 
while his partner lodges in Lombard-street, thumbs 
a price-current, and only has a box at Clapham. 

The young duke, however, was ambitious of 
making a good book ; and, with all th.e calm im- 
petuosity which characterizes a youthful Haute- 
ville, determined to have a crack stud at once. So 
at Ascot, where he spent a few pleasant hours, 
dmed at the cottage, was caught in a shower, in 
return caught a cold, a slight influenza for a week, 
and all the world full of inquiries and anxiety, — 
at Ascot, I say, he bought up all the winning 
horses at an average of three thousand guineas for 
each pair of ears. Sir Lucius stared, remonstrated, 
and, as his remonstrances were in vain, assisted 
him. 

As people on the point 'of death often make a 
desperate rally, so this, the most brilliant of sea- 
sons, was even more lively as it nearer approached 
its end. The drjeuncr and the villa fete, the 
water-party and the rambling ride, followed each 
other with the bright rapidity of the final scenes 
in a pantomime. Each daniu seemed only inspired 
with the ambition of giving the last ball ; and so 
numerous were the parties, that the town really 
sometimes seemed illumuiated. To brealvfast at 
Twickenham, and to dine in Belgrave Square ; to 
hear, or rather to honour, half an act of an opera ; 
to campaign through half a dozen private balls, and 
to finish with a romp at the rooms, as after our 
wLne we take a glass of liqueur — all this surely re- 
quired the courage of an Alexander and the strength 
of a Hercules, and which, indeed, cannot be 
achieved without the miraculous powers of a Joshua. 
So thought the young duke, as with an excited 
mind and a whirling head, he threw himself actu- 
ally at half past six o'clock on a couch which 
brought him no sleep. 

Yet he recovered, and with the aid of the hath, 
the soda, and the coflee, and all the thousand re- 
medies which a skilful valet has ever at hand, at 
three o'clock on the same day he rose and dressed, 
and in an hour was again at the illustrious bow- 
window, sneering with Charles Annesley, or laugh- 
ing downright with Lord Squib. 

The Dulve of St. James gave a water party, and 
the astounded Thames swelled with pride, as his 
broad breast bore on the ducal barges. St. Mau- 
rice, who was in the Guards, secured his band ; and 
Lord Squib, who, though it was July, brought a 
fuiTed great-coat, secured himself. Lady Afy 
looked like Amphitrite, and Lady Caroline looked 
— in love. They wandered in gardens like Calyp- 
so's; they rambled over a villa, which reminded 
them of Baiee ; they partook of a banquet which 
should have been described by Ariosto. All were 
delighted : they delivered themselves to the charms 
of an unrestrained gayety. Even Charles Annes- 
ley laughed and romped. 

This is, I think, the only mode in which public 
eating is essentially agreeable. A banqueting-hall 
is often the scene of exquisite pleasure ; but that is 
not so much excited by the gratificntion of the 
delicate palate, as by the magnificent effect of light 
and shade — by the beautiful women, the radiant 
jewels, the graceful costume, her rainbow glass, the 
glowing wines, the glorious plate. For the rest, 
all is too hot, too crowded, and too noisy to catch a 
flavour — to analyze a combination — to dwi;ll upon 
a gust. To eat — really to eat, one must cat alone, 
with a soft light, with simple furniture, an easy 
31 



dress, and a single dish — at a time. 0, hours that 
I have thus spent ! O, hours of virtue ! — for what 
is more virtuous than to be conscious of the bless- 
ings of a bountiful Nature ! A good eater must 
be a good man ; for a good eater must have a good 
digestion, and a good digestion depends upon a 
good conscience. After having committed many 
follies, and tasted many dishes, but never with the 
intention of doing a bad action, of eating a bad jo/c,', 
I give to the world this result of all philosophy, and 
present them with a great truth. 

But to our tale. If I be dull, — skip : time will 
fly, and beautj' will fade, and wit grow dull, and 
even the season, although it seems for the nonce like 
the existence of Olympus, will, nevertheless, steal 
away. It is the liour when trade grows dull, and 
tradesmen grow duller : — it is the hour that Howell 
loveth not, and Stultz cannot abide ; though the first 
may be consoled by the ghost of his departed mil- 
hons of niouchoirs — and the second, by the vision of 
coming millions of shooting-jackets. O, why that 
sigh, my gloomy Mr. Gunter! O, v^•hy that Irown, 
my gentle Mrs. Grange ! 

One by one the great houses shut: — shoal by 
shoal the little people sail away. Yet beauty Imgcrs 
still. Still the magnet of a straggling ball attracts 
the remauiing brilliants ; still, a lagging dmncr, lOce 
a sumpter-mule on a march, is a mark for plunder. 
The park, too, is not yet empty, and perhaps is even 
more fasciiiatuig — hlie a beauty in a consumption, 
who each day gets riimncr and more fair. The 
young duke remamcd to the last — for we linger 
about our first seasons, as we do about our first mis- 
tress, rather weaiied, yet full of delightful reminis- 
cences. 



BOOK THE SECOND. 



CHAPTER L 

Ladt Apiirodite and the Duke of St. James 
were for the lh\st time parted ; and with an absolute 
belief on the lady's side, and an avowed conviction 
on the gentleman's, that it was impossible to live 
asunder, they broke from each other's arms, her la- 
dyship shedding some temporary tears, and his gi'ace 
avowing eternal fidelity. 

It was the crafty Lord Fitz-pompey who brought 
about this catastrophe. Having secured his nephew 
as a visiter to Maltlirope, by allowing him to believe 
that the Graftons would form part of the summer 
coterie, his lordship took especial care that poor Lady 
Aphrodite should not be invited. " Once part them, 
once get him to Maltlirope alone," mused the expe- 
rienced peer, " and he will be emancipated. I am 
doing him, too, the greatest khidness. What would 
I have given, when a yomig man, to have had such 
an uncle !" 

The Morning Post announced, with a sigh, the 
departure of the Duke of St. James to the splendid 
festivities of Malthrope : and also apprised the world 
that Sir Lucas and Lady Aphrodite were entertaui- 
ing a numerous and distinguished party at their scat, 
Cleve Park, Cambridgeshire. 

There v.tis a constant bustle kept up at Malthrope, 
and the young duke was hourly permitted to observe, 
that, independent of all private feeling, it was impcs 
sible for the most distinguished nobleman to ally 



242 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



himself with a more considered family. There was 
a continual swell of guests, dashing down, and d;ish- 
ing away like the ocean — brilliant as its fo;im, 
numerous as its waves. But there was one perma- 
nent inliabitaut of this princely mansion far more 
interesting to our hero than the evanescent crowds 
who rose lilce bubbles, glittered, broke, and disap- 
peared. 

Once more wandering in that park of Malthrope, 
where had passed the most innocent days of his boy- 
hood, his dionghts naturally recurred to tiie sweet 
companion who had made even those homs of hap- 
piness more felicitous. Here they had rambled, — 
here they had first tried their ponies, — there they 
had nearly fallen, — there he had quite saved her, — 
hei-e were tlie two veiy elms where St. Maurice made 
for them a swing, — here was the very keeper's cot- 
tage of which she had made for him a drawing, and 
which he still retained. Dear girl ! And had she 
disappointed the romance of his boyhood, — had the 
experience, the want of wliich had allowed him then 
to l>e pleased so early, had it taught him to be 
ashamed of those days of affection 7 W;is she not 
now the most gentle, the most gi-aceful, the most beau- 
tiful, the most kind 1 Was she not the most vvifelike 
woman whose eyes had ever beamed with tenderness ? 
Why, why not at once close a career which, though 
short, yet already could yield reminiscences v,'hich 
might satisfy the most ci-aving admirer of excitement ? 
But there was Lady Aphrodite; yet that must end. 
Alas ! on his part, it had commenced in levit\' ; he 
feared, on hers, it must terminate in an.guish. Yet, 
though he loved Caroline, — though he could not 
recall to his memory the woman who was more 
worthy of being his wife, he could not also conceal 
from lumself that the feelmgs which impelled him 
were hardly so romantic as he though) shovdd have 
inspired a youth of one-and-twenty, when he mused 
on the woman he loved best. But he knew life, 
and he felt convinced that a mistress and a wife 
must always be two diSTerent characters. A com- 
bination of passion v/ith present respect and perma- 
nent affection he supposed to be the delusion of 
romance writers. He thought he must marry Ca- 
roline, partly because he had never met a woman 
whom he had loved so much, and partly because he 
felt he should be miserable if her destiny in life 
were not, in some way or other, connected witli liis 
own. " Ah ! if she had but been my sister !" 

After a little more cogitation, the young dnke felt 
very much inclined to make his cousin a dutchess ; 
but time did not press. After Doncastcr, he must 
spend a few weelcs at Clcvc, and then he determined 
to come to an explanation with Lady Aphrodite. In 
the mean time. Lord Fitz-pompey secretly congi'atu- 
lated himself on his skilful policy, as he perceived 
his nephew daily more engrossed with his daughter. 
Lady Caroline, like all unaffected and accomplished 
women, was seen to great effect in the countrj'. 
Tliere, where they feed their birds, tend their (low- 
ers, and tune tlieir hai-p, and perform those more 
sacred but not less pleasing duties which become 
the daughter of a great proprietor, they favourably 
contrast with those more modish damsels, who, the 
moment they are freed from the park, and from 
Willis, begin fighting for silver arrows, and patron- 
ising county balls. 

September came, and brought some relief to those 
who were suffering in the inferno of provincial 
tnnui ; but this is only the purgatory to the para- 
dise of Battus. Yet September has its days of 



slaughter; and the young duke gained some laurels, 
with the aid of friend Egg, friend Purdy, and Man- 
ton. And the premier galloped down sixty miles in 
one morning. He sacked his cover, made a light 
bet with St. James on the favourite, lunched stand- 
ing, and was off before night; for he had only three 
days' holiday, and had to visit Lord Protest, Lord 
Content, and Ijord Proxy. So, having knocked off 
four of liis crack peers, he galloped back to London 
to flog up his secretaries. 

And the young duke was off too. He had 
promised to spend a week vi'ith Charles Annesley 
and Lord S(|uib, who had talcen some Norfolk 
baron's seat for the summer, and while he was at 
Spa were thinning his preserves. It ivas a week ! 
What fuitastic dissipation ! One day, the brains 
of three hundred hart^s made a jiaie for Charles 
Annesley. O, Heliogabalus ! you gained eternal 
fame for what is now " done in a corner !" 



CHAPTER II. 

The carnival of the north at length arrivetl. All 
civilized eyes were on the most distinguished party 
of the most distinguished steward, who, with his 
horse, Sanspareil, seemed to share universal favour. 
The French prmces, and the Duke of Burlington ; 
the Protocolis, and the Fitz-pompeys, and the 
Bloomerlies ; the Duke and Dutchess of Shropshire, 
and the three Ladies Wrekin, who might have 
passed for graces ; Ijord and Lady Vatican on a ^dsit 
from Rome, his lordship taking hints for a heat in 
the Corso, and her ladysliip a classical beauty, witli 
a face like a cameo; St. Maurice, and Aimesley, and 
Sqriib, — composed the party. The premier was 
expected, and there was murmur of an archduke. 
Seven houses had been prepared, — a party-wall 
knocked down to make a dining-room, — the plate 
sent down from London, and venison and wine from 
Hauteville. 

The assemblage exceeded in quantity and qualify 
all preceding years, and the Hauteville arms, the 
Hauteville liveries, and the Hauteville outriders, 
beat all hollow in blazonry, and brilliancy, and num- 
ber. The north countrymen were proud of their 
young duke and liis six carriages and six, and longed 
for the castle to be finished. Nothing could exceed 
the propriety of the arrangements, for Sir Lucas 
was an unrivalled hand, and though a Newmarket 
man, gained universal approbation even in York- 
shire. Lady Aphrodite was all smiles and new 
liveries, and the Duke of St. James reined in his 
charger right often at her splendid equipage. 

The day's sport was over, and the evenmg's sport 
begun, — to a quiet man, vA\o has no bet more heavy 
than a dozen pair of gloves, perhaps not the least 
amusing. Now came the numerous dinner-parties, 
none to be compared to that of the Dulce of St. 
James, Lady Aphrodite was alone wanting, but 
she had to head the incnage of Sir Lucius. Every 
one has an appetite after a race ; the Duke »f Shrop- 
shire attacked the venison, like Samson the Philis- 
tines ; and the French princes, for once in their life, 
drank real Champagne. 

Yet all faces were not so serene as those of the 
par(y of Hauteville. Many a one felt that strange 
mixture of fear and exultation which precedes a 
battle. To-morrow v/as the dreaded St. Leger. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



243 



None indeed had bac':ed his horse with more fer- 
vour tlian the j-oung duke; but, proud in his steed's 
blood and favour, his own sanguine temper, and his 
inexhaustible resources, he cared no more for the 
result than a candidate for a coiuity who has a 
borough in reserve. 

'Tis night, and the banquet is over, and all ai-e 
hastening to the ball. 

In spite of the brilliant crowd, the entrance of the 
Hauteville party made a sensation. It was the 
crowning ornament of the scene, — the stamp of the 
sovereign, — the lamp of the Pharos, the flag of the 
tower. The party dispersed, and the duke, after 
joinmg a quadrille with Lady Caroline, wandered 
away to make himself generally popular. 

As he was moving along, he turned his head ; — 
he started. 

" Gracious heavens !" exclaimed his grace. 
The cause of this sudden and ungovernable 
exclamation can be no other than a woman. You 
are right. The lady who had excited it was ad- 
vancing in a quadrille, some ten yards from her 
admirer. She was very young, that is to say, she 
had, perhaps, added a year or two to sweet seven- 
teen, an addition which, while it does not deprive 
the sex of the early grace of girlhood, adorns them 
with that undefmable dignity which is necessary 
to constitute a perfect woman. She was not tall, 
but as she moved forward displayed a figure so 
exquisitely symmetrical, that for a moment the 
duke forgot to look at her face, and then her head 
was turned away ; yet he was consoled a moment 
for his disappointment by watching the movements 
of a neck so white, and round, and long, and deli- 
cate, that it would have become Psyche, and might 
have inspired Praxiteles. Her face is again turned 
towards him. It stops too soon, yet his eye feeds 
upon the outhne of a cheek not too full, yet pro- 
mising of beaut)', like hope of paradise. 

She turns her head, she throws around a glance, 
and two streams of liquid light pour from her hazel 
eyes on his. It was a rapid, graceful movement, 
unstudied as the motion of a fawn, and was in a 
moment withdrawn, yet it v.as long enough to 
stamp upon his memory a memorable countenance. 
Her face was quite oval, her nose delicately aqui- 
line, and her high pure forehead like a Parian dome. 
The clear blood coursed under her transparent 
cheek, and increased the brilliaucy of her dazzling 
eyes. His eye never left her. There was an 
expression of decision about her small mouth — an 
air of almost mockery in her thin curling lip, 
which, though in themselves wildly fiiscinating, 
strangely contrasted with all the beaming light 
and beneficent lustre of the upper part of her 
countenance. There was something, too, in the 
graceful but rather decided air with which she 
moved — something even in the way in which she 
shook her handkerchief, or nodded to a distant 
friend, which seemed to betoken her self-conscious- 
ness of her beauty or her rank : perhaps it might 
be her wit ; for the duke observed, that while she 
scarcely smiled, and conversed with lips hardly 
parted, her companion, with whom she was evi- 
dently very intimate, was almost convulsed with 
laughter, although, as he never spoke, it was clearly 
not at his own jokes. 

Was she married 1 Could it be 1 Impossible ! 
Yet there was a richness — a regality in her cos- 
tume, which was not usual for unniarried women. 
A diamond arrow had pierced her clustering and 



auburn locks ; she wore, indeed, no necklace — 
(with such a neck it would have been sacrilege) 
— no ear-rings, for her ears were, literally, too 
small for such a burthen ; yet her girdle was en- 
tirely of brilliants ; and a diamond cross, worthy 
of Belinda and her immortal bard, hung upon her 
breast. 

The duke seized hold of the first person he 
knew : — it was Lord Bagshot. 

" Tell me," he said, in the stern, low voice of a 
despot, " tell me who that creature is ]" 
" Which creature?" asked Lord Bagshot. 
" Booby ! brute ! Bag, — that creature of light 
and love !" 
" Where ?" 
"There!" 

" What, my mother V 

" Your mother ! cub ! cart-horse ! answer me, 
or I Vf\\\ run you through." 
" Who do you mean ]" 

"There, there, dancing with that rawboned 
youth with red hair." 

" What, Lord St. Jerome ! lord ! he is a Catho- 
lic. I never speak to them. My governor would 
be so savage." 

" But the girl, the girl !" 
" O I the girl ! lord I she is a Catholic too." 
" But who is she 1" 
" Lord ! don't you know 1" 
" Speak, hound — speak !" 

"Lord! that is the beauty of the county; but 
then she is a Catholic. How shocking ! Blow us 
all up, as soon as look at us." 

" If you do not tell me who she is directly, you 
shall never get into White's. I will blackball you 
regularly." 

" Lord ! man, don't be in a passion. I will tell. 
But then I know you know all the time. You 
are joking. Everybody knows the beauty of the 
county — evcA'body knows May Dacre." 

" May Dacre !" said the Duke of St. James, as 
if he were shot. 

" Why, what is the matter now V asked Lord 
Bagshot. 

" What, the daughter of Dacre of Castle Dacre!" 
pursued his grace. 

" The very same ; the beauty of the county. 
Everybody knows May Dacre. I knew you knew 
her all the time. You did not take me in- Why, 
what is the matter 1" 
" Nothing ; get away !" 

" Civil ! But you will remember your promise 
about White's 1" 

" Ay! ay ! I shall remember you, when you are 
proposed." 

" Here — here is a business !" soliloquized the 
young duke. " May Dacre ! What a fool I have 
been ! Shall I shoot myself through the head, or 
embrace her on the spot 1 Lord St. Jerome too ! 
He seems I'ightily pleased. And my family have 
been voting for two centuries to eiriancipate this 
fellow ! Curse his grinning face ! I am decidedly 
anti-Catholic. But then she is a Catholic! I 
will turn papist. Ah ! there is Lucy. I want a 
counsellor." 

He turned to his fcllovv-steward — " ! Lucy, 
such a woman ! such an incident !" 

"What! the inimitable Miss Dacre, I suppose 
— Everybody speaking of her— wherever I go, — 
one subject of conversation. Burlington wanting 
to waltz with her, Charles Annesjey being intro- 



S44 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



dviceJ, and Lady Bloomerly decidedly of opinion 
tiiat she is the finest creature in the county. Well ! 
have you danced with her !" 

" Danced, my dear fellow ! Do not speak to 
me !" 

" What is the matter 1" 

" The most diabolical matter that you ever heard 
of." 

" Well, well !" 

" I have not even been introduced." 

" Well ! come on at once. 

" I cannot." 

"Are you mad 1" 

" Worse than mad. Where is her father 1" 

" Who cares?" 

" I do. Li a word, my dear Lucy, her father is 
that guardian, whom I have perhaps mentioned to 
you, and to whom I have behaved so delicately." 

" Why ! I thought your guardian was an old 
curmudgeon." 

" What does that signify, with such a daughter!" 

" ! here is some mistake. This is the only 
child of Dacre, of Castle Dacre, a most delightful 
fellow. One of the first fellows in the county — I 
was introduced to him to-day on the course. — I 
thought you knew them. — You were admiring his 
outriders to-day — the green and silver." 

" Why, Bag told me they were old Lord Sun- 
derland's." 

" Bag ! how can you believe a word of that 
booby] He always has an answer. To-day, 
when Afy drove in, I asked Bag who she was, and 
he said it was his aunt. Lady de Courcy. I begged 
to be introduced, and took over the blushing Bag 
and presented him." 

" But the father — the father, Lucy ! — how shall 
I get out of this scrape V 

" ! put on a bold face. Here ! give him this 
ring, and swear you procured it for him at Genoa, 
and then say, that now you are here you will try 
his pheasants." 

" My dear fellow, you always joke. I am m 
agony. Seriously, what shall I do 1" 

" Why, seriously, be introduced to liira, and do 
what you can." 

"Which is he?" 

" At the extreme end, next to the very pretty 
v.'oman, who, hy-the-by, I recommend to your no- 
tice, Mrs. Dallington Verc. She is very amusing. 
I know her well. She is some sort of relation to 
}-our Dacres. I will present you to both at once." 
'. " Why, I will think of it." • 

" Well, then ! I must away. The two stewards 
kr.ocking their heads together is rather out of 
character. Do you know it is raining hard? I 
am cursedly nervous about to-morrow." 

" Pooh ! pooh! If I could get through to-night, 
I sliould not care for to-morrow." 



CHAPTER ni. 

As Sir Lucius hurried off, his colleague advanc- 
ed towards the upper end of the room, and taking 
up a position, made his observations, through the 
shootrng figures of the dancers, on the dreaded Mr. 
Dacre. 

The late guardian of the Duke of St. James 
was in the perfection of manhood ; perhaps five-and- 



forty by age ; but his youttiliad lingered long. He 
was tall, thin, and elegant, with a mild and bene- 
volent expression of countenance, not unmixed, 
however, with a little reserve, the ghost of youthly 
pride. Listening with the most polished and 
courtly bearing to the pretty Mrs. Dallington Vere, 
assenting occasionally to her piquant obsei-vations 
by a slight bow, or expressing his dissent by a still 
slighter smile, seldom himself speaking, yet alwa^'s 
with that unembarrassed manner which makes a 
saying listened to, Mr. Dacre was altogether, in 
appearance, one of the most distinguished person- 
ages in this distinguished assembly. The young 
duke fell into an attitude worthy of Hamlet — 
" This, then, is old Dacre ! O, deceitful Fitz-pom- 
pey ! O, silly St. James ! Could I ever forget that 
tall, mild man, who now is perfectly fresh in my 
memory ? Ah ! that memory of mine — it has 
been greatly developed to-night. Would that I 
had cultivated that faculty with a little more zeal ! 
But what am I to do ? The case is urgent. What 
must the Dacres think of me ? What must May 
Dacre think ? On the course the whole day, and 
I the steward, and not conscious of the family in 
the Riding ! Fool ! fool ! Why — why did I ac- 
cept an office for which I was totally unfitted ? 
Why — why must I flirt away the whole morning 
with that silly Sophy Wrekin? An agreeable 
predicament, truly, this ! What would I give now, 
once more to be at the bow-window ! Confound 
my Yorkshire estates ! How they must dislike — 
how they must despise me ! And now truly I am 
to be introduced to him ! The Duke of St. James 
— Mr. Dacre ! Mr. Dacre — the Duke of St. James ! 
What an insult to all parties ! How supremely 
ludicrous! What a mode of offering my grati- 
tude to the man to whom I am imder the most 
solemn and inconceivable obligations ! A choice 
way, truly, to salute the bosom-friend of my sire, 
the guardian of my interests, the creator of my 
property, the fosterer of my orphan infancy ! It 
is useless to conceal it ; lam placed in the most 
disagreeable, the most inextricable situation. 

"Inextricable! Am I, then, the Duke of St. 
James, — am I that being who, two hours ago, 
thought that the world was forfned alone for my 
enjoyment, and I quiver and shrink here like 
a common hind ? — Out — out on such craven 
cowardice ! I am no Hauteville ! I am bastard ! 
Never ! I will not be crushed ! I will struggle 
with this emergency, I will conquer it. Now aid 
me, ye heroes of my house ! On the sands of 
Palestine, on the plains of France, ye were not 
in a more diflicult situation than is your descend- 
ant in a ball-room in his own county. My mind 
elevates itself to the occasion, — my courage ex- 
pands with the enterprise, — I will right myself 
with these Dacres with honour, and without 
humiliation." 

The dancing ceased — the dancers disappeared. 
There was a blank between the Duke of St. James, 
on one side of the broad room, and Mr. Dacre, 
and those with whom he vi-as conversing, on 
the other. Many eyes were on his grace, and he 
seized the opportunity to execute his purpose. He 
advanced across the chamber with the air of a 
young monarch greeting a victorious general. It 
seemed that, for a moment, his majesty wished to 
destroy all difference of rank between himself and 
the man that he honoured. So studied, and so 
inexpressively graceful were his movements, that 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



245 



the gaze of all around involuntarily fixed upon 
him. Mrs. Dallington Verc unconsciously re- 
frained from speaking? as he approached ; and one 
or two, without actually knowing his purpose, 
made way. They seemed positively awed by his 
dignity, and shuffled behind Mr. Dacre, as if he 
v/ere the only person who was the duke's match. 
' " Mr. Dacre," said his grace, in the softest, but 
in vciy audiMe tones; and he extended, at the 
same time, his hand — "Mr. Dacre, our first meeting 
should have been neither here nor thus ; but 
you, who have excused so much, will pardon also 
this !" 

Mr. Dacre, though a calm personage, was sur- 
prised by this sudden address. He could not doubt 
who was the speaker. He had left his ward a 
mere child. He saw before him the exact and 
breathing image of the heart-fiiend of his ancient 
days. He forgot all but the memory of a cherished 
friendship. He was greatly affected ; he pressed 
the offered hand ; he advanced ; he moved aside. 
The young duke followed up his advantage, and, 
■with an air of the greatest afi'ection, placed Mr. 
Dacre's arm in his own, and then bore oti" his 
prize in triumph. 

Right skilfully did our hero avail himself of his 
advantage. He spoke, and he spoke with emotion. 
There is something inexpressively captivating in 
the contrition of a youthful and a generous mind. 
Mr. Dacre and his late ward soon understood each 
other — for it was one of those meetings which sen- 
timent makes sweet. 

" And now," said his grace, " I have one more 
favour to ask, and that is the greatest — I wish to be 
recalled to the recollection of my oldest friend." 

Mr. Dacre led the duke to his daughter; and 
the Earl of St. Jerome, who was still laughing at 
her side, rose. 

" The Duke of St. James, May, wishes to renew 
his acquaintance with you." 

She bowed in silence. Lord St. Jerome, who 
was the great oracle of the Yorkshire school, and 
who had betted desperately against the favourite, 
took Mr. Dacre aside to consult him about the rain, 
and the Duke of St. James dropped into his chair. 
That tongue, however, which had never failed him, 
for once was wanting. There was a momentary 
silence, which the lady would not break ; and at 
last her companion broke it, and not felicitously. 

" I think there is nothing more delightful than 
meeting with old friends." 

" Yes ! that is the usual sentiment ; but I half 
suspect that it is a comrnonplace, invented to cover 
our embarrassment under such circumstances ; for, 
after all, ' an old friend' so situated is a person 
whom v.'e have not seen for many years, and most 
probably not cared to see." 

" You are indeed severe." 

" O ! no. I think there is nothing more painful 
than parting with old friends ; but when we have 
parted with them, I am half afraid they are lost." 

" Absence, then, with you is fatal !" 

"Really, I never did part with any one I greatly 
loved ; but I suppose it is with me as with most 
persons." 

" Yet you have resided abroad, and for many 
years 1" 

" Yes ; but I was too young then to have many 
friends; and, in fact, 1 accompanied perhaps all 
that I possessed." 



" How I regret that it was not in my power to 
accept youi- kind invitation to Dacre in the 
spring !" 

" O ! My father would have been ver}^ glad to 
see you ; but we really are dull kind of people, not 
at all in your way,-r-4nd I really do not think that 
you lost much amusement." 

" What better amusement — what more interest- 
ing occupation could I have had than to visit the 
place where I passed my earliest and happiest 
hours? 'Tis nearly fifteen vears since I was at 
Dacre." 

" Except when you visited us at Easter. We 
regretted our loss." 

" Ah ! yes ! except that," exclaimed the duke, 
remembering his jager's call ; " but that goes for 
nothing. I of course saw very little." 

" Yet, I assure you, you made a great impression. 
So eminent a personage of course observes less than 
he is himself observed. We had a most graphical 
description of you on our return, and a very ac- 
curate one too, — for I recognised your grace to-night 
merely from the report of your visit." 

The duke shot a shrewd glance at his com- 
panion's face, but it betrayed no indication of 
badinage, and so, rather puzzled, he thought it best 
to put up with the parallel between himself and his 
servant. But Miss Dacre did not quit this agree- 
able subject with all that promptitude which he 
fondly anticipated. 

"Poor Lord St. Jerome," said she, "who is 
really the most unatfccted person I know, has been 
complaining most bitterly of his deficiency in the 
air noble. He is mistaken for a groom perpetu- 
ally ; — and once, he says, had a douceur presented 
to him in his character of an ostler. Your grace 
must be proud of your advantage over his lordship. 
You would have been greatly gratified by the uni- 
versal panegyric of our household. They, of 
course, you knpw, are proud of their young duke, 
a real Yorkshire duke, and they love to dwell upon 
your truly imposing appearance. As for myself, 
who am true Yorkshire also, I take the most hon- 
est pride in hearing them describe your elegant at- 
titude, leanihg back in your britchska, with your 
feet on the opposite cushions, your hat cocked 
aside with that air of undefinable grace character- 
istic of the grand seigneur, and, which is the last 
remnant of the feudal system, your reiterated orders 
to drive over an old woman. You did not even 
condescend to speak EngUsh, which made them 
quite — enthusiastic." 

" ! MLss Dacre, — spare me, spare mii !" 

" Spare j'ou ! I have heard of your grace's 
modesty ; but this excessive sensibility, under well- 
earned praise, does indeed surprise me !" 

"But. Miss Dacre, you cannot, indeed, really 
believe that this vulgar ruffian, this grim scarecrow 
this Guy Faux, was — was — myself." 

"Not yourself! Really I am a simple person 
age. I believe in my eyes, and trust to my ears. 
I am at loss for your grace's meaning." 

" I mean, then," said his grace, who had gained 
time to rally, "that this monster was some impos- 
tor, who must have stolen my carriage, picked my 
pocket, and robbed my card, which, next to his 
reputation, is a man's most delicate possession." 

" Then you never called upon us ?" 

" I blush to confess it — never ; but I will call, in 
fixture, every day." 

x2 



246 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Your grace's ingenuousness really rivals your 
modesty." 

" Now, after these confessions and compliments, 
I suggest a waltz." 

"No one is waltzing now." 

" When the quadrille, then, is finished]" 

" Then I am engagetl." 

"After your engagement 1" 

" O, impossible ! 'J'hat is indeed making a busi- 
ness of pleasure. I have just refused a similar 
request of your fellow-steward. We damsels shall 
soon be obliged to carry a book to enrol our en- 
gagements as well as our bets, if this system of 
reversionary dancing be any longer encouraged." 

" But you must dance with me !" said the duke, 
imploringly. 

" O ! you will stumble upon me in the course of 
the evening, and I shall probably be more fortu- 
nate. L suppose you feci nervous about to-mor- 
row V 

" 0, no ! not at all." 

" Ah ! I forgot. Your grace's horse is the fa- 
vourite. Favourites always win." 

" Have I a horse ]" 

" Why, Lord St. Jerome says he doubts whether 
it be one.'' 

" Lord St. Jerome seems a vastly amusing per- 
sonage ; and, as he is so often taken for an ostler, 
I have no doubt, is an exceedingly good judge of 
horseflesh." 

Miss Dacre smiled. It was that wild, but rather 
wicked gleam which soiaietimes accompanies the 
indulgence of a little innocent malice. It seemed 
to insinuate, " I know you are piqued, and I enjoy 
it." But here her hand was claimed for the waltz. 

The young duke remained musing, 

"There she swims away! By heavens! iniri- 
valled ! And there is Lady Afy and Burlington, 
— grand, too. Yet there is something in this Ik- 
t!e Dacre wnich touches my fancy more. What is 
it ? I think it is her impudence. That confound- 
ed scrape of Carlstein ! I will cashier him to- 
morrow. Confound his airs ! I think I got out 
of it pretty well. To-night, on the whole, has 
l>een a night of triumph ; but if I do not waltz with 
the little Dacre, I will only vote myself an ovation. 
But see, here comes Sir Lucius. Well ! how 
fares my brother consul 1" 

" I do not like this rain. I have been hedging 
with Hounslow, having previously set Bag at his 
worthy sire with a little information. We shall 
have a perfect swamp, and then it will be strength 
against speed — the old story. Damn tlie St. 
Leger ! I am sick of it." 

" Pooh ! pooh ! think of the little Dacre !'' 

" Think of her, my dear fellow ! I think of 
her too much. I should absolutely have diddled 
Hounslow, if it had not been for lier confounded 
pretty face flitting about my stupid brain. I saw 
you speaking to Guardy, You managed that 
business well." 

" Why, as I do all things, I flatter myself, Lucy. 
Do you know Lord St. Jerome?" 

•' Verbally. We have exchanged monosylla- 
Dles, — but he is of the other set." 

" He is cursedly familiar with the little Dacre. 
As the friend of her father, I think I shall inter- 
fere. Is there any thing in it, think you V* 

" O ! no, — she is engaged to another." 

" Engaged !" said the duke, absolutely turning 
pile. j 



" Do you remember a Dacre at Eton T 

" A Dacre at Eton !" mused the duke. At an- 
other time it would not have been in his povi'er 
to have recalled the stranger to his memory, but 
this evening the train of association had been laid, 
and after struggling a moment with his mind, he 
had the man. " To be sure I do : Arundel 
Dacre — an odd sort of a fellow ; but he was my 
senior." 

" Well, that is the man — a nephew of Guardy, 
and cousin, of course, to La Belissima. He inhe- 
rits, you know, all the propert}'. She will not have 
a sous; but old Dacre, as you call him, has ma- 
naged pretty well, and Monsieur Arundel is to com- 
pensate for the entail by presenting him with a 
grandson." 

" The dense !" 

" The dense, indeed ! Often have I broken his 
head. Would that I had to a little more purpose ?" 

" Let us do it now !" 

" He is not here, otherwise — One dislikes a 
spoony to be successful." 

" Where are our friends 1" 

" Annesley with the dutchcss, and Squib with 
the duke at ccartc." 

" Success attend them both !" 

" Amen !" 



CHAPTER IV. 

To feel that the possessions of an illustrious an- 
cestry are about to slide from out your line for- 
ever ; that the numei'ous tenantry, who look up to 
you with the confiding eye that the most lilicral 
parvenu cannot attract, will not count you among 
their lorils ; that the proud park, filled with the an- 
cient and toppling trees that your fathers planted, 
will yield neither its glory nor its treasures to your 
seed ; and that the old galleiy, whose walls are 
hung with pictures more cherished than the collec- 
tions of kings, will not breathe with your long pos- 
terity — all these are feelings very sad and very 
trying, and arc among those daily pangs which 
moralists have forgotten in their catalogue of mis- 
eries, but which do not the less wear out those 
heartstrings, at which they are so constantly tug- 
ging. 

'i'his was the situation of Mr. Dacre. The 
whole of his immense property was entailed, and 
descended to his nephew, who was a Protestant ; 
and yet, when he looked upon the blooming face of 
his enchanting daughter, he blessed the Providence 
which, after all his visitations, had doomed him to 
be the sire of a thing so lovely. 

An exile from her country at an early age, the 
education of May Dacre had been coiiipleted in a 
foreign land; yet the mingling bloods of Dacre and 
of Howard would not in a moment have permitted 
her to forget 

" The inviolale island of the brave and free !" 

even if the unceasing and ever-watchful exertions 
•flier fither had been wanting to make her worthy 
of so illustrious an ancestry. 

But this, happily, was not the case ; and to aid 
the developement of the infant mind of his young 
child, to pour forth to her, as she grew in years 
and in reason, all the fruits of his own richly ml- 
tivated intellect, was the solitary consolation of ono, 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



247 



over whose conscious head was impending the 
most awful of visitations. May Dacre was gifted 
with a mind which, even if her tutor had not been 
her father, would have rendered tuition a deUght. 
Her Uvcly imagination, which early unfolded itself; 
her dangerous yet interesting vivacity; the keen 
delight, the swift enthusiasm with which she drank 
in knowledge, and then panted for more ; her 
shrewd aeuteness, and her innate passion for the 
excellent and the beautiful, fdlcd her father with 
lapture which he repressed, and made him feel con- 
scious how much there was to check, to guide, and 
to form, as well as to cherish, to admire, and to 
applaud. 

As she grew up, the bright parts of her cliaracter 
shone with increased lustre ; but, in spite of the 
exertions of her instructer, some less admirable 
qualities had not yet disappeared. She was still 
too often the dupe of her imagination, and though 
perfectly inexperienced, her confidence in her 
theoretical knowledge of human nature was un- 
bounded. Slie had an idea that she could pene- 
trate the characters of individuals at a first meet- 
ing ; and the consequence of thus fatal axjom was, 
tliat slie was always the slave of first impressions, 
and constantly the victim of prejudice. She was 
ever thinking individuals better or worse than they 
really were ; and she believed it to be out of the 
power of any one to deceive her. Constant attend- 
ance during many years on a dying and beloved 
mother, and her deeply religious feelings, had first 
broken, and then controlled, a spirit which nature 
had intended to be arrogant and haughty. Her 
father she adored ; and slie seemed to devote to 
him all that consideration which, with more com- 
mon characters, is generally distributed among 
tlieir acquaintance. 

I hint at her faults. How shall I describe her 
virtues ] Her unbounded generosity — her dig- 
nified simplicity — her graceful frankness — her true 
nobility of thought and feeling — her firmness — her 
courage and her truth — her kindness to her in- 
feriors — her constant charity — her devotion to her 
parents — her sympathy with sorrow — her detesta- 
tion of oppression — her pure unsullied thoughts — 
her delicate taste — her deep religion. All these 
combined would have formed a delightful character, 
even if unaccompanied with such brilliant talents 
and such brilliant beauty. Accustomed from an 
early age to the converse of courts, and the forms 
of the most polished circles, her manner became 
her blood, her beauty, and her miud. Yet she 
rather acted in unison with the spirit of society, 
than obeyed its minutest decree. She violated 
etiquette with a wilful grace, which made the out- 
rage a precedent, and she mingled with princes 
without feeling her inferiority. Nature, and art, 
and fortune were the graces who had combined 
to form this girl. She was a jewel set in gold and 
worn by a king. 

Hej- creed had made her, in ancient Christendom, 
feel less an alien ; but when she returned to that 
native country which she had never forgotten, she 
found that creed her degradation. Her indignant 
spirit clung with renewed ardour to the crushed 
altars of her faith ; and not before those proud 
shrines where cardinals ofliiciate, and a thousand 
acolytes fling their censers, had she bowed with 
half the abandonment of spirit with which she in- 
voked the Virgin in her oratory at Dacre. 

The recent death of her mother rendered Mr. 



Dacre and herself little inclined to enter into 
society ; and as they were both desirous of residing 
on that estate from which they had been so long and 
so unwillingly absent, they had not yet visited Lon- 
don. The greater part of their time had been passed 
chiefly in communication with those great Catho 
lie families with whom the Dacrcs were allied, 
and to which they belonged. The modern race of 
the Howards, and the Clilfords, the Talbuts, tlie 
Arundels, and the Jerninghams, were not unworthy 
of their proud progenitors. Miss Dacre observed 
with respect, and assuredly with sympathy, the 
mild dignity, the noble patience, the proud humi- 
lity, the calm hope, the uncompromising courage, 
with which her father and his friends sustained 
their oppression and lived as proscribed in the 
realm which they had created. Yet her lively 
fancy and gay spirit found less to admire in the 
feelings which infiuenccd those families in their 
intercourse with the world, wtiich induced them to 
foster but slight intimacies out of the pale of the 
proscribed, and wliich tinged their dum.estic life 
with that formal and gloomy colouring which ever 
accompanies a monotonous existence. Her dis- 
position ^old her, that all this aft'ected non-interfe- 
rence with the business of society might be politic, 
but assuredly was not pleasant ; her quick sense 
whispered to her it was unwise, and that it retard- 
ed, not advanced, the great result in v/hich her 
sanguine temper dared often to indulge. Under 
any circumstances, it did not appear to her to be 
wisdom to second the eflbrts of their oppressors 
for their degradation or their misery, and to seek 
no consolation in the amiable feelings of their 
fellow-creatures, for the stern rigour of their un- 
social government. But, independent of all general 
principles, ]\Iiss Dacre could not but beheve that it 
was the duty of the Catholic gentry to mix more 
with that world which so misconceived their spirit. 
Proud in her conscious knowledge of their exalted 
virtues, she felt that they had only to be known to 
be recognised as the worthy leaders of that nation 
which they had so often saved, and never betrayed. 

She did not conceal her opinions from the circle 
in which they had grown up. All the young 
memlwrs were her disciples, and were decidedly 
of opinion, that if the House of Lords would hut 
listen to May Dacre, emancipation would be a 
settled thing. Her logic would have destroyed 
Lord Liverpool's arguments — her wit extinguished 
Lord Eldou's jokes. But the elder members only 
shed a sclemn smile, and blessed May Dacre's 
shining eyes and sanguine spirit. 

Her greatest supporter was Mrs. Dallington 
Vere. This lady was a distant relation of Mr. 
Dacre. At seventeen, she,, herself a Catholic, had 
married Mr. Dallington Vere, of Dallington House, 
a Catholic gentleman of considerable fortune, whose 
age resembled his wealth. No sooner had this in- 
cident taken place, than did Mrs. DaUington Vere 
dash up to London, and soon evinced a most laud- 
able determination to console herself for her hus- 
band's political disabilities. Mrs. Dallington Vere 
went to court ; and Mrs, Dallington Vere gave 
suppers after the opera, and concerts which, in 
number and in brilUancy, were only equalled by 
her lialls. The dandies patronised her, and select- 
ed her for their muse. The Duke of Shropshire 
betted on her always at ecarte; and, to crown the 
whole aflair, she made Mr. Dallington Vere lay 
claim to a dormant peerage. The women were 



248 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



all piqnc — the m?n all patronage. A Protestant' 
minister was alarmed : and Lord Squib supposed 
that Mrs. Dallinsfton must be the scarlet lady of 
whom they had heard so often. 

vScasoa after season she kept up tlie ball ; and 
although, of course, she no longer made an equal 
sensation, she was not less brilliant, nor her posi- 
tion less eminent. She had got into the best set, 
and was more quiet, like a patriot in place. 
Never was there a gay.er lady than Mrs. Dalliiigton 
Vere, but never a more prudent one. Her virtue 
was only equalled by her discretion ; but as the 
odds were e<iual. Lord Squib betted on the last. 
People sometimes indeed did say — they always 
will — but what is talk ] Mere breath. And re- 
j)utation is marble, and iron, and sometimes brass ; 
and so, you see, talk has no chance. They did 
say, that Sir Lucius Grafton was about to enter 
into the Romish communion ; but then it turned 
out that it was only to get a divorce from his wife. 
on the plea that she was a heretic. The fact was 
Mrs. Dallington Vere, was a most successful 
ViToman, lucky in every thing, lucky even in her 
husband — for he died. He did not only die. He 
left his whole fortune to his wife. Some said 
that his relations were going to set aside the will, 
on the plea that it was written with a crow quill 
on pink paper ; but this was false — it was only a 
codicil. 

All eyes were on a very pretty woman, with fif- 
teen thousand a year, and only twenty-three. The 
Duke of Shropshire wished he was disembarrassed. 
Such a player of cairte might double her income. 
Lord Raff advanced, trusting to his beard, and 
young Amadee de Roverie mortgaged his dressing- 
case, and came post from Paris ; but he was more 
particular about his ruffles than some other parts 
of his dress; and so, in spite of his sky-blue nether 
garments and his hcssians, he followed my lord's 
example, and recrosscd the water. It is even said 
that Lord Squib was sentimental ; but this must 
have been the malice of Charles Annesley. 

All, however, failed. The truth is, Mrs. Dal- 
lington Vere had nothing to gain by re-entering 
Paradise, which matrimony, of course, is ; and so 
she determined to remain mistress of herself. She 
had gained fashion, and fortune, and rank ; she was 
young, and she was pretty. She vhought it might 
be possible for a discreet, experionced little lady to 
lead a very pleasant life, without being assisted in 
her expenses, or disturbed in her diversion, by a 
gentleman who called himself her husband, occa- 
sionally asked her how she slept in a bed which he 
did not share, or munificently presented her with a 
necklace purchased with her own money. Discreet 
Mrs. Dallington Vere ! • 

She had been absent from London during the 
past season, having taken it also into her head to 
travel. She was equally admired and equally 
plotted for at Rome, at Paris, and at Vienna, as at 
London ; but the bird had not been caught, and, 
flying away, left many a despairing prince and 
amorous count to muse over their lean visages and 
meager incomes. 

Dallington House made its fair mistress a neigh- 
bour of her relations, the Dacres. No one could 
be a more fascinating companion than Mrs. Dal- 
lington Vere. May Dacre read her character at 
once, and these ladies became great allies. She was 
to assist Miss Dacre in her plans for rousing their 
('athoUc friends, as no one was better qualified to 



be her adjutant. Already they had commenced 
their o[)erations, and balls at Dallington and Dacre, 
frequent, splendid, and various, had already made 
the Catholic houses the most eminent in the Riding, 
and their brilliant mistresses the heroines of all the 
youth. 



CHAPTER V, 

It rained all night without ceasing: yet the 
morrow was serene. Nevertheless the odds haa 
shifted. On the evening, they had not been more 
than two to one against the first favourite, the 
Duke of St. James's ch. c. ^anspareil by Neplus 
Ultra ; while they were five to one against the 
second favourite, Mr. Dash's gr. c. the Dandy by 
Banker, and nine and ten to one against the next 
in favour. This morning, however, alfairs were 
alt<>red. Mr. Dash and his Dandy were at the head 
of the poll ; and as the owner rode his own horse, 
being a jockey and a fit rival for the Duke of St. 
.lames, his backers were SLUiguine. Sanspareil was, 
however, the second favourite. 

The duke, howeverj was confident as a universal 
conqueror, and came on in his usual state — rode 
round the course, — inspirited liady Aphrodite, who 
was all anxiety,--betted with Miss Dacre, and 
bowed to Mrs. Dallington. 

There were more than ninety horses, and yet the 
start was fair. But the result 1 Pardon me ! The 
fatal remembrance overpowers my pen. An efibrt 
and some eau de Portingale, and I shall recover. 
The first favourite was never heard of, the second 
favourite was never seen after the distance post, all 
the ten-to-oners were in the rear, and a dark horse, 
which had never been thought of, and which the 
careless St. James had never even observed in the 
list, rushed past the grand stand in sweeping tri- 
umph. The spectators were almost too surprised 
to cheer; but when the name of the winner was 
detected, there was a deafening shout, particularly 
from the Yorkshiremen. The victor was the Earl 
of St. Jerome's b.f. May Dacre by Howard. 

Conceive the confusion ! Saimparie/ was at last 
discovered, and immediately shipped off for New- 
market, as young gentlemen who get into scrapes 
are sent to travel. The Dukes of Burlington and 
Shropshire exchanged a few hundreds. The dutchess 
and Charles Annesley, a few gloves. The con- 
summate Lord Bloomcrly, though a backer of the 
favourite, in compliment to his host, contrived to 
receive from all parties, and particularly from St. 
Maurice. The sweet little Wrekins were absolutely 
ruined. Sir Lucius looked blue, but he had hedged ; 
and liOrd Squib looked yellow, but some doubted. 
Lord Hounslow was done, and Lord Bagshot was 
diddled. 

The Duke of St. James was perhaps the heaviest 
sufferer on the field, and certainly bore his losses 
the best. Had he seen the five-and-twcnty thou- 
sand he was minus counted before him, he probably 
would have been staggered ; but as it was, another 
crumb of his half million was gone. The loss 
existed only in idea. It was really too trifling to 
think of, and he galloped up to May Dacre, and 
was among the warmest of her congratulators. 

'• I would oiler your grace my sympathy for your 
congratulations," said Miss Dacre, in a rather 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



249 



amiable* tone, "but" — and here she resumed her 
usual air of mockery, — " you are too great a man 
to be affected by so light a casualty. And now that 
I recollect myself, did you run a horse 1" ^ 

" Why — no ; the fault was, I beheve, that he 
would not run ; but Scm.ipareil is as great a hero 
as ever. He has only been conquered by the ele- 
ments." 

The dinner at the Duke of St. James's was tliis 
day more splendid even than the preceding. He 
was determined to show that the disappointment 
had produced no effect upon the temper of so im- 
perial a personage as himself, and he invited several 
of the leadJng gentry to join his coterie. The 
Dacres v^'ere among the solicited ; but they were, 
during the races, the guests of Mrs. Dallington 
Vere, \\ hose scat was only a mile off, and therefore 
were unobtainable. 

Blazed the plate, sparkled the wine, and the 
aromatic venison sent forth its odorous incense to 
the skies. The favourite cook had done wonders, 
though a Sanspareil pdfe, on which lie had been 
meditating for a week, was obliged to be suppressed, 
and was sent up as a tourte a la Bourbon, in com- 
pliment to his royal highness. It was a delightful 
party : — all the stiffness of metropolitan society dis- 
appeared. All talked, and laujjhtil, and ale, and 
drank ; and the Protocolis and iLe French princes, 
who were most active meinLiers of a banquet, 
ceased sometimes, from \vp_tii of breath, to moralize 
on the English characte.. The little Wrekins, 
with their well-acted laiicntations over their losses, 
were capital; and Sophy nearly smiled and chat- 
tered her liead this djxy into the reversion of the 
coronet of Fitz-pomp»;y. May she succeed ! For 
a wilder little partrijiije never yet flew. Caroline 
St. Maurice alone wus sad, and would not be com- 
forted ; although in. James, observing her gloom, 
and guessing at iih cause, had in private assured 
her that, far frou» losing, on the whole he was 
perhaps even a wmner. 

None, howevei-, talked more agreeable nonsense, 
and made a more elegant uproar, than the Duke of 
St. James. 

"These young men," whispered Lord Squih to 
Annesley, " do not know the value of money. We 
must teach it them — I know too well — I find it 
very dear." 

If the old physicians are correct in considering 
from twenty-tlve to thirty-five as the period of lusty 
youth. Lord .'Squib was still a lusty youth, though 
a very corpulent one indeed. The carnival of his 
life, however, was nearly over, and probably the 
termination of the race-week might hail him a man. 
He was th() best fellow in the world; short and 
sleek, half bald, and looked fifty; with a waist, 
however, which had not yet vanished, and where 
art successfully controlled rebellious nature, like the 
Austrians ttie Lombards. If he were not exactly a 
wit, he was still, however, full of unaffected fun, 
and threw out the results of a rotie life with con- 
siderable ease and point. He had inherited a very 
fair and peer-like property, which he had contrived 
to cimbarrass in so complicated and extraordinary a 
manner, that he had been a ruined man for years, 
and yet lived well on an income allowed him by 
his creditors to manage his estate for their benefit. 
The joke was, he really managed it very well. It 
Was his hobby, and he prided himself, especially, 
upon his character as a man of business. 

'I'he banquet is certainly the best preparative for 
32 



the ball if its blessings be not abused, and then yoU 
get heavy. Your true votar}!- of Terpsichore, aiid 
of him I only speali, requires, particularly in a land 
of easterly winds, which cut into his cab-head at 
every turn of every street, some previous process to 
make his blood set him an example in dancing. It 
is strong Burgundy, and his sparkling sister Cham- 
pagne, that make a race-hall always so amusing a 
divertisement. One enters the room with a gay 
elation, which defies rule without violating etiquette, 
and ill these county meetings, there is a variety of 
character, and classes, and manners, which isliighly 
interesting, and allords an agreeable contrast to 
those more brilliant and refined assemblies, the 
members of which, being educated by exactly the 
same system, and with exactly the same ideas, 
think, look, move, talk, dress, and even eat, alike — 
the only remarkable personage being a woman 
somewhat more beautiful than the beauties who 
surround her, and a man rather niore original in 
his affectations than the puppies that surround him. 
The proof of the general dulness of polite circles is 
the great sensation that is always produced by a 
new tace. The season always commences briskly, 
because there are so many. Ball, and dinner, and 
concert collect them plenty of votaries ; but as we 
move on, the didncss will develope itr.elf ; and then 
come the morning breakfast, and the water-party, 
and the fctt cliarnpetrc, all desperate attempts to 
produce variety with old materials, and to occasion 
a second effect by a cause which is already ex- 
hausted. 

These philosophical remarks precede another in- 
troduction to the public liall-room at Doncaster. 
Mrs. Dallington Vere and Miss Dacre are walking, 
arm in arm, at the upper end of the room. 

"You are disappointed, love, about Arundell" 
said Mrs. Dallington/ 

" Bitterly ; I never counted on an}' event more 
certainly than on his return this summer." 

" And why tarrieth the wanderer — unwillingly, 
of course 1" 

" Lord Darrell, who was to have gone over as 
charge (Vaffaires, has announced to liis father the 
impossibility of his becoming a diplomatist, so our 
poor aituche suifers, and is obliged to bear the 
purle-fcuille ad in/erinij' 

" Does your cousin like Vienna!" 

" Not at all. He is a regular John Bull : and 
if I am to judge from his correspondence, he will 
make an excellent ambassador, in one sense, for I 
think his fidelity and his patriotism may be de- 
pended on. We seldom serve those whom we do 
not love ; and if I am to believe Arundel, there is 
neither a person nor a place on the whole Conti- 
nent that affords him the least satisfaction." 

" How singular, tlien, that he should have fixed 
on such a metier ; but I suppose, like other young 
men, his friends fixed for him V 

" Not at all. No step could be less pleasing to 
my father than his leaving England ; but Arundel 
is quite unmanageable, even by papa. He is the 
oddest, but the dearest, person hi the world I" 

" He is very clever, is he not 1" 

" I think so. I have no doubt he will distin- 
guish himself, whatever career he runs ; but he is 
so extremely singular in his manner, that I do not 
think his general reputation harmonizes witli my 
private opinion." 

" And will his visit to England be a long one''" 

" I hope that it will be a permanent one. I, ou 



250 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



know, am his confidant, and intrusted with all his 
plans. If I succeed in arranginiT something ac- 
cording to his wishes, I hope that lie will not 
again quit us." 

" I pray you may, sweet ! and wish, love ! for 
your sake, that he would enter the room this mo- 
ment." 

" This is the most successful meeting, I should 
think, that ever was known at Doncaster," said 
Miss Dacre. " We are, at least, indebted to the 
Duke of St. James for a veiy agreeable party, to 
say nothing of all the gloves wo have won." 

" Kow do you like the Duke of Burlington"!" 

" Very much. There is a calm courtliness 
about him wliieli I think very imposing. He is 
the only man I ever saw who, without being very 
young, was not an unfit companion for youth. 
And there is no alfectation of juvenility about 
him. He involuntarily reminds you of youth, as 
an empty orchestra docs of music." 

" I shall tell him this. He is already your de- 
voted ; and I have no doubt that, inspired at the 
same time by your universal charms, and our uni- 
versal hints, I shall soon hail you Dutchess of 
Burlington. Don Arundel will repent his diplo- 
macy." 

" I thought I was to be anotlicr dutchcss this 
morning." 

'•You deserve to be a triple one. But dream 
not of the unhappy patron of Sdiispareil. There 
is something in his eyes which tells me he is not a 
man-ying man." 

There was a momentary pause, and Miss Dacre 
spoke. 

" I like his brother steward very much. Bertha. 
Sir Lucius is very witty, and very candid. It is an 
agreeable thing to see a man, who has been so 
very gay, and who has had so many temptations to 
be gay, turn into a regular domestic character, 
without losing any of those qualities w-hich made 
him an ornament to society. When men of the 
world terminate their career as prudently as Sir 
Lucius, I observe that they- are always amusing 
companions, becarise they are perfectly unaffected." 

" No one is n)3re unaffected than I>ucius Graf- 
ton. I am quite Happy to find you like him : for 
he is an old frjund of mine, and I know that he 
has a good heart." 

" I like him, especially, because he likes you." 

" Dearest !" 

" He »niroduced me to Lady Afy. I perceive 
that she is very attached to her husband." 

" Lady Afy is a charming woman. I know no 
woman so truly elegant as Lady Aty. The young 
duke, you know, they say, greatly admires Lady 
Afy." 

" O ! does he 1 Well, now, I should have 
thought her rather a sentimental and serious donna 
— one very unlikely — " 

" Hush ! here come two cavaliers." 

The Dukes of BurUngton and St. James ad- 
vanced. 

"We were attracted by observing two nymphs 
wandering in this desert," said his grace of Bur- 
lington. This was the Burgundy. 

" And we wish to know whether there be any 
dragon to destroy, any ogre to devour, any magi- 
cian to massacre, or how, when, and where we 
can testify our devotion to the ladies of our love," 
added his grace of St. James. This was the 
Champagne. 



"The age of chivalry is past," said May Dacre. 
" Bores have succeeded to dragons, and I have 
shivered too many lances in vain ever to hope for 
'their extirpation ; and as for enchantments — " 

" They depend only upon yourself," gallantly 
interrupted the Duke of Burgundy, — Psha ! — Bur- 
lington. 

" Our spells are dissolved, our wands are sunk 
five fathom deep : we had retired to this solitude, 
and we were moralizing," said Mrs. Dallington 
Vere. 

" Then you were doing an extremely useless, and 
not very magnanimous thing," said the Duke of St. 
James; " f jr to moralize in a desert is no great 
exertion of philosophy. You should moralize in 
a drawing-room ; and so let me propose our return 
to that world which must long have missed us. 
Let us do something to astound these elegant bar- 
barians. Look at that j'oung gentleman : how 
stiff he is I A Yorkshire Apollo ! Look at that 
old lady, how elaborately she simpers ! The Ve- 
nus of the Riding ! They absolutely attempt to 
flirt. Let us give them a gallop !" 

He was advancing to salute this provincial cou- 
ple ; hut his more matured companion repressed 
him. 

" Ah ! I forgot," said the young duke. " I am 
Yorkshire. If I were a western gent, like your- 
self, I might compromise my character. Your 
grace monopolizes the fun." 

" I think your grace may safely attack them," 
said Miss Dacre. " I do not think you will be re- 
cognised. People entertain in this barbarous coun- 
tr3% such vulgar, old-fashioned notions of a Duke 
of St. James, that I have not the least doubt your 
grace might have a good deal of fun without being 
found out." 

" There is no necessity," said his grace, " to fly 
from Miss Dacre for amusement. By-the-by, you 
made a very good repartee. You must permit me 
to introduce you to my friend Lord Squib. I am 
sure you would agree so." 

" I have been introduced to Lord Squib." 

"And you found him most amusing? Did he 
say any thing which vindicates my appointment 
of him as my court-jester!" 

" I found him very modest. He endeavoured to 
excuse his errors by being your companion : and 
to prove his virtues by being mine." 

" Treacherous Squib ! I positively must call 
him out. Duke, hear him a cartel." 

" The quarrel is ours, and must be decided 
here," said Mrs. Dallington Vere. '• I second 
Miss Dacre." 

" We are in the way of some good people here, 
I thitdi," said the Duke of Burhngton, who, though 
the most dignified, was the most considerate of 
men ; " at least, here are a stray couple or two, 
staring as if they wished us to understand we pre- 
vented a set." 

" Let them stare," said the Duke of St. James \ 
" we were made to be looked at. 'Tis our voca- 
tion, Hal. and they are gifted with vision purposely 
to behold us." 

" Your grace," said Miss Dacre, " reminds me 
of my old friend Prince Rubarini, who told me 
one day that when he got up late he always gave 
orders to have the sun put back a couple of 
hours." 

" And you. Miss Dacre, remind me of my old 
friend the Dutchess of Nemours, who told me ono 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



251 



day that in the course of her experience she had 
only met one man who was her rival in rejiartee." 
" And that man V asked Mrs. Vcre. 
" Was your slave, Mrs. Dalliiigton," said the 
young duke, bowing profoundly, with liis hand on 
his lieart. 

" I remember she said the same thing to me," 
said the Duke of Burlington, " about ten years be- 
fore." 

" Tliat was her grandmother, Burlcy," said the 
Duke of St. James. 

'• Her grandmother !" said Mrs. Dallington, ex- 
citing tlie contest. 

" Decidedly," said the young duke. " I remem- 
ber my friend always spoke of the Duke of Bur- 
Un^ton as grandpapa." 

" You will prolit. I have no doubt, then, by the 
company of so venerable a friend," said Miss 
Da ere. 

" Why," said the young duke, " I am not a be- 
liever in the perfectibihty of the species ; and you 
know that when we come to a certain point — " 

" We must despair of improvement," said the 
Duke of Burlington. 

" Your gi-ace came forward like a true Icnight to 
my rescue," said Miss Dacre, bowing tQ,the Dtdie 
of Burlington. 

'• Beauty can inspire miracles," said the Duke 
of St. James. 

'• This young gentleman has been spoiled by 
travel, Miss Dacre," said the Duke of Burlington. 
" ^ ou have much to answer for, for he tells every 
one that you were his guardian." 

The eyes of Miss Dacre and the Duke of St. 
James met. His grace bowed with that elegant 
impudence wliich is, after all, the best explanation 
for eveiy possible misunderstanding. 

"I always heard that the Duke of St. James 
rvas born of age," said Miss Dacre. 

" The report was very rife on the Continent 
when I travelled," said Mrs. Dallington Vere. 

" That was only a poetical allegory, which veiled 
the precocious results of my fair tutor's exertions." 

"How very discreet he is!" said the Duke of 
Burlington. " You may tell immediately that he 
is two-and-forty." 

" We are neither of us, though, off the pave yet, 
Burlington, — so what say yofi to inducing these 
inspiring muses to join the waltz which is just now 
commencing 1" 

The young duke offered his hand to Miss Dacre, 
and, followed by their companions, they were in a 
few minutes lost in the waves of the waltzers. 



CHAPTER VI. 

Tht; yayeties of the race week closed with a ball 
at DaIiiiin;ton House. As the pretty mistress of 
this; proud mansion was acquainted with all the 
Uicnibeirf of the ducal party, our hero and his noble 
band were among those who honoured it with their 
piesencfj. 

Wenally have had so many balls both in this 
and otbo.r as immortal works, published since the 
rcforma'ion of literature, — which I date from the 
momen*. that the gray goose-quill was first guided 
by a hi nd shaded by a blonde ruffle, or ^'^I'kling 
with a jewelled ring, — that, in a literary point of 



view, I think I must give up dancing ; nor would 
I have introduced you to Dallington flouse if I 
had no more serious business on hand than a flir- 
tation with a lady or a lobster Salad. 

Ah ! why is not a little brief comnumion with 
the last as innocent as with the first ! 03'sters and 
eggs, they say, are amatory food. Ceres and Bac- 
chus have the reputation of being the favourite 
companions of Venus. 7"'he morality of the present 
age must be ascribed, then, to its temperance, or 
its indigestion. O ! Abernethy, mildest of man- 
kiu'd ! ! Brodie, blander than Favonian breezes! 
— why, wh}', then, cure us ? why send us forth 
with renovated livers, to lose our souls through 
salads and the sex ! 

Small feet are flitting in the mazy dance, and 
music winds with inspiring harmony through 
halls whose lofty mirrors nudtiply beauty, and add 
fresh lustre to the blazing lamps. May Dacre there 
is wandering like a peri in paradise, and I^ady 
Aphrodite is glancing with her dazzling brow, yet 
an Asmodeus might detect an occasional gloom 
over her radiant face. It is but for an instant, yet 
it thrills. She looks like some favoured sultana, 
who muses for a moment amid her splendour on 
her early love. 

And she, the sparkling mistress of this scene — 
say, where is she? Not among the dancers, 
though a more graceful form you would scarcely 
look upon ; not even among her guests, though a 
more accomplished hostess it would be hard to find. 
Gaycty pours forth its flood, and all are thinking ol 
themselves, or of some one sweeter even than self- 
consciousness, or else perhaps one absent might be 
missed. 

Leaning on the arm of Sir Lucius Grafton, and 
shrouded in her cachemcre, Mrs. Dallington Vere 
paces the terrace in earnest conversation. 

" If I fail in this," said Sir Lucius, " I shall be 
desperate. Fortune seems to have sent him for the 
very purpose. Think only of the state of affairs 
for a moment. After a thousand plots on my part 
— after having for the last two years never ceased 
my exertions to make her commit herself, when 
neither a love of pleasure, nor a love of revenge, 
nor the thoughtlessness to which women in her 
situation generally have recourse, produced the 
slightest effect : — this stripling starts upon the 
stage, and in a moment the iceberg melts. ! I 
never shall forget the rapture of the moment when 
the faithful Lachen announced the miracle !" 

"But why not let the adventure take the usual 
course 1 You have your evidence, or you can get 
it. Finish the business. These exposees, to be sure, 
are disagreeable enough ; but to be the talk of the 
town for a week is no great suffering. Go to Ba- 
den, drink the waters, and it will be forgotten. 
Surely this is an inconvenience not to be weighed 
for a moment against the great result." 

" Believe me, my dearest friend, Lucy Grafton 
cares very little about the babble of the million, 
provided it do not obstruct him in his objects. 
Would to heaven I could proceed in the summary 
and effectual mode you point out ! but that I much 
doubt. There is about Afy, in spite of all her 
softness and humility, a strange spirit, a cursed 
courage, or obstinacy, which sometimes has blazed 
out, when I have over-galled her, in a way half 
awful. I confess I dread her standing at ba}'. I 
am in her power, and a divorce she could success- 
fully oppose if I appeared to be the person who 



252 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



hastened the catastropne, and she was piqued to 
show that she would not fiill an easy victim. No, 
no I I have a surer though a more difficult game. 
She is intoxicated with this boy. I w-ili drive her 
into his arms." 

" A probable result, forsooth ! I do not think 
your genius, baronet, has particularly brightened 
since we last met. I thought your letters were get- 
ting dull. You seem to forget, that there is a third 
person to be consulted in this adventure. And 
why-, in the name of Doctors' Commons, the duke 
is to clo-:e his career by marrying a woman of 
whom, with your leave, he is already, if experience 
be not a dream, half wearied, is really past my 
comiirehension, although as Yorkshire Lucy, I 
should not, you know, be the least apprehensive of 
mortals." 

"I depend on my unbounded influence over St. 
James." 

" What ! do you mean to recommend the step, 
then V 

"Hear me! At present I am his confidential 
counsellor on all subjects — " 

" But one." 

" Patience, fair dame — and I have hitherto im- 
perceptibly, luit cfiiciently, exerted my influence 
to prevent his getting entangled with any other 
nets." 

" Faithfid friend !" 

" Paint de moiiiierie ! Listen. I depend further 
upon his perfect inexperience of women, — for, in 
spite of his numerous gallantries, he has never yet 
had a grand passion, and is quite ignorant, even at 
this moment, how involved his feelings are with his 
mistress. He has not yet learned the bitter lesson, 
that unless we despise a woman when we cease to 
love her, we are still a slave without the console- 
ment of intoxication. I depend further upon his 
strong feelings, for strong I perceive thcy^ are, with 
all his affectation ; and on his weakness of character, 
which will allow him to be the dupe of his first 
great emotion. It is to prevent lliat explosion from 
taking place under any other roof but my own, 
that I now require your advice and assistance, — 
that advice and assistance which already have done 
so much for I'le. I like not this sudden and un- 
contemplated visit to Castle Dacre. I fear these 
Dacres — I fear the revulsion of his feelings. Above 
all I fear that girl." 

" But her cousin— is he not 'a talisman 1 Slie 
loves him." 

" Pooh ! a cousin ! Is not the name an answer ? 
She loves him, as she loves her pony, because he 
was her companion when she was a child, and 
kissed her when they gathered strawberries together. 
The pallid moonlight passion of a cousin, and an 
absent one too, has but a sorry chance against the 
blazing beams that shoots from the eyes of a new 
lover. ^Vould to heaven I had not to go down to 
my boobies, at Cleve ! I should like nothing better 
than to amuse myself an autunm at Daliington with 
the little Dacre, and put an end to such an nn- 
naturaland irreligious connexion. She is a splendid 
creature ! Bring her to town next season." 

" But to the point. You wish me, I imagine, to 
act the same part with the lady, as you have done 
with the gentleman. I am to step in, I suppose, 
as the confidential counsellor on all subjects of 
liWeet May. I am to preserve her from a youth 
xvhose passions are so impetuous, and whose prin- 
ciples are so unformed !" 



" Admirable Bertha ! you read my thoughts." 

"But suppose I endanger, instead of advance, 
your plans. Suppose, for instance, I captivate his 
grace. As extraordinary things have happened, 
as you know. High place must be respected, and 
the coronet of a dutchess must not be despised." 

"All considerations must yield to you, as do all 
men," said Sir Lucius, with ready gallantry, but 
not free from anxiety. 

" No, no, Lucy, there is no danger of that. 1 
am not going to plaj- traitress to my system, even 
for the Duke of St. James ; therefore any thing that 
occurs between us shall be merely an incident 
pours passer le temps seitkinent, and to preserve 
our young friend from the little Dacre. I liave no 
doubt he will behave very well, and that I shall 
send him safe to Cleve Park in a fortnight with a 
very good character. I would recomiiiend you, 
however, not to encourage any unreasonable 
delay." 

" Certainly not ; but I must, of course, be guided 
by circumstances." Sir Lucius observed truly. 
There were other considerations besides getting rid 
of his spouse which cemented his friendship with 
the young duke. It will be curious, if lending a 
few tliousands to the husband save our hero from 
the wife. There is no such thing as unmixed evil. 
A man who loses his money gains, at least, expe- 
rience, and sometimes something belter. But what 
the Duke of St. James gjiincd is not yet to be 
told. 

Time flies, and dcvelopes all things. I am, at 
present, writing the first volume of this veracious 
history — but fate alone can decide whether you 
shall read the second. I may dine this day with 
Sir Epicure Mammon, and die — as my host will, 
over the third course. I may be flung off my 
horse at Grosvenor gate, from the sudden entrance 
of Mrs. Argent and hcrnew liveries. I mean that 
lady who, when her husband became an M. P., began 
franking her invitations by the twopenny, or par- 
ticular post. But our friends are still on the 
terrace. 

" And you like Lachen !" asked Mrs. Daliing- 
ton." 

" Very much." 

" I formed her with great care, but you must 
keep her in good-humour." 

"Tliat is not difficult. Elk est tresjolie; and 
pretty women, like yourself, are always good- 
natured." 

" But has she really worked herself into the con- 
fidence of the virtuous Aphrodite 1" 

" Entirely. And the humour is, that Lachen 
has persuaded lier that Lachen herself is on the 
best possible terms with my confidential valet, and 
can make herself at all times mistress of lier mas- 
ter's secrets. So it is always in my power, ap'pa- 
rently without taking the slightest interest in Afy's 
conduct, to regulate it as I will. At present she 
believes that my affairs are in a very distracted 
state, and that I intend to reside solely on the Con- 
tinent, and to bear her off from her Cupidon. This 
thought haunts her rest, and hangs heavy on her 
waking mind. I think it will do the business." 

" We have been too long absent. Let us re- 
turn." 

" I accompany you, my charming friend. \A'hat 
should I do without such an ally 1 I only wish 
that I could assist you in a manner equally friendly. 
Is there no obdurate hero who wants a confidential 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



253 



atlviser to dilate upon j-our charms, or to counsel 
him to throw himself at your feet; or are that 
beautiful lace and lovely form, as they must always 
be, invincible 1" 

" I assure you, quite disembarrassed of any inten- 
tions whatever. But I suppose when I return to 
A.lhcns, I must get Platonic again." 

" Let me be the philosopher !" 

"Ko, no, Lucy; we know each other too well. 
[ have been free ever since that fatal aflair of young 
Darrell, and travel has restored my spirits a little. 
They say his brother is just as handsome. He was 
expected at Vienna, but I could not meet him, al- 
though, I suppose, as I made him a viscount, I am 
rather popular than not with him." 

" Pooh ! pooh ! think not of this. No one blames 
you. You are still a universal favourite. But I 
would recommend you nevertheless to take me as 
your cavalier." 

" You are too generous, baronet, or too bold. No, 
man ! I am tired of flirtation, and really think, for 
variety sake, I must fall in love. After all, there is 
nothing like the delicious dream, though it be but 
a dream. — Spite of my discretion, I sometimes 
tremble lest I should end by making myself a fool 
— wiili some grand passion. — You look serious. 
Fear not for the young duke. He is a dazzling 
gentleman, but not a hero exactly to my taste." 



CHAPTER YIL 

The moment that was to dissolve the spell which 
had combined and enchanted so many thousands 
of human beings amved. Nobles and nobodies, 
beauties and blacklegs, dispersed in all directions. 
The Duke of Burlington carried off the French 
princes, and the Protocolis, the Bloomerlies, and 
the Yaticans, to his paradise of Marringworth^ 
The Fitz-pompeys cantered off with the Shropshires 
—omen of felicity to the enamoured St. Maurice — 
and the enamouring Sophy. Annesley and Squib 
returned to their pci/ci: Sir Lucius and Lady 
Aphrodite, neither of them v.ith tempers like sum- 
mer skies, betook their way to Cambridgeshire, like 
Adam and Eve from the glorious garden.. The 
Duke of St. James dashed off for Dacre. He had 
already sent before him his groom and horses, and 
one carriage containing Luigi, Spiridion, and two 
pages, and now he followed, accompanied only by 
his jager and a single servant. 

As his carriage rolled on he revelled in delicious 
fancies. The young duke built castles not only at 
Hautcville, but in less substantial regions. Reverj', 
in the flush of our warm youth, generally indulges 
in the future. We are always anticipatin^the next 
adventure, and clothe the coming heroine with a 
rosy tint. ^Vhen we advance a little on our limit- 
ed journey, and an act or two of the comedy, the 
gayest in all probability, arc over, the wizard Memo- 
ry dethrones the witch Lnagination, and 'tis the 
past on which the mind feeds in its musings. 'Tis 
then we ponder on each great result, which has 
stolen on us without the labour of reflection ; 'tis 
then we analyze emotions, which, at the time, we 
could not comprehend, and probe the action which 
passion inspired, and which prejudice has hitherto 
defended. Alas! who can strike these occasional 
balances ui life's great leger without a sigh 1 Alas ! 



how little do they promise in fav )ur of the great 
account! What whisperings of flnal bankruptcy ! 
what a damnable consciousness of present insolven- 
cy ! My friends ! what a blunder is youth ! Ah ! 
why does Truth light her torch, but to illume the 
ruined temple of our existence ! Ah ! why do we 
know we are men, only to be conscious of our ex- 
hausted energies ! 

And yet there is a pleasure in a deal of judg 
ment, which your judicious man alone can under 
stand. It is agreeable to see some younkers falling 
into the same traps which have broken our own 
shins; and, shipwrecked on the island of our hopes, 
one likes to mark a vessel go down full in sight. 
'Tis demonstration that we are not branded as 
Cains among the favoured race of man. Then 
giving advice — that is delicious, and perhaps re- 
pays one all. It is a privilege your gray-haired 
signers solely can enjoy ; but young men now-a-days 
may make some claim to it. And, after all, expe- 
rience is a thing that all men praise. Bards sing 
its glories, and proud Philosoj.-hy has long elected 
it her favourite child. 'Tis the tc x-uxcv, in s})ite of 
all its ugliness, and the elixir vitfc, though we 
generally gain it with a shattered pulse. 

N^o more ! no more ! it is a bitter cheat, the con- 
solation of blunderers, the last refuge of expiring 
hopes, the forlorn battalion that is to capture the 
citadel of happiness — yet, yet impregnable! 0! 
what is wisdom, and what is virtue, without youth ! 
Talk not to me of knowlctlge of inankind ; — give, 
give me back the sunshine of the breast which they 
o'erclouded! Talk not to nie of proud morality — 
oh ! — give me innocence ! 

" Sir, sir, what is all this about? Let us get on 
with the story. A reason for this delay. Is it 
gentlemanly! Is it courteous? Is it what might 
have been expected from you? So great a favour- 
ite, though so new a writer ! Speak, — clear your- 
self!" 

! madam, if you be a madam, as I hope, why, 
why excruciate with these queries? Postilions 
must be paid and horses changed, and now 'tis done, 
and so we'll on our journey. 

Our hero's thoughts were of a very different 
complexion to tliose that lately broke out but una- 
wares. The fact is, that a slight amial)le egotism 
is my weakness, which all excuse as well as ad- 
mire, upon this plea,- that I am strictly an anony- 
mous writer ; and, consequently, being utterly un- 
known, am therefore permitted occasionally to il- 
lustrate my profound oracles respecting human na- 
ture, by the specimen of it which I have most pro- 
foundly studied. If I wrote for fame, and had a 
lithographic portrait of myself appended to this fiist 
volume, this self-introduction would then be in as 
" bad taste" as it is now in good, and as utterly 
reprehensible as it is now worthy of all panegyric; 
but as I only write for fun, and am even less desi- 
rous of being known by the public than they can 
be of knowing me, why, let it pass. 

" But why then publish, sir ?" 

Beautiful being ! That you should be amused 
Is it nothing to feel, amid this solitude, that bright 
eyes are glancing o'er my thoughts ? Besides, 1 
lilie to make a little noise — in a quiet way, as peace 
able gentlemen slide into a row at night. 

An urchin sometimes will disturb the abstraction 
of his assembled fellow-students with a shrill a*i(I 
sudden whistle. All start, all stare, and the peda- 
gogue fumes. Y'et no one looks more astonished, 



254 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



more indij^nanl at the disturbance than the rioter 
hiuiscit'; and there he sits alike undetected and de- 
sirous to be concealed, insjiiied at the same time by 
a love of fun and a contempt of fame. 

He is a true jiliilosopher, and might teach us 
more than we care to learn. He who teaches that 
enjoyment is the great object of existence, and that 
this can be obtained without the permission of your 
worships, is a heretic against the creed of cant. 
Now, if, instead of amusing you and myself, I were, 
which probably some day I may, to cut all your 
throats, or mend all your morals, what a wonderful 
fellow you would instantly dub me ! What odes, 
wliat medals, what shifting diadems, what changing 
pce[)tres, what cheers from widows whose l)lood 
had washed my chariot wheels, what grants from 
parliaments — themselves ready to receive! I say 
nothing of the public dinner and the private praise. 
Tliese are small deer. Yet a life in the National 
Library is not to be despised; and it is something 
to have one's portrait in demand among the Sand- 
wich Isles. 

To conquer and to cant — these are the modes to 
ruin mankind. Must they he so forever? Is it a 
dream that flits across my mind, fed by the silence 
of this sacred place ; or is it revelation .' Yes, yes, 
methinks a softer voice, a sweeter breath, moves on 
the wings of coming time, and whispers consola- 
tion. 

Amid the ruins of eternal Rome, I scribble pages 
lighter than the wind, and feed with fancies, vo- 
lumes which will be forgotten ere I can hear that 
tliey are even published. Yet am I not one insen- 
sible to the magic of my memorable al)ode, and I 
could pour my passion o'er the land ; but I repress 
my thoughts, and beat tlieir tide back to their hollow 
caves ! 

The ocean of my mind is calm, but dim, and 
ominous of storms that may arise. A cloud hangs 
heavy o'er the horizon's verge, and veils the future. 
Even now, a star apj)ears, steals into light, and 
now again 'tis gone ! I hear the proud swell of the 
growing waters, — I hear the whispering of the 
wakening winds; l)ut Keason lays her trident on 
the cresting waves, and all again is hushed. 

For I am one, though young, yet old enough to 
know Ambition is a demon ; and I liy from what 
I fear. And Fame has eagle wings, and yet she 
mounts not as high as man's desires. When all is 
gained, how little then is won ! And yet to gain 
that little, how much is lost ! Let us once aspire, 
and madness follows. Could we but drag the pur- 
ple from the hero's heart ; could we but tear the 
laurel from the poet's throbbing brain, and read 
tlieir doubts, their dangers, their despair, we might 
learn a greater lesson than we shall ever acquire 
by musing over their exploits or their inspiration. 
Thhik of unrecognised C.-esar, with his wasting 
youth, weeping over the Macedonian's young ca- 
reer ! Could Pharsalia compensate for those wither- 
ing pangs? View the obscure Napoleon starving 
in the streets of Paris! What was 8t. Helena to 
the bitterness of such existence ? The visions of 
past glory might illumine even that dark imprison- 
ment ; but to be conscious that his supernatural en- 
ergies might die away without creating their mira- 
cles — can tlic wheel or the rack rival the torture of 
such a suspicion? I/O ! Byron, bejiding over his 
KRattcred lyre, with inspiration in his very rage. 
And the pert taunt could sting even this child of 
light ! To doubt of the truth of the creed in 



which you have been nurtured, is not so terrific as 
to doubt respecting the intellectual vigour on whoso 
strength you have staked your happiness. Yet 
these were mighty ones ; perhaps the records of the 
world will not yield us threescore to be their mate.s. 
Then tremble, ye whose cheek glows too warmly 
at their names ! Who would be more than mar. 
should fear lest he be less. 

Yet there is hope — there should be happiness — 
for them, for all ! Kind nature, ever mild, extends 
her fond arms to her truant children, and breathes 
her words of solace. As we weep on her indul- 
gent and maternal breast, the exhausted passions, 
one by one, expire, like gladiators in yon huge 
pile, that has made barbarity sublime. Yes I there 
is hope and joy — and it is here ! 

Where the breeze wanders through a perfumed 
sky, and where the beautiful sun illumines beauty. 
On the poet's farm, and on the conqueror's ,arch, 
thy beam is lingering! It lingers on the shattered 
porticoes that once shrouded, from thy o'erpower- 
ing glory, the lords of earth ; it lingers upon the 
ruined temples that, even in their desolation, are 
vet sacred ! 'Tis gone, as if in sorrow ! Yet the 
woody lake still blushes with thy warm kiss ; and 
still thy rosy light tinges the pine that breaks the 
farthest heaven ! 

A heaven all light, all beauty, and all love! 
What marvel men should worship in these climes? 
And lo ! a small and single cloud is sailing in the 
innnaculate ether, burnished with twilight, like an 
Olympian chariot from above, with the fair vision 
of some graceful god ! 

It is the hour that poets love; but I crush 
thoughts that rise from out my mind, like nymphs 
from out their caves when sets the sun. Yet 'tis 
a blessing here to breathe and nmse. And cold his 
clay, indeed, who does not yield to thy Ausonian 
beauty ! Clinic where the heart softens and the 
mind expands ! Region of mellowed bliss ! O ! 
most enchanting land ! 

When I began this meritorious tale, I had deter- 
mined to conline myself in the strictest manner to 
its interesting narration ; but blood will show it- 
self, and nature will have her way ; and if I had 
kept her in, we never could have got on. So, here 
is an explosion ; hut if you think that, on the 
whole, it is rather too sublime and solemn, let mc 
inform yon, sir, that -this chapter is no common 
chapter, but embalms by far the most important in- 
cident, not only in this .work, but in the life of 
man. And so, wc are at the park gates. 

They whirled along through a park which 
would have contained half a hundred of tho.;e 
Patagonian paddocks of modern times which have 
usur[)ed the name. At length the young duke was 
roused from his rcvery by Carlstein, proud of his 
previous- knowledge, leaning over and announ- 
cing— 

" Chateau de Dacre, your grace !'' 

The duke looked up. The snn, which had al- 
ready set, had tinged with a dying crimson the 
eastern sky, against which rose a princely edifice 
Castle Dacre was the erection of Vanbrugh, un 
imaginative artist, whose critics I wish no bitlerci 
fate than not to live in his splendid creations. A 
spacious centre, richly ornamented, though broken 
perhaps into rather too much detail, was joined to 
wings of a corresponding magnificence by fanciful 
colonnades. A terrace, extending the whole front. 
was covered wiUi orange-trees, and many a statue 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



255 



and manj' an obelisk, and many a temple, and 
many a fountain, were tinted with the warm twi- 
light. The duke did not view the forgotten scene 
of youth without emotion. It was a palace worthy 
of the heroine on whom he had been musing. 
The carriage gained the lofty portal. Luigi and 
the pages were ready to receive his grace, who v^'as 
immediately ushered to the rooms prepared for his 
reception. The duke was later than he had in- 
tended, and no time was to be unnecessarily lost 
in his preparation for his appearance. 

His grace's toilet was already prepared : the 
magical dressing-box had been unpacked, and the 
shrine for his devotions was covered with richly 
cut bottles of all sizes, arranged in all the elegant 
combinations which the picturesque fancy of his 
valet could devise, adroitly intermixed with the 
golden instruments, the china vases, and the ivory 
and rosewood brushes, which were worthy even 
of Delcroix's exquisite inventions. 

The Duke of St. James was master of the art 
of dress, and consequently consummated that 
paramount operation with the decisive rapidity of 
one wliose principles are settled. He was cogni- 
sant of all efi'ects, could calculate in a second all 
consequences, and obtained his result with that 
promptitude and precision which stamp the great 
artist. (2) For a moment he w as plunged in pro- 
found abstraction, and at the same time stretched 
his legs alter his ride. He then gave his orders, 
with the decision of Wellington on the arrival of 
the Prussians, and the battle began. 

Spiridion stood with a corbillon of towels, ready 
to supply the watchful Luigi, whose duty it was 
ever to have one in his extended hand. When the 
ablutions were performed, Luigi came forward 
with a richly qtiiltcd siUvcn robe, and his grace, 
folding himself with the dignity of Cassar, fell, not 
at the base of Pompeyls statue, but on an ottoman. 
Luigi supported his back, while Spiridion, with a 
fineness of tact of which a Greek is alone suscep- 
tible, arranged the bas de soie, and fitted the feet 
into velvet shoes, fastened by buckles of mother- 
of-pearl. The feet woidd have become a woman ; 
but the Duke of St. James followed up his advan- 
tage : and by having the tube of his wliite trousers 
somewhat amplified at their termination, the deli- 
cate extrem.ities became in,* their character not 
merely feminine, but would have filled with envy 
Uie mistress of a mandarin. 

S[)iridion, then, with an arrosoir of agate — ex- 
quisite invention of Parisian taste — waters, with 
the essence of a bank of violets, that important 
garment which in former days was styled the 
under tunic. This on, Luigi advances, fits it per- 
fectly to the neck, inserts the jewelled studs, and 
presents, at the same time, the cravat. But do not 
misconceive me. It was not that indescribable 
compound of starch and cambric to which courtesy 
has too long yielded an honoured name. ! no ; 
the Duke of St. .fames's neck was covered with 
the finest muslin, delicately strengthened by a pro- 
cess with which Luigi was alone acquainted, and 
fringed with a fall of l)londc, more beautiful, if not 
as sublime as the fall of JN'iagara. 

His grace had a taste for magnificence in cos- 
tume ; but he was handsome, young, and a duke. 
Pardon him. Yet to-day he was, on the whole, 
simple, and with the exception of the pink topaz 
buttons, which shed their rosy hue over his white 
bilk waistcoat, he wore no jewels. Confiden' in a 



complexion whose pellucid lustre had not yielded 
to a season of dissipation, liis grace did not dread 
the want of relief which a white lace, a white cra- 
vat, and a white waistcoat, would seem to imply : 
nevertheless, the interior of the waistcoat was im- 
perceptibly lined with rose-coloured silk, and a rich 
and flickering light was thus thrown over the soft 
beauties of the blonde. The elTect, as the cause 
was concealed, was in a manner supernatural. 

Luigi advanced with a coat, of a colour — re- 
member it was summer — stolen from the neck 
of Juno's peacock. While he fits it to the back, 
Spiridion arranges the ruffles, replaces on his fa- 
voured finger tlie signet-ring, and presents his lord 
with a handkerchief, which assuredly must have 
been dropped on that immortal bank o'er which 
the south did breathe so sweetly ! A hair-chain 
set in diamonds, worn in memory of the absent 
Aphrodite, and to pique the present Dacre, is an- 
nexed to a glass, which reposes in the waistcoat 
pocket. This was the only weight that the Puke 
of St. James ever carried. It was a bore, but it 
was indispensable. 

It is done. He stops one moment before the 
long pier-glass, and shoots a glance which would 
have read the mind of Talleyrand. It will do. He 
assumes the look, the air that befits the occasion — 
cordial, but dignified ; sublime^ but sweet. Ha 
descends like a deitv from Olympus to a banquet 
of illustrious mortals. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

Mil. Dacrf, received him with marked aflfeclion: 
his daughter, with a cordiality which he had liever 
yet experienced from her. Though more simply 
dressed than when she first met his ardent gaze, 
her costume again charmed his practised eye. " It 
must be her shape," thought the young duke — " it 
is magical !" 

The rooms were full of various guests, and 
some of these were presented to his grace, who 
was, of course, an object of universal notice, but 
particularly by those persons who pretended not to 
be aware of his entrance. The party assembled at 
Castle Dacre consisted of some thirty or forty per- 
sons, all of great consideration, but of a different 
character to any with whom the Duke of St. James 
had been acquainted during his short experience 
of English society. They were not what are 
called faafn'onalik people. I have no princes and 
no ambassadors, no duke who, is a gourmand, no 
earl who is a jockey, no manoeuvring mothers, no 
flirting daughters, no gambling sons, for jour en- 
tertainment. There is no superfine geiuleman 
brought down specially from town to gauge the 
refinement of the manners of the party, and to pre- 
vent them, by his constant supervision and occa- 
sional sneer, from losing any of the beneficial 
results of their last campaign. We shall sadly 
want, too, a lady patroness, to issue a decree or 
quote her code of consolidated eti(iuette. I am not 
sure that Almack's will ever be mentioned ; I am 
quite sure that Maradan has never yet been heard 
of. The Jockey Club may be quoted, but Crock- 
ford will be a dead letter. As for the rest, Boodle's 
is all I can promise — miserable consolation fur tlie 
bow-window. As for bulibons and artists, to amuse 
a vacant hour or sketch a vacant faCe, I must 



25G 



D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. 



frankly tell 3'ou at once that there is not one. Are 
you frightened 1 Will you go on 1 Will you 
trust yourselves with these savages 1 Try. They 
are rude, but they are hospitable. 

The party, I have said, were all persorjs of great 
consideration : some wei'e noble, most were rich, 
all had ancestors. There were the Earl and 
Comitess of Faulconcoiirt. He looked as if he 
were fit to reconquer Palestine, and she, as if she 
were wortliy to reward him for his valour. Mis- 
placed in this superior age, he was sans penr, and 
she sans rcproche. There was Lord Mildmay, 
an English peer, and a French colonel. Methinks 
such an incident might have been a better reason 
for a late measure, than an Irishman being returned 
a member of our imperial parliament. But that is 
past and settled. I say nothing ; but if I had been 
there at the time, which, God be praised ! I was 
not, I know who would have read a moral lesson 
or two, varied the dulness of a worn debtite, and 
shown considerable talent in his way. There was 
our friend Lord St. Jerome, of course ; his step- 
mother, -yet young, and some sisters, pretty as 
nuns. There were some cousins from the farthest 
north, Northumbria's bleakest bound, who came 
down upon Yorkshire like the Goths upon Italy, 
and were revelling in what they considered a 
southern clime. ' 

There was an M. P. in whom the Catholics had 
hopes. He had made a great speech, — not only a 
great speech, but a great impression. His matter 
certainly was not new, but well arranged, and his 
images not singularly original, but appositely in- 
troduced — in short, a hore, who, speaking on a 
subject in which a new hand is indulged, and con- 
nected with the families whose cause he was plead- 
ing, was for once courteously listened to by the 
very men who determined to avenge themselves for 
their complaisance by a cough on the first opportu- 
nity. But the orator was prudent; he reserved 
himself, and the session closed with his fame yet 
full blown. 

Then there were country neighbours in great 
store, with wives that were treasures, and daughters 
fresh as flowers. Among them I would particular- 
ize two gentlemen that caught my eye. They 
were great proprietors, and Catholics, and baronets, 
and consoled themselves by their active mainte- 
nance of the game-laws, for their inability to regu- 
late their neighbours by any other. One was Sir 
Chetvvode Chetwode of Chetwode ; the other was 
Sir Tichborne Tichbome of Tichborne. I never 
saw two men less calculated to be the slaves of a 
foreign and despotic power, which we all know 
Catholics are. Tall, and robust, and rosy, with 
hearts even stouter than their massy frames, they 
were just the characters to assemble in Runny- 
mede, and probably, even at the present day, might 
have imitated their ancestors, even in their signa- 
tures. In disposition, they were much the same, 
though they were friends. In person, there were 
some differences, but they were slight. Sir Chet- 
wode's hair was straight and white ; Sir Tich- 
borne's brown and curly. Sir Chetwode's eyes 
were blue ; Sir Tichborne's gray. Sir Chetwode's 
nose was perhaps a snub ; Sir Tichborne's was 
certainly a bottle. Sir Chetwode was somewhat 
garrulous, and was often like a man at a play, in the 
wrong box ; Sir Tichborne was somewhat taciturn ; 
but when he spoke, it was always to the purpose, 
and made an impression, even if it were not new. 



Both were kind hearts ; but Sir Chetwode was 
jovial, Sir Tichborne rather stern. Sir Chetwode 
often broke into a joke, Sir Tichborne sometimea 
backed into a sneer. 

A few of these characters were made known 
by Mr. Dacre to his young friend, but not many, 
and in an easy way, — those that stood nearest. 
Introduction is a formality, and a bore, and is nevei 
resorted to by your well-bred host, save in a casual 
way. When proper people meet at proper houses, 
they give each other credit for propriety, and slide 
into an acquaintance by degrees. The first d;iy, 
they catch a name ; the next, they ask you whe- 
ther you are the son of General . " No, he was 

my uncle." — " Ah I I knew him well. A worthy 
soul !"' And then the thing is settled. You ride 
together, shoot, or fence, or hunt. A game of bil- 
liards will do no great harm ; and when you part, 
you part with a hope that you may meet again. 

Lord Mildmay was glad to meet with the son of 
an old friend. He knew the late duke well, and 
loved him better. It is pleasant to hear our fathers 
praised. We too may inherit their virtues with 
their lands, or cash, or bonds ; and, scapegraces as 
we are, it is agreeable to find a precedent for the 
blood turning out well. And, after all, there is no 
feeling more thoroughly delightful, than to be con- 
scious that the kind being from whose loins we 
spring, and to whom we cling with an innate and 
overpowering love, is viewed by others with regard, 
with reverence, or with admiration. There is no 
pride like the pride of ancestry, for it is a blending 
of all emotions. How immeasurably superior to 
the herd is the man whose father only is famous ! 
Lnagine, then, the feelings of one who can trace 
his line through a thousand years of heroes and of 
princes ! 

In fathers, nature gives us kinder friends than 
proud society can ever yield ; and yet we fly too 
often from the face that beams with fondness on 
its own creation. But time, and sharp experience, 
sooner or later, return us to our hearths, though 
somewhat roughly. A bill that must be paid, a 
shattered horse, a sulky tailor, a rebellious gold- 
smith, are not the greatest evils, yet they make one 
dull, and bring the young master- quickly to his 
sen.ses. 

'Tis then that nature speaks with her still voice, 
so soft and small ! 'Tis then we fly to him who, 
in our adversity, is the only one on whom we sure- 
ly count. He draws his purse-strings, or he draws 
a check, and gives us, with his good assistance, 
good advice. 

Kind soul ! beneficent, beloved friend ! O ! let 
me die the traitor's death, let me be hurled from 
yon Tarpeian mount, if such it be, if ever I do love 
thee not ; if I wear not thy image in my inmost 
core, — adore thee living, and revere thee dead I 

What though, at this most fatal moment, I am 
drawing a most unhap])y, a most unexpected, and 
a most unreasonable bill, and at the shortest date ! 
I grant it all — yet pity ! pardon ! pay ! 

Well will it be for him who loses such as thee, 
to find some female friend to smooth the years that 
yet remain. Woman alone can urge a claim to 
soften the bitterness of filial recollections. I have 
half a mind to anticipate the remedy ; but the 
ceremony is really awful. I like the ancient fancy 
of a wedding. You may mark it on a gem, where 
Cupid leads his Psyche to the altar — all birds and 
plumes, all fruit, and flowers, and flame ! 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



257 



la modern days, the most graceful Psyche loolcs 
awkward at that hour, and Cupid stands before her 
all confessed with cheeks even whiter than his 
whitest jeans. I say nothing of the parson and 
the clerk, the anxious mother, and the smirking 
sire. Even there I could stand. But spare ! ! 
spare me, the giggling bride's-maids and the grin- 
ning grooms. 

'Tis dinner! hour I have loved, as loves the bard 
the twilight ; but no more those visions rise, that 
once were wont to spring in my quick fancy. The 
dream is past, the spell is broke, and even the lore 
on which I pondered in my first youth is strange as 
figures in Egyptian tombs. 

No more — no more, O ! never more to me that 
hour shall bring its raptured bliss ! No more — no 
more, O ! nevermore for me, shall Flavour sit upon 
her thousand thrones, and, like a siren with a sun- 
ny smile, win to renewed excesses — each more 
sweet! My feasting days are over: me, no more, 
the channs of fish, or flesh, still less of fowl, can 
make the fool of that they made before. (3) The 
fricandeau is like a dream of early love ; the frica- 
see, with which I have so often flirted, is like the 
tattle of the last quadrille ; and no longer are my 
dreams haunted with the dark passion of the rich 
ragout. Ye soups ! o'er whose creation I liave 
watched, like mothers o'er their sleeping child ! Ye 
sauces ! to which I have even lent a name, where 
are ye now 1 Tickling, perchance, the palate of 
some easy friend, who quite forgets the boon com- 
panion whose presence once lent lustre even to his 
rul)y vsane, and added perfume to his perfumed 
hock! 

Shade of my grandsire ! — rightly I invoke thy 
spirit in the land in which thy restless youth did 
also wander. Was it for this that I sat at thy 
Gamaliel-feet, and tasted knowledge with my ear- 
liest years 1 Was it for this thy aged eye did gleam 
with the bright thought, that thy fine taste should 
survive in thy young posterity 1 Was it for this 
thy favourite Beaujolais prepared the beccafico, and 
procured the truffle ] O ! for an hour of thy Conde 
soups! O! for the hermitage that Tilney loved ! 
O I for the port that flowed alone for dukes ! (4) 

Was it for this, thy curious table poured its de- 
icate mysteries to my infant mind — that I, your 
hope, your joy — I, who praised (or damned) your 
cook, ere my fourth birth-day, should now, with 
my fifth lustre yet imperfect, with a frame half- 
dying, and a brain half-dry — with ail my high 
hopes thrown by in a comer, like a Ritiotto cloak, 
with faded grace, maintain a miserable existence, 
which is not life, by the atrocious torture of a diet 1 
A simple sandwich, a severe olive, a cutlet purer 
tlian a virgin's cheek, with less of sauce piquante 
than that of rouge; an ortolan or two — ah! once 
'twas six ; a glass or two, or three, of ruby wine, 
such as Chianti yields, and Kedi sings, strong, yet 
mellow — dignified, yet mild — these fo-m a meal 
that sends me lightly on an evening ride. 

And thus glides on a life, which is not life, if 
life be passion, as I truly think. To feel each day 
you hold your bridle with a grasp less firm : each 
day, to guide even this frivolous pen, with which I 
beguile a vanishing existence, with a more feeble 
aim — all this, too, daily teaches a poor gentleman 
how very quickly tlie milestones of his life are 
hurrying on. 

What theni We die. What then, again 1 
We go where there is all of hope and naught of 
33 



fear, to those who, on right subjects, rightly think. 
My life has been but brief, and in that brevity there 
has been enough of bitterness ; yet have I not lived 
in vain, since I have learned to die. To die ! — it 
is a doom that hangs o'er all, — to die ! — it is a 
fate that all must meet. Then, let us meet it 
boldly, and with a calm and holy courage. What 
we are we know less than we might ; what we 
shall be is written on a page which none can read. 
All here is doubt — all beyond is darkness. Between 
a troubled sea and covered sky, the mariners grow 
pale ; and yet there is an invisible Pilot hurrying 
on our barks to shores of lucid light, and havens 
all repose ! 

" But what the deuse is death, when dinner is 
waiting all this time 1" 

Good heavens ! how can you run on so, ma- 
dam! Our duke but little recked of his decease 
or his digestion. He pecked as prettily as any 
bird. Seated on the right hand of his dehghtful 
hostess, nohody could be better pleased ; supervised 
by his jager, who stood behind his chair, no one 
could be better attended. He smiled, with the 
calm, amiable complacency of a man who feels the 
world is quite right. But this chapter must not 
be too long. . 



CHAPTER IX. 

"How is your grace's horse, Sansparei! P''^ 
asked Sir Chctwode Chetwode of Chctwode of the 
Duke of St. James, shooting at the same time a 
sly glance at his opposite neighbour. Sir Tichborne 
Tichborne of Tichborne. 

" Quite well, sir," said the duke, in his quietest 
tone, but with an air which, he flattered himself, 
might repress further inquiry. 

" Has he got over his fatigue ?" pursued the 
dogged baronet, with a short, gritty laugh, that 
sounded hke a loose drag-chnin dangling against 
the stones. "We all thought the Yorkonue air 
would not agree with him." 

" Yet, Sir Chetwode, that could hardly be your 
opinion of Sannpareil," said Miss Dacre, " for I 
think, if I remember right, I had the pleasure of 
making you encourage our glove manufactory V 

Sir Chetwode looked a little confused. Tire 
Duke of St. James, inspirited by his fair al!" 
rallied, and hoped Sir Chetwode did not back hi., 
steed to a fatal extent. " If," continued he, '' I had 
had the slightest idea that any friend of Miss Dacre 
was indulging in such an indiscretion, I certainly 
would have interfered, and have let him know that 
the horse was not to win." 

" Is that a factl" asked Sir Tichborne Tichborne 
of Tichborne, with a sturdy voice. 

"Can a Yorkshireman doubt iti" rejoined 
the duke. " Was it possible for any one but a 
mere Newmarket dandy to have entertained for a 
moment the supposition that any one but May 
Dacre should be the queen of the St.Lcgcr ?" 

" I have heard something of this before," said Sir 
Tichborne, " but I did not belifeve it. A young 
friend of mine consulted me upon the subject 
' Would you advise me,' said he, ' to settle '!' — 
' Why,' said I, ' if you can prove any bubble, my 
opinion is — don't; but if you cannot prove any 
thing, my opinion is — do.' " 

" Very just ! — Very true !" were murmuied by 
x2 



258 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



many in the neighbourhood of the oracle ; by no 
one with more personal sincerity than LaJy Tich- 
Dorne herself. 

'• I will write to my young friend," continued 
the baronet. 

" Certainly not," said May Dacrc. " His grace's 
candour must not be abused. I have no idea 
of being robbed of my well-earned honours. — 8ir 
Tichborne, private conversation must be respected, 
and the sanctity of domestic life must not be pro- 
faned. If the tactics of Doncaster are no longer to 
be fair war, why, half the families in the Riding 
will be ruined !" 

"Still — " caid Sir Tichborne. 

But Mr. Dacre, like a deity in a Trojan battle, 

interposed, and asked his opinion of a gamekeeper. 

" 1 hope you are a great sportsman," said Miss 

Dacre to the duke, " for this is the very palace of 

Kimrod." 

"I have hunted; it was not very disagreeable. 
I sometimes shoot ; it is not very stupid." 

" Then, in fact, I perceive that you are a heretic. 
Liord Faulconcourt, his grace is moralizing on the 
barbarity of the chas'^." 

" Then he has never had the pleasure of hunt- 
ing in company with Miss Dacre." 

" Do you indeed follow the hounds?" asked the 
duke. 

" Sometimes do worse — ride over them ; but 
liOrd Faulconcourt is fast emancipating me from 
the tranunels of my frippery foreign education, and 
I have no doubt that in another season I shall fling 
off quite in style." 

"You remember Mr. Anncsley 1" asked the 
duke. 

" It is difficult to forget him. He always seemed, 
to me, to think that the world was made on pur- 
pose for him to have the pleasure of ' cutting' it." 
" Yet he was your admirer !" 
" Yes, and once paid me a compliment. He told 
me it was the onl}' one that he httd ever uttered." 

" ! Charley, Charley ! this is excellent. We 
shall have a tale when we meet. What was the 
compliment 1" 

" It would be affectation in me to pretend that I 
had forgotten it. Nevertheless you must excuse 
me." 

" Pray, pray let me have it." 
" Perhaps you will not like it." 
" Now, I must hear it." 

" Well, then, he said, that talking to me was the 
only thing that consoled him for having to dine 
with you, and to dance with Lady Shropshire." 
" Charles is jealous," drawled the duke. 
" Of her grace !" asked Miss Dacre, with much 
anxiety. 

" No ; but Charles is aged, and once, wlien he 
dined with me, was taken for my uncle." 

The ladies retired, and the gentlemen sat bar- 
barously long. Sir Chctwode Chetwodc of Chct- 
wode and Sir Tichborne Tichborne of Tichborne 
were two men who drank wine independent of 
fashion, and exacted, to the last glass, tlie identical 
quantity which their fathers had drunk half a cen- 
tury before, and to which they ha<l been used 
almost from their cradle. The only subject of 
conversation was sporting. Terrible shots, more 
terrible rims, neat barrels, and pretty fencers. The 
Duke of St. James was not sufficiently acquainted 
with Uie geography of the mansion to make a 



premature retreat, an operation which is looked 
upon with an evil eye, and which, to be successful, 
must be prompt and decisive, and executed with 
the most supercilious ncmclialanre. So, he con- 
soled himself by a little chat with Lord Mildmay, 
who sat smiling, handsome, and mustachioed, 
with an empty glass, and who was as much out 
of water as he was out of wine. The duke was 
not very learned in Parisian society ; but still, with 
the aid of the Duchesse de Berry and the Du- 
chesse de Duras, Leontine Fay and Lady Stuart 
de Rothesay, they got on, and made out the time, 
until purgatory ceased and paradise opened. 

For paradise it was, although there were there 
assembled some thirty or forty persons not less dull 
than the majority of our dull race, and in those 
little tactics that make society less burdensome, 
perhaps even less accomplished. But a sunbeam 
will make the cloudiest day break into smiles ; a 
bounding fawn will banish monotony even from a 
wilderness ; and a glass of claret, or perchancft 
some stronger grape, will convert even the platitude 
of a goblet of water into a pleasing beverage, — and 
so May Dacre moved among her guests, shedding 
light, life, and pleasure. 

She was not one who, shrouded in herself, leaves 
it to chance or fate to amuse the beings whom she 
has herself assembled within her halls. Noncha- 
lance is the metier of your modern hostess ; and 
as long as the house be not on lire, or the furniture 
not kicked, you may be even ignorant who is the 
[)riestess of the hospitable fane in which you wor- 
ship. 

They are right. Men shrink from a fussy wo- 
man. And few can aspire to regulate the destinies 
of their species, even in so slight a point as an 
hour's amusement, without rare powers. There is 
no greater sin than to be irop prunoncee. A want 
of tact is worse than a want of virtue. Some 
women, it is said, work on pretty well against the 
tide without the last: I never knew one who did 
not sink who ever dared to sail without the first. 

Loud when they should be low, quoting the 
wrong person, talking on the wrong subject, tcaz- 
ing with notice, excruciating with attentions, dis- 
tuibing a tcie-a-tiie in order to make up a dance ; 
wasting eloquence in persuading a man to parti- 
cipate in amusement, whose reputation depends en 
his social suUenness ; exacting homage with a 
restless eye, and not permitting the least worthy 
knot to be untwined without their divinityship's 
interference; patronising; the meek, anticipating 
the slow, intoxicated with compliment, plastering 
with praise, that you in return may gild with 
flattery : in short, energetic without elegance, 
active without grace, and loquacious without wit , 
mistaking bustle for style, raillery for badinage, 
and noise for gayety — these are the characters who 
mar the very career they think they are creating-, 
and who exercise a faUiI influence on the destinies 
of all those who have the misfortune to be con- 
nected with them. 

Not one of these was she, the lady of our tale. 
There was a quiet dignity lurking even under hei 
easiest words and actions, which made you feel 
her notice a comphmcnt; there was a fascination 
in her calm smile, and in her sunlit eye, which 
made her invitation to amusement itself a pleasure 
If you refused, you were not pressed, but left to 
that isolation which you appeared to admire il' 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



239 



you assented, you were rewarJed with a word, 
which made you feel liovv sweet was such society ! 
Her invention never flas^ged, — her gayety never 
ceased ; yet both were spontaneous and often were 
unobserved. All felt amused, and all were uncon- 
sciously her agents. Her word and her example 
seemed, each instant, to call forth from her compa- 
nions new accomplishments, new graces, new 
sources of joy and of delitiht. All were surprised 
that they were so agreeable. 



CHAPTER X. 

MonxiNR came, and the great majority of the 
gentlemen rose early as aurora. The chase is the 
favourite pastime of man and boy ; yet some pre- 
ferred plundering their host's preserves, by which 
means their slumbers were not so brief, and their 
breakfast less disturbed. The hattiic, however, in 
time, called forth its band, and then, one by one, oi 
two by two, or sometimes even three, leaning on 
each other's arms, and smiling in each other's faces, 
the ladies dropped in the breakfast-room at Castle 
Dacre. There, until two o'clock, a lounging meal 
might always be obtained, but generally by twelve 
the coast was clear : for our party were a natural 
race of beings, and would have blushed if flaming 
noon had caught them napping in their easy 
couches. Our bright bird, May Dacre, too, rose 
from her bower, full of the memory of the sweetest 
dreams, and fresh as lilies ere they kiss the sunf. 

She bends before her ivory crucifix, and gazes 
on her blessed mother's face, where the sweet Flo- 
rentine had tinged with light a countenance 

" Too fair for worship, too divine for love !" (5) 

And innocence has prayed for fresh support, and 
young devotion told her holy beads. She rises 
with an eye of mellowed light, and her soft cheek 
is tinted with the flush tliat comes from prayer. 
Guard over her, ye angels ! whercsoe'er, and what- 
soe'er ye are ! For she shall be your meet com- 
panion in an after-day. Then love you, gentle 
iriend, this smless child of clay ! 

The morning passed as mornings ever pass 
where twenty women, for the most part pretty, are 
met together. Some read, some drew, some work- 
ed — all talked. Some wandered in the librarj', 
and wondered why such great books were written. 
One sketched a favourite hero in the picture gallery 
— a Dacre, who had saved the state or church — 
had fought at Cressy, or flourished at Windsor : 
— another picked a flower out of the conservatory, 
and painted its powdered petals. Here, a purse, 
half-made, promised, when finished quite, to make 
some hero happy. Then there was chat about the 
latest fashions, caps and bonnets, seduisantes and 
sleeves. As the day pr.'ew old, some walked, some 
drove. A pony-chaise was Lady Faulconcourt's 
delight, whose arm was roundly turnecL and graced 
the whip; while, on the other hand, Liady St. Je- 
rome rather loved to try the paces of an ambling 
nag, because her figure was of the sublime ; and 
she looked not imlike an Amazonian queen, parti- 
cularly when Lord Mildmay was her 1'heseus. 

He was the most consummate, polished gentle- 
man that ever issued from the court of France. 
He did his friend Dacre the justice to suppose that 



he was a victim to his barbarous giests ; but for 
the rest of the gallopin-g crew, who rode and shot 
all day, and in the evening fell asleep just when 
they were wanted, he shrugged his shoulders and 
he thanked his stars ! In short. Lord Mildmay 
was the ladies' man ; and in their morning dearth 
of beaux, to adopt their unanimous expression, 
" quite a host !" 

Then there was archery for those who could 
draw a bow or point an arrow ; and I am yet to 
learn the sight tViat is more dangerous for your 
bachelor to witness, or the ceremony which more 
perfectly developes all that the sex would wish 
us to remark, than this " old English" custom. 
They may talk of waltzing — but I say nothing — 
only, if I had a son (but then I have not) or a 
preUy daughter, (which I may have for aught you 
know,) why, then, miss should march to the 
archery ground. 

But then, before the arrow of our young Camilla 
skims along the plain, let her take my advice, and 
discreetly go to some danscuse, of a good style, and 
presenting her with guineas four or five, imbibe a 
little of her imposing lore. 

Lo ! my pupil appears in all the grace of atti- 
tudes. Mark, as she bends the fatal bow, the line 
of beauty beauUfuUy defined ! Mark the waving 
arm, the well-planted foot, the gentle inclination of 
the head — quite Greek. The triumphant arrow 
whizzes through the air, and transfixes on the spot 
— the eye of the target ! O, no ! Who cares 
for that ] — the heart of an elder brother. 

But to our morning party. With all these re- 
sources, all was, of course, free and easy as the air. 
Your appearance was your own act. If you liked, 
you might have remained, like a monk or nun, in 
your cell till dinner-time — but no later. Privacy 
and freedom are granted you in the morning, that 
you may not exhaust your powers of pleasing be- 
fore night, and that you may reserve for those 
favoured hours all the new ideas that you have col- 
lected in the course of your morning adventures. 

But where was he, the hero of our tale ] Fenc- 
ing 1 Craning ] Hitting 1 Missing 1 Is he over, 
or is he under ? Has he killed ? or is he killed ] — 
for the last is but the chance of war, and pheasants 
have the pleasure of sometimes seeing as gay birds 
as themselves with plumage quite as shattered. 
But there is no danger of the noble countenance 
of the Duke of St. James bearing to-day any evi- 
dence of the exploits of himself or his companions. 
His grace was in one of his sublime fits, and re- 
mained in bed till four o'clock. Luigi consoled 
himself for the bore of this protracted attendance, 
by diddling the page in wailing at dominos. 

The Duke of St. James was in one of his sub- 
lime fits. He had commenced by thinking of May 
Dacre, and he ended by thinking of himself. Ho 
was under that delicious and dreamy excitement 
which we experience, when the image of a lovely 
and beloved object begins to mix itself up with our 
own intense self-love. She was the heroine rather 
of an indefinite revery, than of definite romance. 
Instead of his own image alone playing about his 
fancy, her beautiful face and springing figure in- 
truded their exquisite presence. He no longer 
mused merely on his own voice and wit : he called 
up her tones of thrilling power ; he imagined her 
in all the triumph of her gay repartee. In his 
mind's eye, he clearly watched all the graces of 
her existence. She moved, she gazed, she sniiled. 



260 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Now he was alone, and walking with her in some 
rich wood, sequestered, warm, solemn, dim, feeding 
on the music of her voice, and gazing with intense- 
ness on the wakening passion of her devoted eye. 
Now they rode together, scudded over champaign, 
galloped down hills, scampered through valleys, all 
life, and gayety, and vivacity, and spirit. Now 
they were in courts and crowds ; and he led her 
with pride to the proudest kings. He covered her 
with jewels ; but the world thought her brighter 
than his gems. Now they met in the most unex- 
pected and improbable manner ; now they parted 
with a tenderness which subdued their souls even 
more than rapture. Now he saved her life ; now 
she blessed his existence. Now his revery was too 
vague and misty to define its subject. It was a 
stream of passion, joy, sweet voices, tender tones, 
exulting hopes, beaming faces, chaste embraces, 
immortal transports ! 

For a young gemtleman to lie awake on a sum- 
mer morning, and with his eyes and shutters alike 
unclosed, to pass six or eight hours in this manner, 
will to some people perhaps appear impossible. 
Harsher spirits may even salute my last page or 
two with the ungentle title of nonsense. If it be 
nonsense, it is only such because I have attempted 
to describe what is perhaps indescribable; but they 
who have heightened the delight of their existence 
by an habitual indulgence in revery, the mental 
opium, they will sympathise with this faint tracing 
of delicious joy ! 

It was three o'clock, and for the twentieth time 
our hero made an efl'ort to recall himself to the reali- 
ties of life. How cold, how tame, how lifeless, 
how imperfect, how inconsecutive, did every thing 
appear ! This is the curse of revery. But they 
who revel in its pleasures must bear its pains, and 
are content. Yet it wears out the brain, and unfits 
us for social life. They who indulge in it most are 
the slaves of solitude. They wander in a wilder- 
ness, and people it with their voices. They sit by 
the side of running waters, with an eye more glassy 
than the stream. The sight of a human being 
scares them more than a wild beast does a traveller; 
the conduct of life, when thrust upon their notice, 
seems only a tissue of adventures without point; 
and, compared with the creatures of their imagina- 
tion, human nature seems to send forth only abor- 
tions. 

"I must up," said the young duke; "and this 
creature on whom I have lived for the last eight 
hours, who has, in herself, been to me the uni- 
verse, — this constant companion, this cherished 
friend, whose voice was passion, and whose look 
was love, will meet me with all the formality of a 
yonng lady, all the coldness of a person who has 
never even thought of me since she saw me last. 
Damnable delusion ! To-morrow I will get up 
and hunt." 

He called Luigi, and a shower-bath assisted him 
in taking a more healthy view of afliairs. Yet his 
faithful fancy recurred to her again. He must in- 
dulge it a little. He left oflP dressing, and flung 
liimself in a chair. lAiigi oflcred the eau de Co- 
logne. "Without looking at it, his grace tossed the 
richly cut bottle into a corner. It broke. Revery 
is a most expensive luxury. 

" And yet," he continued, " when I think of it 
again, there surely can be no reason that this should 
not turn into a romance of real life. I perceived 
that she was a little piijued, when we first met at 



Doncaster. Very natural ! Very flattering ! I 
should have been piqued. Certainly, I behaved 
decidedly bad. But how, in the name of Heaven, 
was I to know that she was the brightest little being 
that ever breathed ! Well, I am here now ! She 
has got her wish. And I think an evident alteration 
has already taken place. But she must not melt 
too quickly. She will not, — she will do nothing 
but what is exquisitely proper. How I do love 
this child ! I dote upon her very image. It is the 
very thing that I have always been wanting. The 
women call me inconstant. I have never been 
constant. But they will not listen to us without 
we feign feelings, and then they upbraid us for not 
being influenced by them. I have sighed, I have 
sought, I have wept, for what I now have found. 
What would she give to know what is passing 
in my mind ! By heavens ! there is no blood 
in England that has a better chance of being a 
dutchess !" 



CHAPTER XI. 

A CANTER is the cure for every evil, and brings 
the mind back to itself sooner than all the lessons 
of Chrysippus and Crantor. It is the only pro- 
cess that, at the same time, calms your feelings, 
and elevates your spirits, banishes blue devils, and 
raises you to the society of " angels ever bright and 
fair." It clears the mind ; it cheers the heart. It 
is the best preparation for all enterprises, for it puts 
a man in good humour both with the world and 
himself; and whether you are going to make a 
speech or scribble a scene — whether you are about 
to conquer the world or yourself — order your horse. 
As you bound along, your wit will brighten, and 
your eloquence blaze, your courage grow more ada- 
mantine, and your generous feelings burn with a 
livelier flame. And when the exercise is over, the 
excitement docs not cease, as when it grows from 
music, for your blood is up, and the brilliancy of 
your eye is fed by your bubbling pulses. Then, 
my young friend, take my advice — rush into the 
world, and triuniph will grow out of your quick 
life, like Victory bounding from the palm of Jove ! 

Our duke ordered his horses, and as he rattled 
along, recovered from the enervating eflects of his 
soft revery. On his way home he fell in with Mr. 
Dacre and the two baronets, returning on their 
hackneys from a hard-fought field. 

" Gay sport 1" asked his grace. 

" Twelve hours, by George !" answered Sir 
Chetwode. " I only hope Jack Wilson will take 
care of poor Fanny. I did not half like leaving 
her. Your grace does not join us?" 

" I mean to do so ; but I am nnfortunately a late 
riser." 

" Hem !" said Sir Tichborne. — The monosylla- 
ble meant much. 

" I have a horse which I think will suit your 
grace," said Mr. Dacre, " and to which, in fact, you 
are entitled, for it bears the name of your house. 
You have ridden Hauteville, Sir Tichborne ?" 

" Yes ; fine beast !" 

" I shall certainly try his powers," said the duke. 
" When is your next field-day V 

" Thursday," said Sir Tichborne ; " but we shall 
be too early for you, I am afraid," with a gruff 
smile. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



261 



" O ! no," said the young duke, who saw his 
man ; " I assure you, I have been up to-day nearly 
two hours. Let us 50 on." 

The first person that his grace's eye met, wlien 
he entered the room in which they assembled be- 
fore dinner, was iMrs. DaUington Vere. 

Dinner was a favourite moment with the Dulce 
of St. James, during tliis visit at Castle Dacre, 
since it was the only time in the day that, thanks 
to his ranlv, whieli he now doubly valued, he 
could enjoy a tctc-a-lete with its blooming mistress. 
• " I am going to hunt," said the duke, " and I am 
to ride Hauteville. I hope you will set me an ex- 
ample on Thursday, and that I shall establish my 
character with Sir Tichborne." 

" I am to lead on that day a bold band of archers. 
I have already too much neglected my practising, 
and I fear that my cliance of the silver arrow is 
very slim." 

" I have betted upon you with everybody," said 
the Duke of St. James. 

" Remember Doncaster ! I am afraid that May 
Dacre will again be the occasion of your losing 
your money." 

" But now I am on the right side. Together, 
we must conquer." 

" I liave a presentiment that our union will not 
be a very fortunate one." 

" Then I am ruined," said his grace, with rather 
a serious tone. 

" I hope you have not staked any thing upon 
such nonsense," said May Dacre. 

" I have staked every thing," said his grace. 

" Talking of stakes," said Lord St. Jerome, who 
pricked up his ears at a congenial subject, " do you 
know what they are going to do about that aflair 
of Anderson's r' 

"What does he say for himself?" asked Sir 
Clietwode. 

" He says that he had no intentions of embezzling 
money, but that, as he took it for granted the point 
could never be decided, he thought it was against 
the usury laws to allow money to be idle." 

" That fellow has always got an answer," said 
Sir Tichborne. " I hate men who have always got 
an answer. There is no talking common sense 
with them. They think no more of contradicting 
a gentleman than Ripley does of riding without 
stirrups, which I never could see the beauty of.'' 

The duke made his escape to-day, and embold- 
ened by his illustrous example, Charles Faulcon, 
Lord St. Jerome, and some other heroes followed, to 
the greatdisgust of Sir Chetwode Chetwode of Chet-» 
wode and Sir Tichborne Tichborne of Tichborne. 

As the evening ghded on, conversation naturally 
fell upon the amusements of society. 

" I am sure we are tired of dancing every night," 
said May Dacre. " I wonder if we could introduce 
any novelty. — What think you, Bertha'? You 
can always suggest." 

"You remember the tableaux vivans ?" said 
Mrs. Dallington Vere. 

" Beautiful ! but too elaborate a business, I fear, 
for us. I want something more impromptu. The 
tableaux are nothihg without the most brilliant 
and accurate costume, and to obtain that, we must 
work at least a week, and then after all, in all 
probability, a failure. lis sant fnip recherches" she 
eaid, lowering her voice to Mrs. Dallington, "pour 
nous ici. They must spring out of a society used 
to such exhibitions." 



" I have a costume dress here," said the Duke of 
St. James. 

" And I have a uniform," said Lord Mildmay. 

"And then," said Mrs. Dallington, "there are 
cachemeres, and scarfs, and jewels to be collected. 
I see, however, yov; think it impossible." 

" f fear so. However, we will think of it. In 
the mean time, what shall we do now 1 Suppose 
we act a fairy tale !" 

" None of the girls can act," said Mrs. Dallington 
v^'ith a look of kind pity. 

"Let us teach them. That itself will he au 
amusement. Suppose we act Cinderella? There 
is the music of Cendrillon, and you can compose, 
when necessary, as you go on. Clara Howard !" 
said May Dacre, " come here love ! We want you 
to be Cinderella in a little play." 

" I act ! O ! dear May ! How can you laugh at 
me so ! I cannot act." 

" You will not have to speak. Only just 
move about as I direct you, while Bertha plays 
music." 

" ! dear May, I cannot indeed ! I never did act. 
Ask Eugenia !" 

" Eugenia ! l( i/ou are afraid, I am sure she will 
faint. I asked you because I thought you were 
just the person for it." 

"But only think," said poor Clara, with an im- 
ploring voice," to act, May! Why, acting is 
the most ditlicult thing in the world. Acting is 
quite a dreadful thing. I know many ladies who 
will not act." 

" But it is not acting, Clara. Well ! I will 
be Cinderella, and you shall be one of the sis- 
ters ?" 

" No, dear May !" 

" Well then, the fairy ?" 

"No, dear, dear, dear May?" 

" Well, your grace, what am I to do with this 
rebellious troop?" 

" Let me be Cinderella !" 

" It is astonishing," said May Dacre, " the diffi- 
culty which you encounter in England, if you try 
to make people the least amusing, or vary the 
regular dull routine, which announces dancing as 
the beautiful of diversion, and cards as the sublime." 

" We are barbarians," said the duke. 

" We were not," said May Dacre. " What are 
tableaux, or acted charades, or romances, to masks, 
which were the splendid and various amusements 
of our ancestors. Last Christmas we performed 
Comus here with great effect; but then we had 
Arundel, and he is an admirable actor." 

"Curse Arundel!" thought the duke, "I had 
forgotten him." 

" I do not wonder,'' said Mrs. Dallington Vere, 
" at people objecting to act regular plays, for, inde- 
pendent of the objections, — not that I think any 
thing of them myself, — which are urged against 
' private theatricals,' the fact is, to get up a play is 
a very tremendous business, and one or two is your 
bound. But masks, where there is so little to learn 
by rote, a great consideration, where music and 
song are so exquisitely introduced, where there is 
such an admirable opportunity for brilliant costume, 
and where the scene may be beautiful without 
change, — such an important point, — I cannoi) 
help wondering that this national diversion is not 
revived." 

" Suppose we were to act a romance without the 
costume?" said the duke. "Let us consider it 1 



2G2 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



rehearsal. And perhaps the Misses Howard will 
have no objection to singl" 

" It is dilficult to find a suitable romance," said 
]\Iay Dacre. " All our modern English ones are 
too full of fine poetry. We tried once an old bal- 
lad, but it waj too long. Last (vhristmas we got 
up a good many, and Arundel, Isabella, and myself 
used to scribble some nonsense for the occasion. 
But I am afraid they are all either burned or taken 
away. I will look in the music-case." 

She went to the music-case with the duke and 
Mrs. Dallington." 

" No," she continued, " not one, not a single one. 
But what are these 1" She looked at some lines 
written in pencil in a music-book. " O ! here is 
something, too slight, but it will do. — You see," she 
continued, reading it to the duke, " by the intro- 
duction of the same line in every verse, describing 
the same action, a back-scene is, as it were, created, 
and the story, if you can call it such, proceeds in 
front. Really, I think, we might make something 
of this." 

Mr. Dacre and some others were at whist. The 
two barons were together talking over the morn- 
ing's sport. Ecarte covered a flirtation between 
Lord Mildmay and Lady St. Jerome. Miss Dacre 
assembled her whole troop ; and, like a manager 
with a new play, read in the midst of them the 
ballad, and gave them directions for their conduct. 
A japan screen was unfolded at the end of the 
rootn. Two couches indicated the limits of the 
stage. Then taking her guitar, she sang with 
a sweet voice and arch simplicity, these simpler 
lines : 

I. 

Childe Dacre stands in his father's hall, 

Whilp all the rest aro dancing ; 
Chilile Dacre srazes on llie wall. 

While brightest eyes are glancing. 
Then prithee tell me, seniles lay ! 
What makes our Childe so dull lo-day 1 

Each verse was repeated. In the background 
they danced a cotillion. In the front, the Duke of 
St. James, as Childe Dacre, leaned against the wall 
with arms folded, and eyes fixed, — in short, in most 
romantic mood, and in an attitude which com- 
manded great applause. 

II. 

I cannot tell, nnless it lie, 

While all the rest are dancing, 
The Lady Alice, on the sea. 

With liright -St eyes is glancing, 
Or muses on th'- iwiliglii''hoiir 
Will bring Childe Dacre to her bower. , 

Mrs. Dallington Vere advances as the La(5y 
AUce. Her walk is abrupt; her look anxious and 
distracted ; she seems to be listening for some signal. 
She falls mto a musing attitude, motionless, and 
graceful as a statue. Clara Howard alike marvels 
at her genius and her courage. 

III. 

Childe Dacre hears the curfew chime, 

While all the rest are dancing ; 
Unless I lind a filling rhyme, 

O ! heae ends my romancing ! 
But see ! her lover 's at her feet ! 
O ! words of joy ! O ! meeting sweet ! 

The duke advances : chivalric passion in his 
every gesture. The Lady Ahce rushes to his 
arms, with that look of trembling transport which 
tells the tale of stUen love. They fall into a 



group which would have made the fortune of an 
annual. 

IV. 

Then let us hope, when next I sing, 

And all the rest are dancing. 
Our Childe a gentle bride may bring, 

All other jnys enhancing 
Then we will bless the twili;:ht hour, 
That call'd him to a lady's bower. 

The duke led Mrs. Dallington to the dancers 
with courtly grace. There was great applause, 
but the .spirit of fun and one-and-twenty inspired 
him, and he led olT a gallop. In fact, it was a 
most elegant romp. The two baronets started from 
their slumbers, and Lord Mildmay called for Made- 
moiselle Dacre. The call was echoed. Miss 
Dacre yielded to the public voice, and acted to the 
life the gratified and condescending air of a first- 
rate performer. Lord Mildmay called for .Madame 
Dallington. Miss Dacre led on her companion, as 
Sontag would Malibran. There was no wreath at 
hand, but the Duke of St. James robbed his coat of 
its rose, and offered it on his knee to Mademoiselle, 
who presented it with Parisian feeling to her rival. 
The scene was as superb as any tiling at the 
Acacij-niie. 



CHAPTER XII. 

" AVe certainly must have a mask," said the 
young duke, as he threw himself into his chivir, 
satisfied with his performance. 

" You must open Hauteville with one," said 
Mrs. Dallington. 

" A capital idea ; but we will practise at Dacre 
first." 

" When is Hauteville to be finished 1" asked 
Mrs. Dallington. "I shall really complain if we are 
to be kept out of it much longer. I believe I am 
the only person in the Riding who has not been 
there." 

" I have been there," said the duke, " and am 
afraid I must go again ; for Sir Carte has just 
come down for a few days, and I promised to meet 
him. It is a sad bore. I wish it were finished." 

" Take me with you," said Mrs. Dallington, — 
" take us all, and let us make a party." 

" An admirable idea," exclaimed the young 
duke, with a brightening countenance. 

" What admirable ideas you have, Mrs. Dalling- 
ton ! This is, indeed, turning business into plea- 
sure ! What says our hostess 1" 

" ! I will join you." 

" To-morrow, then 1" said the duke. 

" To-morrow ! You are rapid !" 

" Never postpone, never prepare : — that is youi 
own rule. To-morrow, to-morrow — ail must go." 

" Papa, will you go to-morrow to Hauteville 1" 

"Are you serious ?" 

" Yes," said May Dacre ; " we never postpone ; 
we never prepare." 

" But do not you thmk a day, at least, had bet- 
ter intervene 1" urged Mr. Dacre ; "we shall be 
unexpected." 
. " I vote for to-morrow," said the duke. 

" To-morrow, to-morrow !" was the universal 
exclamation. To-morrow was carried. 

" I will write to Blanche at once," said the duke 

Mrs. Dallington Vere ran for the writing mate 
rials, and liis grace indited the following pithy noto 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



263 



" Half-past ten. — Castle Dacre. 
" Dear Sir Carte, 

" Our party here intend to honour Hauteville 
with a visit to-moiTow, and anticipate the pleasure 
of viewing the improvements with yourself for their 
cicerone. Let Rawdon know immediately of this. 
Tliey tell me here that the sun rises about six. As 
we shall not be with you till noon, I have no doubt 
your united energies will be able to make all requi- 
site preparations. We may be thirty or forty. Be- 
lieve me, dear Sir Carte, 

'' Your faithful ser\'ant, 

" St. James. 

" Carlestein bears this, which you will receive in 
an hour. Let me have a line by return," 



CHAPTER Xin. 

It was a morning all dew and sunshine, soft 3^et 
bright, just fit for a hawking party, for dames of 
high degree, feathered cavaliers, ambling palfreys, 
and tinkling bells. Our friends rose early, and as- 
sembled punctually. All went on horseback ; but 
they sent before a couple of carriages for the return, 
in case the ladies should be wearied with excessive 
pleasure. This cavalcade, for it was no less, broke 
into parties which were often out of sight of each 
other. The duke and Lord St. Jerome, Clara 
Howard and Charles Faulcon, and May Dacre and 
Mrs. Dallington formed one, and, as they flattered 
themselves, not the least brilliant. They were all 
in high spirits, and his grace lectured on riding- 
habits with erudite enthusiasm. 

Their road lay through a country wild and woody, 
where crag and copse beautifully intermixed with 
patches of the richest cultivation. Halfway, they 
passed Rosemont, a fanciful paviHon, where the 
Dukes of St. James sometimes sought that elegant 
simplicity which was not afforded by all the various 
charms of their magnificent Hauteville. At length 
they arrived at the park-gate of the castle, which 
might itself have passed for a tolerable mansion. 
It was ancient and embattled, flanked by a couple 
of sturdy towers, and gave a noble promise of the 
baronial pile which it announced. The park was 
a petty principality ; and its apparently illimitable 
extent, its rich variety of surface, its ancient woods, 
and numerous deer, attracted the attention and the 
admiration oven of those who had been born in 
these magical enclosures. 

Away they cantered over the turf, each moment 
with their blood more sparkling. A turn in the 
road, and Hauteville, with its donjon-keep and lord- 
ly flag, and many-windowed line of long perspec- 
tive ; its towers, and turrets, and terraces, bathed 
with the soft autumnal sun, met their glad sight. 

" Your majesty is welcome to my poor castle !" 
said the young duke, bowing with head uncovered 
to May Dacre. 

" Nay, we are at the best but captive princesses 
about to be immured in that fearful keep ; and this 
is the way you mock us !" 

" I am content that you shall be my prisoner." 

"A struggle for freedom I" said May Dacre, look- 
ing back to Mrs. Dallington, and she galloped 
towards the castle. 



Lord Mildmay and Lady St. Jerome cantered up, 
and the rest soon assembled. Sir Carte came for- 
ward, all smiles, with a clerk of the works bearing 
a portfolio of plans. A crowd of servants, for the 
duke maintained a full establishment at Hauteville, 
advanced, and the fair equestrians were dismount- 
ed. They shook their habits and their curls, vowed 
that riding was your only exercise, and that dus 
in the earthly economy was a blunder. And thei 
they entered the castle. 

Room after room, gallery after gallery — you 
know the rest. Shall I describe the silk hangings 
and the reverend tapestry, the agate tables and the 
tall screens, the china and the armour, the state 
beds; and the curious cabinets, and the family pic- 
tures mixed up so quaintly with Italian and Fle- 
mish art 1 But I pass from meek Madonnas and 
seraphic saints, — from gleaming Claudes, and Gui- 
dos soft as Eve, — from Rubens' satyrs and Albano's 
boys, and even from those gay and natural medleys 
— paintings that cheer the heart — where fruit and 
flower, with their brilliant bloom, call to a feast the 
butterfly and bee ; I pass from these to square- 
headed ancestors by Holbein, all black velvet and 
gold chains ; cavaliers, by Vandyke, all lace and 
.spurs, with pointed beards, that did more execution 
even than their pointed swords ; patriots and gene- 
rals, by Kneller, in Blenheim wigs and Steenkirk 
cravats, all robes and armour; scarlet judges that 
supported ship-money, and purple bishops, who 
had not been sent to the Tov.'er. Here was a wit 
who had sipped his coffee at Button's, and there 
some mad Alcibiades duke who had exhausted life 
ere he had finished youth, and yet might he con- 
soled for all his flashing follies, could he witness the 
bright eyes that lingered on his countenance, while 
they glanced over all the patriotism and all the 
piety, all the illustrious courage and all the historic 
craft which, when living, it was daily told him that 
he had shamed. Ye dames ! with dewy eyes, that 
Lely drew, have I forgotten you 1 No ! by that 
sleepy loveliness that reminds us that light belongs 
to beauty, ye were made for memory ! And O ! 
our grandmothers, that I now look upon as girls, 
breathing in Reynold's playful canvass, let me also 
pay my homage to your grace ! 

The chapel, where you might trace art from the 
richly Gothic tomb, designed by some neighbour- 
ing abbot, to the last effort of Flaxman, — the riding- 
house, where, brightly framed, looked down upon 
you with a courtly smile the first and gartered 
duke, who had been master of the horse, were alike 
visited, and alike admired. They mounted the 
summit of the round-tower, and looked around upon 
the broad country, which they were j)roud to call 
their own. Amid innumerable seats, where blazed 
the hearths of the best blood of England, they re- 
cognised with delight, the dome of Dacre and the 
woods of DalUngton. They walked along a terrace 
not unworthy of the promenade of a court; they 
visited the flower-gardens, where the peculiar style 
of every nation was in turn imitated ; they loitered 
in the vast conservatories, which were themselves 
a palace ; they wandered in the wilderness, where 
the invention of consummate art presented them 
with the ideal of nature. In this poetic solitude, 
where all was green, and still, and sweet, or where 
the only sound was falling water, or fluttering birds, 
the young duke recurred to the feelings which, dur- 
ing the last momentous week, had so mastered his 
nature, and he longed to wind his arm round the 



264 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



neautiful being, without wliom this enchanting do- 
main was a dreary waste. 

Tliey assembled in a green retreat, wliere the 
energetic Sir Carte had erected a mnrquce, and 
where a collation greeted the eyes of those who 
were well prepared far it. Rawdon had also done 
his duty, and the guests, who were aware of the 
sudden manner in which the whole afiair had ari- 
sen, wondered at the magic which had produced a 
result worthy of a week's preparation. But it is a 
great thing to be a young duke. The pasties, and 
the venison, and the game, the pines, and the 
peaches, and the grapes, the cakes and the confec- 
tionaiy, and the ices, which proved that the still- 
room at Hauteville was not an empty name, were 
all most popular. But the wines — they were some- 
thing miraculous ! And as the finest cellars in the 
country had been ransacked for excellence and va- 
riety, it is not wonderful that their produce obtain- 
ed a panegyric. There was hock a century old, 
which made all stare, though I, for my part, cannot 
see, or rather taste, the beauty of this antiquity. 
Wine, like woman, in my o])inion, should be young, 
— so I raise my altar to the infant Bacchus ; but 
this is not the creed of the million, nor was it the 
persuasion of Sir Chetwode Chctwode of (Jhet- 
wode, or of Sir Tichborne Tichborne of Tichborne, 
good judges both. The Johannisberger quite con- 
verted them. They no longer disliked the young 
duke. They thought him a fool, to be sure, but at 
the same time a very good-natured one. In the 
mean time, all were interested, and Carlstein, with 
his key-bugle, from out a neighbouring brake, af- 
forded the only luxury that was wanting. 

It is six o'clock — carriages are ordered, and horses 
are harnessed. Back, back to Dacre ! But not at 
tlie lively rate at which they had left that lordly 
hall this morning. They are all alike inclined to 
move slowly ; they are silent, yet serene and satis- 
fied ; they ponder upon the reminiscences of a de- 
lightful morning, and also of a delightful meal. 
Perhaps, they are a little weary ; perhaps, they 
wish to gaze upon the sunset. 

It is eight o'clock, and they enter the park-gates. 
Dinner is universally voted a bore, even by the 
baronets. Coflee covers the retreat of many a 
wearied bird to her evening bower. The rest 
lounge on a couch or sofa, or chew the cud of me- 
mory on an ottoman. It was a day of pleasure 
which had been pleasant. That was certain, but 
that was past. Who is to be Dutchess of St. 
James ] Answer me this : — May Dacre, or Bertha 
Vere, or Clara Howard ? — Lady St. Jerome, is it 
to be a daughter of thy house ! Lady Faulcon- 
court, ai-t thou to be hailed as the unrivalled 
mother] 'Tis mystery all, as must always be the 
future of this world. We muse, we plan, we hope, 
but naught is certain but that which is naught ; 
for, a question answered, a doubt satisfied, an end 
attained — what are they but fit companions for 
clothes out of fashion, cracked china, and broken 
fans ] 

Our hero was neither wearied nor sleepy, for his 
mind was too full of exciting fancies to think of the 
interests of his body. As all were withdrawing, 
he threw his cloak about him and walked on the 
terrace. It was a night soft as the rhyme that 
sighs from Rogers' shell, and brilliant as a phrase 
just turned by Moore. The thousand stars smiled 
from their blue pavilions, and the moon shed the 
mild light that makes a lover muse. Fragrance 



came in airy waves from trees rich with the golden 
orange, and from out the woods there ever and anon 
arose a sound, deep and yet hushed, and mystical, 
and soft. It could not be the wind ! 

His heart was full, his hopes were sweet, his 
fate pledged on a die. And in this shrine where 
all was like his love, immaculate and- beautiful, he 
vowed a faith which had not been returned. Such 
is the madness of love ! Such is the magic of 
beauty ! 

Music rose upon the air. Some huntsmen were 
practi'^ing their horns. The triumphant strain 
elevated his high hopes, the tender tone accorded 
with his emotions. He paced up and down the 
terrace in the most excited revery, fed by the music. 
In imagination she was with him : she spoke, she 
smiled, she loved. He gazed upon her beaming 
countenance : his soul thrilled with tones which 
only she could utter. He pressed her to his throb- 
bing and tumultuous breast ! 

The music stopped. He fell from the seventh 
heaven. He felt all the exhaustion of his prolonged 
revery. All was flat, dull, unpromising. The 
moon seemed dim, the stars were surely fading, 
the perfume of the trees was faint, the wind of the 
woods was a howling demon. Exhausted, dispi- 
rited, ay ! almost desperate, — with a darkened soul 
and staggering pace, he regained his chamber. 



CHAPTER XIV 

There is nothing more strange, but nothing 
more certain, than the dilTerent influence which 
the seasons of night and day exercise upon the 
modes of our minds. Him whom the moon sends 
to bed with a head full of misty meaning, the sun 
will summon in the morning with a brain clear and 
lucid as his beam. Twilight makes us pensive ; 
Aurora is the goddess of activity. Despair curses 
at midnight; hope blesses at noon. 

And the bright beams of Phoebus — why should 
this good old name be forgotten ] — called up our 
duke, rather later than a monk at matins, in a les.s 
sublime disposition than that in which he had 
paced among the orange trees of Dacre. His pas- 
sion remained, but his poetry was gone. He was 
all confidence, and gayety, and love, and panted 
for the moment when he could place his mother's 
coronet on the only head that was worthy to 
share the proud fortunes of the house of Haute- 
ville. 

" Luigi, I will rise. What is going on to-day 1" 

" The gentlemen are all out, your grace." 

" And the ladies'" 

" Are going to the archeiy ground, your grace." 

" Ah ! she will be there, Luigi !" 

" Yes, your grace." 

" My robe, Luigi." 

" Yes, your grace." 

" I forgot what I was going to say. — Luigi !" 

" Yes, your grace." 

" Luigi, Luigi, Luigi," hummed the duke, per- 
fectly unconscious, and beating time with his 
brush. His valet stared, but more when his lord, 
with eyes fixed on the ground, fell into a soliloquy, 
not a word of which, most provokingly, was audi- 
ble, except to my reader. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



265 



" How beautiful she looked yesterday upon the 
keep, when she tried to find Dacre ! I never saw 
such eyes in my life ! I must speak to Lawrence 
immediately. I think I must have her face painted 
in four positions, like that picture of l^ady Alice 
Gordon, by Sir Joshua. Her full face is sublime ; 
and yet there is a piquancy in the proiiie, which I 
am not sure — and yet again, when her countenance 
is a little bent towards you, and her neck gently 
turned, I ttiink that is, after all — but then when 
her eyes meet yours, full — oh ! yes ! yes ! yes ! 
That first look at Doncaster ! It is impressed upon 
my brain like self-consciousness. I never can for- 
get it. But then her smile ! When she sang on 
Tuesday night — Pretty puss ! By heavens !" he 
exclaimed aloud, " life with such a creature is 
immortality !" 

He advanced with rapid strides, with his razor 
in hand. — Luigi retreated, — the duke pushed on, 
— Luigi was in a corner, in a moment his throat 
must have been cut. He coughed : the duke 
elarted. 

" Ah ! Luigi, am I up 1 Archery, eh 1 Then 
I wear my green frock." 

About one o'clock the duke descended into 
pmpty chambers. Not a soul was to be seen. 
The birds had flown. He determined to go to the 
archery ground. He opened the door of the music- 
room. He found May Dacre alone at a table, 
writing. She looked up, and his heart yielded, as 
Her eye met his. 

" You do not join the nymphs 1" asked the 
duke. 

" I h'lve lent my bow," she said, " to an able 
substitute." 

She resumed her task, which he perceived was 
copying music. He advanced, he seated himself 
at the table, and began playing with a pen. He 
gazed upon her, his soul thrilled with unwonted 
sensations, his frame shook with emotions which, 
for a moment, deprived him even of speech. At 
length he spoke in a low and tremulous tone — 

" I fear I am disturbing you. Miss Dacre V 

" By no means," she said, with a courteous air; 
and then remembering she was a hostess, ''Is there 
any thing that your grace requires 1" 

" Much — more than I can hope. O ! Miss 
Dacre, suflfor me to tell you how much I admire, 
how much I love you !" 

She started, she stared at him with distended 
pyes, and her small mouth was open like a ring. 

"My lord!" 

"Yes!" he continued, in a rapid and impas- 
sioned tone ; " I at length find an opportunity of 
giving way to feelings which it has been long dif- 
ficult for me to control. O ! beautiful being, tell 
nie — tell me that I am blessed !" 

" My lord ! I — I am most honoured — pardon 
me if I say, most surprised." 

" Yes ! from the first moment that your ineffable 
loveliness rose on my vision, my mind has fed upon 
your image. Our acquaintance has only realized, 
of your character, all that my imagination had 
preconceived. Such unrivalled beauty, such un- 
speakable grace, could only have been the compa- 
nions of that exquisite taste, and that charming 
delicacy, which, even to witness, has added great 
felicity to my existence. O ! tell me — tell me that 
they shall be for me something better than a tran- 
sient spectacle. Condescend to share the fortune 
and the fate of one, who only esteems liis lot in 
31 



life because it enables him to offer j'ou a station 
not utterly unworthy of your transcendent excel- 
lence !" 

" My lord, I have permitted you to proceed too 
far. For your, for my own sake, I should sooner 
have interfered ; but, in truth, I was so perfectly as- 
tounded at your unexpected address, that I have 
but just succeeded in recalling my scattered senses. 
Let me again express to you my acknowleilgments 
for an honour which I feel is great ; but permit 
me to regret, that for your offer of your hand and 
fortune, these acknowledgments are all I can re- 
turn." 

" Miss Dacre ! am I then to wake to the misery 
of being rejected 1" 

" A little week ago, my lord, we were strangers. 
It would be hard if it were in the power of either 
of us now to deliver the other to misery." 

" You are offended, then, at the presumption 
which, on so slight an acquaintance, has aspired 
to your hand. It is indeed a high possession. I 
thought only of you, not of myself Your per- 
fections require no time for recognition. Perhaps 
my imperfections require time for indulgence. Let 
me then hope!" 

" My lord, you have misconceived my meaning, 
and I regret that a foolish phrase should occasion 
you the trouble of fresh solicitude, and me the 
pain of renewed refusal. In a word, it is not in 
my power to accept your hand." 

He rose from the table, and stifled the groan 
which struggled in his tluoat. He paced up and 
down the room with an agitated step and a con- 
vulsed brow, which marked the contest of his pas- 
sions. But he was not desperate. His heart was 
full of high resolves and mighty meanings, indefi- 
nite but great. He felt like some conqueror, who, 
marldng the battle going against him, proud in his 
infinite resources and invincible power, cannot cre- 
dit the madness of a defeat. And the lady, she 
leaned her head U[)on her delicate arm, and screened 
her countenance from his scrutiny. 

He advanced. 

" Miss Dacre I pardon this prolonged intrusion ; 
forgive this renewed discourse. But let me only 
hope, that a more favoured rival is the cause of my 
despair, and I will thank you — " 

" My lord," she said, looking up with a faint 
blush, but with a flashing eye, and in an audible 
and even energetic tone — " the question you ask is 
neither fair nor manly ; but as you choose to press 
me, I will say, that it requires no recollection of a 
third person to make me decline the honour which 
you intended me." 

" Miss Dacre ! you speak in anger, almost in 
bitterness. Believe me," he added, rather with an 
air of pique, " had I imagined from your conduct 
towards me that I was an object of dislike, I 
would have spared you this inconvenience, and 
myself this humiliation." 

" My lord, as mistress of Castle Dacre, my con- 
duct to all its inmates is the sapie. The Duke oi 
St. James, indeed, had both hereditary and person- 
al claims to be considered here as something 
better than a mere inmate ; but your grace has 
elected to dissolve all connexion with our house, 
and I am not desirous of assisting you in again 
forming any." 

" Harsh words, Miss Dacre !" 

" Harsher truth, my lord duke," said Miss Da- 
cre, risuig fiom her seat, and twisting a pen witlj 
Z 



•266 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



as^itatec] energy. — "You liave prolonged this inter- 
view, not I. Let it end, for I am not skiliul in 
veiling my mind; and I should regret, here at 
least, to express what I have hitherto succeeded in 
concealing." 

" It cannot end thus," said his grace ; " let me, 
nt any rate, know the worst. You have, if not too 
much kindness, at least too much candour, to part 
60 !" 

" I am at a loss to understand," said Miss Dacre, 
" what other object our conversation can have for 
your grace, than to ascertain my feelings, which I 
have already declared more than once upon a point, 
which you have already more than once urged. If 
I have not been sufficiently explicit or sufficiently 
dear, let me tell you, sir, that nothing but the re- 
quest of a parent whom I adore, would have in- 
ikiced me even to speak to the person who had dared 
to treat him with contcm})t." 
"Miss Dacre!" 

" Your grace is moved, or you affect to be moved. 
'Tis well : — if a word from a stranger can thus af- 
Icct you, you may be better able to comj)rehend the 
Icelings of that person whose aftections you have 
so long outraged — your equal in blood, my lord 
duke, your superior in all other respects." 

" Beautiful being !" said his grace, advancing, 
falling on his knee, and seizing her hand — " Par- 
tion, pardon, pardon ! Like your admirable sire, 
forgive, cast into oblivion all rememl)rance of my 
fatal youth. Is not your anger — is not this mo- 
jrient a bitter, an utter expiation for all my folly, — 
all my thoughtless, all my inexperienced folly, — 
for it was no worse 1 On my knees, and in the 
face of Heaven, let me pray you to be mine. I 
liave staked my happiness upon this venture. In 
your power is my fate. On you it depends whether 
I shall discharge my duty to society, to the country 
to which I owe so much — or whether I shall move 
iu it without an aim, an object, or a hope. Think 
— think only of the sympathy of our disjwsitions — 
the similarity of our tastes. Think — think only of 
the felicity that might be ours. Think of the uni- 
versal good that we might achieve ! Is there any 
thing that human reason could require that we 
could not command 1 — any object which human 
mind could imagine that we could not obtain 1 
And as for myself, I swear I will be the creature 
of your will. Nay, nay ! — oaths are mockery — 
vows are idle ! Is it possible to share existence 
with you, beloved girl ! without watclung for every 
wish — without — " 

" My lord, my lord, this must end. You do not 
recomjucnd yourself to mc by this rhapsody. What 
do you know of me, that you should feel all this? 
J am rather diilcrent from what you expected — that, 
that is all. Another week, and another woman 
may command a similar effusion. I do not believe 
you to be insincere. There would be more hope 
for you if you were. You act from impulse, and 
not from principle. This is your best excuse for 
your conduct to my father. It is one that I accept, 
but vi'hich will certainly ever prevent me from be- 
coming your wife. Farewell !" 

" Nay, nay ! let us not jiart in enmity !" 
" My lord, enmity and friendship are very strong 
words — words that are very much abused. There 
is another, which must describe our feelings to- 
wards the majority of mankind, and mine towards 
you. Substitute for enmity — indilference." 

tShe quitted the room: he remained there for 



some minutes leaning on the mantel- piece, and 
then rushed into the park. He hurried for some 
miles with the rapid and uncertain step which be- 
tokens a tumultuous and disordered mind. At 
length he found himself among the ruins of Dacre 
Abbey. The silence and solemnity of the scene 
made him conscious, by the contrast, of his own 
agitated existence, — the desolation of the beautiful 
ruin accorded with his own crushed and beautiful 
hopes. He sat himself at the feet of the clustered 
columns, and, covering his face with his hands, he 
wept. 

They were the first tears that he had shed since 
childhood, and they were agony. Men weep but 
once, but then their tears are blood. I think almost 
their hearts nuist crack a little, so heartless are they 
ever after. Enough of this. It is bitter to leave 
our father's hearth for the first time : bitter is the 
eve of our return, when a thousand fears rise in our 
haunted souls. Bitter are hope deferred, and self- 
reproach, and power unrecognised. Bitter is po- 
verty; bitterer still is debt. It is bitter to be neg- 
lected ; it is more bitter to be misunderstood. 

It is bitter to lose an only child. It is bitter to 
look upon tiic land which once was ours. Bitter 
is a sister's wo, a brother's scrape ; bitter a mother's 
tear, and bitterer still a father's curse. Bitter are a 
briefless bag, a curate's bread, a diploma that brings 
no fee. Bitter is half-pay ! ' 

It is bitter to muse on vanished youth; it is bit- 
ter to lose an election, or a suit. Bitter are rage 
suppres.sed, vengeance unwreaked, and prize-money 
ke[)t i)ack. Bitter are a failing crop, a glutted mar- 
ket, and a shattering spec. Bitter are rents in 
arrear, and tithes in kind. Bitter are salaries re- 
duced, and perquisites destroyed. Bitter is a tax, 
particularly if misapplied ; a rate, particularly if 
embezzled. Bitter is a trade too full, and bitterer 
still a trade that has worn out. Bitter is a bore ! 

It is bitter to lose one's hair or te^oth. It is bit- 
ter to find our annual charge exceed our income. 
It is bitter to hear of others' fame when we are 
boys. It is bitter to resign the seals we fain would 
keep. It is bitter to hear the winds blow when we 
have ships or friends at sea. Bitter are a broken 
friendship and a dying love. Bitter a woman 
scorned, a man betrayed ! 

Bitter is the secret wo which none can share. 
Bitter are a brutal husband and a faithless wife, a 
silly daughter, and a sulky son. Bitter are a losing 
card, a losing horse. Bitter the public liiss, the 
private sneer. Bitter are old age without respect, 
manhood without wealth, youth without fame. 
Bitter is the east wind's blast; bitter a stepdamc's 
kiss. It is bitter to mark the wo which we cannot 
relieve. It is bitter to die in a foreign land. 

But bitterer far than this, than these, than all, is 
waking from our first delusion ! — For then we first 
feel the nothingness of self — that hell of sanguine 
s]>irits. All is dreary, blank, and cold. The sun 
of ho[)e sets without a ray, and the dim night of 
dark despair shadows only phantoms. The spirits 
that guard round us in our pride have gone. 
Fancy, weeping, flics. Imagination droops her 
glittering pinions and sinks into the earth. Cou- 
rage has no heart, and love seems a traitor. A 
busy demon whispers in our ear that all is vain 
and worthless, and we among the vainest of a 
worthless crew ! 

And so our young friend here now depreciated 
as much as he had before exaggerated his powers. 



THE YOUICG duke. 



267 



riicre seemed not on the earth's face a more for- 
lorn, a more feeble, a less estimable wretch than 
himself, — but just now a hero. O ! what a fool, 
what a miserable, contemptible fool was he ! With 
what a light tongue and lighter heart had he spo- 
ken of this woman who despised, who spurned 
him ! His face blushed, ay, burned at ihe remem- 
brance of his reveries and his foul monologues ! 
The veiy recollection made him shudder with dis- 
gust. He looked up to see if any demon were 
jeering him among the ruins. 

His heart was so crushed, that Hope could not 
find even one desolate chamber to smile in. His 
courage was so cowed, that far from indulging in 
the distant romance to which under these circum- 
stances we sometimes fly, he only wondered at the 
absolute insanity which for a moment had per- 
mitted him to aspire to her possession. " Sympa- 
thy of dispositions ! Similarity of tastes, forsooth ! 
VV hy, we are ditferent existences! Nature could 
never have made us for the same world, or with the 
same clay ! O ! consummate being, why — why did 
we meet ! Why — why are my eyes at length un- 
sealed I Why — why do I at length feel conscious 
of my utter worthlessness 1 O, God ! I am mise- 
rable"!" 

He arose, and hastened to the house. He gave 
orders to Luigi and his people to follow him to 
Rosemount wUh all practicable speed ; and having 
left a note for his host with the usual excuse, he 
mounted his horse, and In half an hour's time, 
with a countenance like a stormy sea, was galloping 
through the park-gates of Dacre. 



BOOK THE THIRD. 



CHAPTER I. 

Whetiieu or not the progress of invention be 
accelerated by consulting the comforts of the body 
as well as of the mind ; whether Bacchus and Ceres 
are titling company for the graces and the muses ; 
whether, in short, the grape and the grill are as es- 
sential to the concoction of a sublime poem, or a 
taking tale, as the ardour of enthusiasm and the 
pi(iuancy of wit, is a great question, which has not 
yet been decided. Blackstonc, we all know, wrote 
with the bottle ; but then, law is proverbially a 
dry study. Di'yden, instead of Champagne, took 
calomel. Sir VValter writes before breakfast : By- 
ron always wrote at night, backed by eveiy meal 
in the day. 

W^hen Charles Diodati excused some indifferent 
verses to Milton, on the plea that it was Christmas, 
and he was feasting, the indignant bard sent for 
answer an ode, which might have inspired him at 
the same time with better verse and more correct 
sentiments. Here follows a version of a stanza or 
two : — 

" Ami why should revelry and witie 
Be shuiin'd as I'ops to song divine 1 
Bacchus loves the power of verse, 
Bacchus oft the Nine rehearse ; 
Nor Phoebus' self disdains to wear 
His berries in his golden hair. 
And ivy green wilii laurel twine; 
And oft are seen the sisters nine 
Joining, in mystic dance along 
Aonia's hills, with Bacchus' throng. 



In frozen Scythia's barren plains, 
What dulness seized on Ovid's strains! 
Their sweetness fled to climes alone 
To Ceres and Lyaeus known. 

" What but wine with roses crown'd 
Did the Teian lyre resound 1 
Bacchus, with pleasing frenzy fired, 
The high Pindaric song inspired : 
Each page is redolent of wine 
When crashing loud the car supine 
On Elis' plains disjointed lies, 
And soil'd with dust the courser flies. 
Kapt with God's all-pleasing fire, 
The Romati poet strikes the lyre, 
And in measure sweet addresses 
Chloe fair, with golden tresses ; 
Or his lovod GlyV.ere sings, 
Touching light the immortal strings." 

Now I do not know what your opinion is, but I 
call this very pretty poetry. In my mind, it is a 
version not unworthy of Gray. Whose is it 
then ? 

Last night, being, as single gentlemen occasion- 
ally are, a little moody, I unpadded a case, the 
contents of which bear the too dignified title of a 
library. And here let me advise my friends to 
follow my example, and give up reading. All my 
books are print-books. There is no longer any 
possibility of concealing the mortifying truth, that 
no book has yet been written which does not 
weary, and as this cannot be the fault of the 
writers, it is clear that there is some radical blun- 
der in this mode of conveying our ideas. Now, 
gazing on a print, a result is conveyed at once, 
without the slightest labour of mind, and iimnortal 
revery never degenerates into mortal thought. The 
Iliad and the Odyssey of Flaxman excite in mv 
mind ideas infinitely more vivid, than the Iliad and 
Odyssey by Homer. A Salvator, a Caspar Pous- 
sin, and a Piranesi are each a stanza of Childe 
Harold. And I would sooner turn over the pages 
of Callot, than even the pages of Shakspeare and 
Voltaire. 

No man should read after nineteen. From 
thirteen to nineteen, hold your tongue, and read 
every thing you can lay your hands on. In this 
period, you may gain some acquaintance with 
every desirable species of written knowledge. 
From nineteen to twenty-two, action, action, ac- 
tion. Do every thing, dare every thing, imagine 
every thing. Fight, write, love, spout, travel, talk, 
feast, dress, drink. I limit you to three years, be- 
cause I think that in that period a lively lad may 
share every passion, and because if he do, at the 
end of that period lie will infallibly he done up. 

Then to your sohtude, and meditate on youth. 
In these words is the essence of all human wisdom. 
By five-and-twenty, my pupil may know all that 
man can attain, both of himself and his fellow- 
creatures. If our young gentleman live, he may 
chance to turn out something amusing to himself 
and to the world. If he die, he dies with the con- 
solation that he has fathomed the mx'sterj^ of man- 
kind. 

But to our tale ; or rather to our episode. — My 
volumes, which are clothed in a style and substance 
which would raise a flash of enthusiasm even from 
the perfect and practised eye of Dibdin, were 
guarded from the wear and tear of travel by that 
most useful and universally-known matter yclept 
waste-paper. 

It was printed — I have a horror of waste-paper 
under such circumstances. It may be, (one does 
not know how,) that some confounded indiscretion 
(one cannot tell what) which we have quite for- 



268 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



gotten, (some people remember every thing,) and 
though. I am sure, for my part, I have no recollec- 
tion, and hope to God nobody else has, yet still we 
have all been young, and every thing, at some 
time or other, will turn up. O ! the luck of the 
rogue who falls to the pastry-cook, and not to the 
trunk-maker ! 

I have a horror of this waste and wn-begone — 
this outlawed, wandering, Cain-like material, which 
all men despise, and which none can do without ; 
which, like the Greek, (he Armenian, the Hebrew, 
and the gijisy, all think they may burn, and tear, 
and scorn, and banish. I have a perfect horror of 
it! Even my portmanteaus are lined with pink 
satin note paper. 

However, on the present occasion, I could not 
withstand the lure of looking at a page or so, and 
then I recovered. It turned out to be a translation 
of the Latin and Italian poems of Milton ; a trans- 
lation so extremely p) '.T^ing, that I continued my 
researches, and even nearly made up a complete 
copy. Also, like a second Mai, I recovered a great 
part of a translation of Claudian, by the same 
hand, and which I even prefer to the Milton. Sel- 
dom have I met with a version which more com- 
pletely conveyed the spirit, as well as the sense, of 
an original, and which did fuller justice to a most 
ardent and picturesque poet. For instance, how 
fine is this squadron in complete armour, in Rufi- 
nus ! 

" One wi'Uld havp thought, that polishM statues, dug 
From beds of solid ore", had tiercely brcalh'il, 
And started inio action." 

These translations purport to be the production 
of a gentleman bearing the nameof " J. G. S/rti/t," 
a name, I regret to say, I never before heard, nor, 
in all probability, did any one else. A somewhat 
plaintive preface seems to anticipate that the pre- 
facer was working to pack up my books. Yet these 
versions are works which probably have demanded 
many an hour of nightly meditation — perhaps have 
yielded to their creator some moments of poetic 
rapture. Such are the " calamities of authors !" 

Very gratified should I be, if this notice, in my 
transitory page, .should attract the public attention 
to the far more important labours of this ingenious 
man, who has displayed great taste, and great ta- 
lent, in a department of literature at the present 
day too much neglected, and from which neglect, 
in my opinion, the public mind has suffered. 

And, mdced, unless we moderns quickly mend, 
— the sooner we recur to the clear and creative 
spirits of antiquity, the better chance has the 
memory of the beautiful still to linger in a world 
which should have been its temple, and not its 
tomb I It is difficult to fix on a more mournful 
etudy than the contemplation of the literary efforts 
of mankind during the last fifteen dark centuries, and 
particularly since the fatal invention of printing. 
What fits and starts ! — what desperate plunging ! 
—what final bolting ! If a man have chanced, 
for a small quarter of a century, to exhibit any 
thing like a sequence of intellect, what raising of 
eyes ! — what clapping of hands ! — what wonder- 
ment ! — what self-congratulation ! — what chatter 
about illustrious ages! — what tattle about celebrated 
times ! The age of Augustus ! The age of Leo! 
Hie age of Louis ! The age of Anne ! Give me 
the age of human nature. If our political and 
moral systems had been any thing better than 
bloody blunders, and unsocial compacts, we should 



have had no cyclus of intellect to puzzle a dcgetiO 
rate posterity, and the natural light of the human 
mind would never have been clouded b}' the Cim- 
merian darkness of barbaric conquerors and feudal 
tyrants. Catholic inquisitors and Protestant puri- 
tans. 

Then, perhaps Portugal might have boasted of 
more than one poet, and Germany might even 
have owned a classic. Then, romance might have 
erected a delightful Moorish palace in the plains ot 
Grenada, and Italy might not then have gazed 
upon her paintings with a tear, and on her poesy 
with a blush. France, too, who has a literature, 
might then have been honoured, instead of being 
insulted ; and England, that miraculous England, 
of whom I dare not whisper a disparagement, 
ahhough a Calmuc man-of-war at anchor in sight 
reminds me with disgust that even in the Mediter- 
ranean I might find safety from her vengeance; 
even England, I say, might then have boasted of 
an historian rather earlier than the last half cen- 
tury. 

Yet there are some great names. There is 
Shakspcare, of whom <Hir great-grandfathers never 
heard, but whom we have discovered to be a god 
that was jiassed over ; because we have learned to 
misquote some forty of his commonplaces, which 
are so true, that we have mistaken them for rev&; 
lation. What is this Shakspeare but an Orson,, 
who, wandering in his woods, and stumbling on 
dame nature a-maying, has ravished the mighty 
mother, and mistaken the agony of his mistress for 
rapture T Then there is Dante, who, on this side 
of the Alps, shares with the Virgin Mary all the 
adoration. I do not know how it is, but Dante 
ahvays reminds n.e of some antique statue of a 
Dacian monarch. There is a sad dignity, a grim 
majesty about him ; but then, after all, he is a bar- 
barian. He is a giant, to be sure ; but then he is a 
Cyclops. Then there is Milton, vsho has favoured 
us with a puritanic view of the celestial regions — 
rather different, certainly, from the pagan. He 
has assuredly succeeded in his character of Satan . 
but then he was secretary to Cromwell, and with 
such opportunities, could he fidl 1 He has some 
delightful passages — this Milton, but I would 
sooner hear their originals in the choruses of the 
city of the Violet Crown ! ! this imitation ! 
Is this the fruit of our classic studies 1 Are we 
never to emulate instead of imitate? Are wc ne- 
ver to direct the means of the ancients to a modern 
end ? There is Gray, for instance. I would sooner 
listen to a nightingale on the banks of the Ilyssus 
than to the lyre of Gray ! His poems always 
remind me of a picture dug up at Pompeii — of a 
muse in mosaic. Yet we are not utterly destitute. 
There is one Englishman — Pope; and there are La 
Fontaine, and Le Sage, and Molicre, and Voltaire, 
natives of that consummate France, whose litera- 
ture we afiect to despise. There is — 

" Hold your tongue, Le Drole, and fasten this 
buckle." 

The judicious reader will long ago have per- 
ceived, that these latter observations are by my 
valet, an ingenious Gaul. I vow to heaven, 1 shall 
be annoyed if they be mistaken for mine. 

And now, having discharged my conscience 
towards Mr. Strutt, in consideration that I am 
about to begin a new book, and in unison with th» 
exhortation of the illustrious and unrivalled Milton 
I intend to get tipsy. 



THE VOUNG DUKE. 



269 



CHAPTER n. 

The day after the arrival of the Dukb of St. 
James at Cleve Park, his host, Sir Lucius Grafton, 
received the following note from Mrs. Dallington 
Vere. 



" Casfle Dacre, 



-, 1 82-. 



"My beau Bakonet, — Your pigeon has flown, 
otherwise I should have tied this under his wing, 
for I tai;e it for granted, he is trained too dexter- 
ously to alight anywhere but a Cleve. 

" Lucy ! I confess that, in this affair, your pene- 
tration has exceeded mine. I hope throughout it will 
serve you as well. I kept my promise, and arrived 
here only a few hours after him. The prejudice 
which 1 had long observed in the little Dacre to- 
wards your protege was too marked to render any 
interference on my part at once necessarj-, nor did 
I anticipate even beginning to give her good ad- 
vice for a month to come. Heaven knows what a 
month of his conduct might have done ! A month 
achieves such wonders ! And, to do him justice, 
he was most agreeable ; but our young gentleman 
grew impetuous, and so, the day before yesterday 
he vanished, and in the most extraordinary manner! 
Sudden departure, — unexpected business ; — letter 
and servants both left behind ; monsieur grave, and 
« little astonished ; and the demoiselle thoughtful at 
the least, but not curious. Veiy suspicious this last 
circumstance ! A flash crossed my mind, but I 
could gain nothing, even with my most dexterous 
wiles, from the little Dacre, who is a most unma- 
nageable heroine. However, with the good assist- 
ance of a person who in a French tragedy would 
figure as my confidante, and who is the sister of 
your Lachen, — I am sure I need say no more — 
(let it suffice, she is not unworthy of her mistress) 
— something was learned fiom monsieur ie valet, 
to say nothing of the pages. All agree ; a counte- 
nance pale as death, orders given in a low voice of 
suppressed passion, and sundry oaths. I hear he 
sulked the night at Rosemount. 

" Now, my dear Lucy, hsten to me. Lose no 
time about the great object. If possible, let this 
autumn be distinguished. You have an idea that 
our friend is a very manageable sort of personage ; 
in phrase less courteous, is sufficiently weak for 
all reasonable purposes, I am not quite so clear 
about this. He is at present very young, and his 
character is not formed ; but there is a something 
about him which makes me half fear, that if you 
permit his knowledge of life to increase too much, 
you may quite fear having neglected my admoni- 
tions. At present, his passions are high. Use his 
blood while it is hot, and remember, that if you 
count on his rashness, you may, as nearly in the 
present instance, yourself rue it. In a word, de- 
spafch. The deed that is done, you know — 

" My kindest remembrances to dear Lady Afy, 
and tell her how much I regret I cannot avail my- 
self of her most friendly invitation. Considering, 
as I know, she hates me, I really do feel flattered. 
Give her a kiss for me, Lucy. 

" You cannot conceive what Vandals I am at 
present among ! Nothing but my sincere regard 
for you, my much valued friend, would induce me 
to stay here a moment. I have received from the 
countenance of the Dacres all the benefit which a 
marked connexion with so respectable and so moral 



a family confers, and I am tired to death. But it 
is a well-devised plan to have a reserve in the bat- 
tles of society. You understand me ; and I am led 
to believe that it has had the best effect, and 
silenced even the loudest. ' Confound their poli- 
tics !' as dear little Squib says, from whom I had 
the other day the funniest letter, which I have 
half a mind to send you, only you figure in it so 
much ! 

" Burlington is at Brighton, and all my friends 
except yourself. I have a few barbarians to receive 
at Dallington, and then I shall be off there. Join 
us as quickly as you can. Do you know, I think 
that it would be an excellent locale for the scena. 
We might drive them over to Dieppe : only do not 
put off your visit too long, or else there will be no 
steamers. 

" The Duke of Shropshire has had a fit, but 
rallied. He vows he was only picking up a letter, 
or tying his shoe-string, or something of that kind ; 
but Kuthven says, he dined off boudins a la Stftvn, 
and that, after a certain age, you know — 

" Lord Darrell is vi'itli Annesley and Co. I un- 
derstand, most friendly towards nie, which is plea- 
sant ; and Charles, who is my firm ally, takes care 
to confirm the kind feeling. I am glad about this. 

" Felix Crawlegh, or Craw/fy, as some say, has 
had an affair with Tommy Seymour, at Grant's. 
Felix was grand about porter, or something, which 
he never drank, and all that. Tommy, who knew 
nothing about the brewing father, asked him, very 
innocently, why malt liquors had so degenerated. 
Conceive the agony, particularly as Lady Suliua is 
said to have no violent aversion to quartering her 
arms with a mash-tub, argent. 

" The Macaronis are most hospitable this year; 
and the marquis says, that the only reason that 
they kept in before was, because he was determined 
to see whether economy was practicable. He finds 
it is not — so, now, expense is no object. 

" Augustus Henley is about to become a senator ! 
What do you think of this ? He says he has tried 
every thing for an honest livelihood, and even 
once began a novel, but could not get on ; which, 
Squib says, is odd, because there is a receipt going 
about for that operation, which saves all trouble. 

" ' Talie a pair of pistols and a pack of cards, a 
cookery-book, and a set of new quadrilles ; mix 
them up with half an intrigue and a whole mar- 
riage, and divide them into three equal portions.' 
Now, as Augustus has both fought and gamed, 
dined and danced, I suppose it was the moralit;- 
which posed him, or, perhaps, the marriage. Talk- 
ing of books, I have been rather amused by Frib- 
ble's little indiscretion, ' The Season ;' but it is not 
true that the first volume was written by Guntcr, 
the second by Stultz, and the third by Culfe. 

" They say there is something about Lady Flut- 
ter, but, I should think, all talk. Most probably, a 
report set aljout by her ladyship. Lord Flame has 
been black-balled, that is certain. But there is no 
more news, except that the Wiltshires are going to 
the Continent — we know v^hy ; and that the 
Spankers are making more dash than ever — God 
knows how ! Adieu ! B. D. V. 

The letter ended — all things end at last. A she 
correspondent for my money — provided alway« 
that she does not cross. 

Our duke — in spite of his disgrace, he jtill in 
ours, and yours too, I hope, gentlest reader — oux 
z 3 



270 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS, 



duke found himsdf at Cleve Park again, in a dif- 
ferent circle to the one to which he had been 
chiefly accustomed. The sporting world received 
him with open arms. With some of these worthies, 
as owner of Sanspareil, he had become slightly ac- 
quainted. But what is half a morning at Tatter- 
sail's, or half a week at Doncaster, compared with 
a meeting at Newmarket 1 There, yonr congenial 
spirits congregate, freemasons every man of them ! 
No uninitiated wretch there dares to disturb with 
his profone presence the hallowed mysteries. There, 
the race is not a peg to hang a few days of dissi- 
pation on but a sacred ceremony, to the celebration 
of which all men and all circumstances tend and 
bcr.d. No balls, no concerts, no public breakfasts, 
no bands from Litolf, no singers from Welsh, no 
pine-apples from Gmiter, are there called forth by 
thoughtless thousands, who have met, not from any 
affection for the turf's delights or their neighbour's 
cash, but to sport their splendid liveries and to dis- 
port their showy selves. • 

The house was full of men, whose talk was full 
of bets. The women were not as bad, but they 
were not plentiful. Some lords and signors were 
there without their dames. Lord Bloomerly, for 
instance, alone, or rather, with his eldest son, Lord 
Bloom, just of age, and already a knowing hand. 
His father introduced him to all his friends, with 
that smiling air of self-content which men assume 
when they introduce a youth who may show tlie 
world what they were at his years : so the earl 
presented the young viscount, as a lover presents 
his miniature to his mistress. Lady Afy shone in 
unapproachcd perfection. A dull marchioness, a 
gauche viscountess, and some other dames, who 
did not look like the chorus of\lus Diana, acted as 
capital foils, and permitted her to meet her cavalier 
under, what are called, the most favourable aus- 
pices. 

They dined, and discussed the agricultural in- 
terest in all its exhausted ramifications. Corn was 
sold over again, even at a higher price ; poachers 
were recalled to life, or from beyond seas, to be re- 
killed or re-transported. The poor-laws were a 
very rich topic, and the poor lands a very ruinous 
one. But all this was merely the light conversa- 
tion, just to vary in an agreeable mode, which all 
could understand, the regular material of course, 
and that was of stakes and stallions, pedigrees and 
plates. 

Our party rose early, for their pleasure was their 
business. Here were no lounging dandies, and no 
exclusive belles, who kept their bowers until hun- 
ger, which also drives down wolves from the Pyre- 
nees, brought them from their mystical chambers 
to luncheon and to life. In short, an air of interest, 
a serious and a thoughtful look, pervaded evei-y 
countenance. Fashion was kicked to the devil, 
and they were all too much in earnest to have any 
time for affectation. 

Breakfast was over, and it was a regular meal at 
which all attendcil and they hurried to the course. 
It seems, when the party arrive, that they are the 
only spectators. A party or two come on to keep 
them company. A club di.-;charges a crowd of gen- 
llemen, a stable a crowd of grooms. At length, a 
sprinkling of human beings is collected, but all is 
wondrous still and wondrous cold. The only 
thing that gives ,sign of life is Lord Breedall's mov- 
able stand; and the only intunation that fire is 



still an element, is the sailing breath of a stray 
cigar. 

" This, then, is Newmarket !" exclaimed the 
young duke. " If it required five-and-lwenty 
thousami pounds to make Doncaster amusing, a 
plum, at least, will go in rendering Newmarket 
endurable." 

But the young duke was wi-ong. There was a 
fine race, and the connoisseurs got enthusiastic. 
Sir Lucius Grafton was the winner. The duke 
sympathized with his friend's success. 

He began galloping about the course, and hi? 
blood warmed. He paid a visit to Sanspareil. He 
heard his steed was still a favourite for a coming 
cup. He backed his steed, and Sans[ihreil won. 
He began to find Newmarket not so disagreeable. 
In a word, our friend was in an entirely new 
scene, which was exactly the thing he required. 
He was interested, and forgot, or rather forcibly 
expelled from his mind, his late ovei-whelming ad- 
venture. He grew popular with the set. His 
courteous manners, his affable address, his gay hu- 
mour, and the facility with which he adopted their 
tone and temper, joined with his rank and wealth, 
subdued the most rugged and the coldest hearts. 
Even the jockeys were civil to him, and welcojned 
him with a sweet smile and gracious nod, instead 
of the sour grin and malicious wink with which 
tliose characters generally greet a stranger — those 
mysterious characters who, in their influence over 
their superiors, and their total want of sympathy 
with their species, are our only match for the 
oriental eunuch. 

He grew, I say, popular with the set. They 
were glad to see among them a young nobleman 
of spirit. He became a member of the Jockey 
Club, and talked of taking a villa in the neighboiir- 
hood. All recommended the step, and assured 
him of their readiness to dine with him as often as 
he pleased. He was a universal favourite; and 
even Chuck Farthing, the gentleman-jockey, with 
a cock-eye, and a knowing shake of his head, 
squeaked out, in a sporting treble, one of his mon- 
strous fudges about the prince in days of yore, Rnd 
swore that, like his royal highness, the young 
duke made the market all alive. 

The heart of our hero was never insensible to 
flatter^'. He could not refrain from comparing his 
present with his recent situation. The constaist 
consideration of all around him, the aifectionate 
cordiality of Sir Lucius, and the constant but 
unobtrusive devotion of Lady Afy melted his soul. 
These agreeable circumstances graciously whispered 
to him each hour, that he could scarcely be the 
desolate and despicable personage which lately, in 
a moment of madness, he had fancied himself. 
He began to indulge the satisfactory idea, that a 
certain person, however unparalleled in form and 
mind, had perhaps acted with a little precipitatio)!. 
Then his eyes met those of Lady Aphrodite ; and, 
full of these feelings, he exchanged a look which 
reminded him of their first meeting ! though now, 
mellowed by gratitude, and reciard, and esteem, 
it was perhaps even more delightful. He was loved, 
— and he was loved by an exquisite being, who 
was the object of universal admiration. What 
could he desire more 7 Nothing but the wilful- 
ness of youth could have induced him for a moment 
to contemplate breaking chains which had only 
been formed to secure his felicity. He determired 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



271 



to bid farewell forever to the impetuosity of youth. 
He had not been three days under the roof of 
Cleve, before he felt that his happinesg depended 
upon its fairest inmate. You see, then, that ab- 
sence is not always fatal to love ! 



CHAPTER HI. 

His grace completed his stud, and became one 
of the most distinguished votaries of the turf. Sir 
Lucius was the inspiring divinity upon this occa- 
sion. Our hero, like all young men, and particu- 
larly young nobles, did evei-y thing in extremes ; 
and extensive arrangements were made by him-^iclf 
and his friend for the ensuing campaign. Sir Lu- 
cius was to reap half the profit, and to undertake 
the whole management. The duke was to pro- 
duce the capital, and to pocket the whole glory. 
Thus rolled on six weeks, at the end of which 
our hero began to get a little tired. He had long ago 
recovered all his self-complacency, and if the form 
of May Dacre ever flitted before his vision for an 
instant, he clouded it over directly by the appari- 
tion of a bet, or thrust it away with that desperate 
recklessness with which we expel an ungracious 
thought. The duke sighed for a little novelty. 
Christmas was at hand. He began to think that 
a regular country Christmas must be a sad bore. 
Lady Afy, too, was rather exigemitc. It destroys 
one's nerves to be amiable every day to the same 
human being. She was the best creature in the 
world ; but Cambridgeshire was not a pleasant 
county. He was most attached ; hut there was 
not another agreeable woman in the house. He 
would not hurt her feelings for the world ; but his 
own were sutferuig most desperately. He had no 
idea that he ever should get so entangled. Brighton, 
they say, is a pleasant place. 

To Brighton he went ; and although the Graftons 
were to fallow him in a fortnight, still even these 
fourteen davs were a holyday. It is extraordinary- 
how hourly, and how violently, change the feeUngs 
of an inexperienced young man. 

Sir Lucius, however, was disappointed in his 
Brighton trip. Ten days after the departure of the 
young duke, the county member died. Sir Lucius 
had been long maturing his pretensions to the 
vacant representation. He was strongly supported ; 
for he was a per.sonal favourite, and his family had 
claims; but he was violently opposed ; ior vluuvus 
fmnii) was ambitions, and the baronet was poor. Sir 
Lucius was a man of violent passions, and all feel- 
ings and considerations immediately merged in his 
paramount ambition. His wife, too, at this mo- 
ment, was an important personage. She was 
generally popular ; she was beautiful, highly con- 
nected, and highly considered. Her canvassing 
was a great object. She canvassed with earnest- 
ness, and with success ; for since her consola- 
tory friendship wiih the Duke of St. James, her 
character had greatly changed, and she was now as 
desirous of conciliating her husband and the opi- 
nion of society, as she was before disdainful of the 
one, and fearles-s of the other. Sir Lucius and 
Lady Aphrodite Grafton were indeed on the best 
possible terms, and the whole county admired his 
conjugal attentions, and her wifclike affections. 

'i'lie duke, who had no influence in this part of 
the world, and who was not at all desirous of quit- 



ting Brighton, compensated for his absence at this 
critical moment by a friendly letter, and the olfer 
of his purse. By this good aid, his wite's attrac- 
tions, and his own talents, Sir Lucy succeeded, and 
by the time parliament had assembled, he was re- 
turned member for his native county. 

In the mean time his friend had been spending 
his time at Brighton, in a far less agitated mannei, 
but, in its way, not less successful ; for he was 
amused, and therefore gained his object as much as 
the baronet. The duke liked Brighton much. 
Without the bore of an estabhshment, he found 
himself among many agreeable friends, living in 
an unostentatious and impromptu, though refined 
and luxurious style. One day. anew face ; another 
day, a new dish; another day, a new dance, suc- 
cessively interested his feelings, particularly if the 
face rode, which they all do. The dish was at Sir 
George Sauceville's, and the dance at the Duke of 
Burlington's. So time flew on, between a canter to 
Rottindean, the flavours of a Perigord, and the 
blunders of the Maztirka. 

But February arrived, and this agreeable life 
must end. The philosophy of society is so practi- 
cal, that it is not allowed even to a young duke 
absolutely to trifle awaj existence. Duties will 
arise, in spite of our besfendeavours; and his grace 
had to roll up to town, to dine with the premier, 
and to move the address. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Anotheti season had arriveri,— another of those 
magical periods of which one had already witnes- 
sed his unparalleled triumphs, and from which he 
had derived such exquisite delight. To his sur- 
prise, he viev^'ed its arrival without emotion ; — if 
with any feeling, with disgust. 

He had quafVed the cup too eagerly. The draught 
had been delicious ; btit time also proved that it 
had been satiating. Was it possible for his vanity 
to be more completely gratified than it bad been 1 
Was it possible for victories to be more numerous 
and more unquestioned during the coming cam- 
paign, than during the last ? Had not his life, then, 
been one long triumph? Who had not offered 
their admiration ? Who had not paid homage to 
his all-acknowledged empire 1 Yet, even this career, 
however dazzling, had not been pursued, — even 
this success, however brilliant, had not been ob- 
tained without some effort, and some weariness, also 
some exhaustion. Often, as he now remembered, 
had his head ached ; more than once, as now oc- 
curred to him, had his heart faltered. Even his first 
season had not passed over without his feeling lone 
in the crowded saloon, or starting at the superna- 
tural finger in the banqueting-hall. Yet then he 
was the creature of excitement, who pursued an 
end, which was as indefinite as it seemed to be 
splendid. All had now happened that could hap- 
pen. He drooped. He required the impulse which 
we derive from an object unattained. 

Yet, had he exhausted life at two-and-twenty '^ 
This must not be. His feelings must be more ph' 
losophically accounted for. He bJgan to suspecl 
that he had lived too much for the world, and too 
little for himself; that he had sacrificed his ease 
to the applause of thousands, and mistaken ex 
citation for enjoyment. His memory dwelt with 



272 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



satisfaction on the hours which had so agreeably 
glided away at Brighton, in the choice society of a 
few intimates. He determined entirely to remodel 
the system of his life ; and with the sanguine im- 
petuosity which characterized him, he, at the same 
moment, felt that he had at length discovered the 
road to happiness, and determined to pursue it 
without the loss of a precious moment. 

The Duke of St. James was seen less in the 
world, and he appeared but seldom at the various 
entertainments which he had once so adorned. Yet 
he did not resign his exalted position in the world 
of fashion ; but, on the contrary, adopted a course 
of conduct which even increased his consideration. 
He received the world not less frequently, or less 
splendidly, than heretofore ; and his magnificent 
mansion, early in the season, was open to the 
favoured crowd. Yet in that mansion, which had 
been acquired with such energy, and at such cost, 
its lord was almost as strange, and certainly not as 
pleased an inmate, as the guests, who felt their 
presence in his chambers a confirmation or a crea- 
tion of their claims to the world's homage. The 
Alhambra was finished, and there the Duke of St. 
James entirely resided : but its regal splendour was 
concealed from the pryin« eye of public curiosity, 
with a proud reserve, a studied secrecy, and stately 
haughtiness becoming a caliph. A small band of 
initiated friends alone had the occasional entree : 
and the mysterious air which they provokingly as- 
sumed, whenever they were cross-examined on the 
internal arrangements of this mystical structure, 
only increased the number and the wildness of the 
incidents which daily were afloat, respecting the 
fantastic profusion and scientific dissipation of the 
youthful sultan and his envied viziers. 

The town, ever since the season commenced, had 
been in feverish expectation of the arrival of a new 
singer, whose fame had heralded her presence in all 
the courts of Christendom. Whether she were an 
Italian or a German, a Gaul or a Greek, was 
equally unknown. An air of mystery environed 
the most celebrated creature in Europe. There 
were odd vvhispers of her parentage. Every po- 
tentate was hi turn entitled to the gratitude of 
mankind for the creation of this marvel. Now, it 
was an emperor, — now it was a king. A grand- 
duke then put in his claim ; and then an archduke. 
To-day she was married — to-morrow she was single. 
To day her husband was a prince incog. — to-mor- 
row a drum-major well known. Even her name 
was a mystery ; and she was known and worship- 
ped throughout the whole civilized world by the 
mere title of " The Bird of Paiiadise!" 

About a month before Easter, telegraphs an- 
nounced her arrival. The admiralty yacht was 
too late. She determined to make her first ap- 
pearance at the opera; and not only the young 
duke, but even a far more exalted personage, was 
disappointed in the sublime idea of anticipating the 
public opinion by a private concert. She was to 
appear, for the first tim* on Tuesday : — the House 
of Commons adjourned. 

The curtain is drawn up, and the house is 
crowded. Everybody is there who is anybody. 
Protocol!, looking as full of fate as if the French 
were again on the Danube ; Macaroni, as full of 
himself as if no other being were engrossing uni- 
versal attention. The premier appears far more 
anxious than he does at council ; and the Duke of 



Burlington arranges his fan-like screen with an 
agitation which, for a moment, makes hipi forget 
his unrivaljed nuncJndance. Even Lady Bl jjmerly 
is in suspense; and even Charles Annes'f v's heart 
beats. But, ah ! (or rather bah !) the e.idrasiasrn 
of Lady de Courcy ! Even the very yourjg guards- 
man, who paid her ladyship for her ivon/ franks by 
his idle presence, — even he must have iVJt, callous 
as those very young guardsmen are. 

Will that bore of a tenor ever finish that pro- 
voking aria, that we have heard so often] How 
drawlingly he drags on his dull, deafening — 

ECCOLA ! 

Have you seen the primal dew, ere the sun has 
lipped the pearl ] Have you seen a summer fly, 
with tinted wings of shifting light, glance in the 
liquid noontide air ] Have you marked a shoot- 
ing star, or watched a young f/azelle at play ? 
Then you have seen nothing fresher, nothing 
brighter, nothing wilder, nothmg lighter, than the 
girl who stands before you ! 

She was infinitely small, fair, and bright. Her 
black hair was braided in Madoimas over a brow 
like ivory ; a deep pure pink spot gave lustre to 
each cheek. Her features were delicate beyond a 
dream ; her nose quite straigiit, with a nostril 
which would have made you crazy, if you had not 
already been struck with idiotism, by gazing on her 
mouth. She a singer ! Lupossible ! She cannot 
speak ! And now I look again, she must sing with 
her eyes, they are so large and lustrous ! 

The Bird of Paradise courtesied, as if she shrunk 
under the overwhelming greeting, and crossed her 
breast with arms that gleamed like moonbeams, and 
hands that glittered like stars. This gave time to 
the cognoscenti to remark her costume, which was 
ravishi>ig, and to try to see her feet ; but tlicy'were 
too small. At last Lord Squib announced that he 
had discovered them by a new glass, and described 
them as a couple of diamond-claws most exqui- 
sitely finished. 

She rolled round her head with a faint smile, as 
if she distrusted her powers, and feared the assem-" 
bly would be disappointed, and then she shot forth 
a note, which thrilled through every heart, and 
nearly cracked the chandelier. Even Lady Fitz- 
pompey said " Brava!" 

As she proceeded, the audience grew quite fran- 
tic. It was agreed on all hands, that miracles had 
recommenced. Each air was only sung to call 
forth fresh exclamations of " Miracolo !"' and en- 
cores were as unmerciful as a usurper. 

Amid all this rapture the young duke was not 
silent. His box was on the stage ; and ever and 
anon the siren shot a glance, which seemed to tell 
him that he was marked out amid this brilliant 
multitude. Each round of applause, each roar of 
ravished senses, only added a more fearful action 
to the wild purposes which began to flit about his 
grace's mind. His imagination was touched. His 
old passion to be distinguished returned in full 
force. This creature was strange, mysterious, 
celebrated. Her beauty, her accomplishments were 
as singular and as rare as her destiny and her 
fame. His revery absolutely raged : it was only 
disturbed by her repeated notice and his returned 
acknowledgments. He arose in a state of mad 
excitation, once more the slave or the victim of his 
intoxicated vanity. He hurried behind the scenes. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



273 



He congratulated her on her success, her genius, 
and her beauty ; and, to be brief, within a week of 
her arrival in our metropolis, the Bird of Paradise 
was fairly caged in the Alhambra. 



CHAPTER V. 

Hitherto the Duke of St. James had been a 
very celebrated personage ; but his fame had been 
confined to the two thousand Brahmins who con- 
stitute the world. His patronage of the signora 
extended his celebrity in a manner which he had 
not anticipated ; and he became also the hero of 
the ten, or twelve, or fifteen millions of Parias, for 
whose existence philosophers have hitherto failed 
to adduce a satisfactory cause. 

The Duke of St. James was now, in the most 
comprehensive sense of the phrase, a public cha- 
racter. Some choice spirits took the hmt from the 
''public feelings, and determined to dine on the pub- 
lic curiosity. A Sunday journal was immediately 
established. Of this epic our duke was the hero. 
His manners, his sayings, his adventures, regularly 
regaled, on each holyday, the Protestant population 
of this Protestant empire, who, in France or Italy, 
or even Germany, faint at the sight of a peasantry 
testifying their gratitude for a day of rest, by a 
dance or a tune. " Sketches of the Alhambra.'' — 
" Soupirs in the Regent's Park." — " The court of 
the Caliph." — " The Bird-cage," &c. &c. &c., 
were duly announced, and duly devoured. This 
journal, being solely devoted to the illustration of 
the life of a single and a private individual, was 
appropriately entitled " The Universe." Its con- 
tributors were emmently successful. Their pure 
inventions and impure details were accepted as the 
most delicate truth ; and their ferocious familiarity 
with persons with whom they were totally unac- 
quainted, demonstrated, at the same time, their ac- 
quaintance both with the forms and the personages 
of polite society. 

At the first announcement of this hebdomedal, 
his grace was a little annoyed, and " Nodes Haufe- 
villie7ises" made him fear treason; but when he 
had read a number, he entirely acquitted any per- 
son of a breach of confidence. On the whole he 
was amused. A variety of ladies, in time, were 
introduced, with many of whom the duke had 
scarcely interchanged a bow ; but the respectable 
editor was not up to Lady Afy. 

If his grace, however, were soon reconciled to 
this, not very agreeable, notoriety, and consoled 
himself under the activity of his libellers, by the 
conviction that their prolusions did not even amount 
to a caricature, he was less easily satisfied with 
another performance which speedily advanced its 
claims to public notice. 

There is an unavoidable reaction in all human 
affairs. The Duke of St. James had been so suc- 
cessfully attacked, that it became worth while 
successfully to defend him, and another Sunday 
paper appeared, the object of which was to main- 
tain the silver side of the shield. Here every 
thing was couleiir de rose. One week, the duke 
saved a poor man from the Serpentine ; another, a 
poor woman from starvation : now an orphan was 
grateful; and now Miss Zouch, impelled by her 
necessity, and his reputation, addressed him a 
35 



column and a half, quite heart-rending. Parents 
with nine children ; nine children without parents ; 
clergymen most improperly unbeneficed ; officers 
most wickedly reduced ; widows of younger sons 
of quality sacrificed to the colonies ; sisters of 
literary men sacrificed to national works, which 
required his patronage to appear ; daughters who 
had known better days, but somehow or other had 
not been as well acquainted with their parents ; all 
advanced with multiplied petitions, and that hack- 
neyed, heartless air of misery which denotes the 
mumper. His grace was infinitely annoyed, and 
scarcely compensated for the inconvenience by the 
prettiest little creature in the world, who one day 
forced "herself into his presence to solicit the 
honour of dedicating to him her poems. 

He had enough upon his hands, so he wrote her 
a check, and with a courtesy which must have 
made this Sappho quite desperate, put her out of 
the room. 

I forgot to say, that the name of the new journal 
was the "New World." The new world is not 
quite as big as tiie universe, but then it is as large 
as all the other quarters of the globe together. 
The worst of this business was, the Universe pro- 
tested that the Duke of St. James, like a second 
Canning, had called this New World into ex- 
istence, which was too bad, because, in truth, he 
deprecated its discoverj' scarcely less than the 
Venetians. 

Having thus managed, in the course of a few 
weeks, to achieve the reputation of an unrivalled 
roue, our hero one night betook himself to Al- 
mack's, a place where his visits, this season, were 
both shorter and less frequent. 

Many an anxious mother gazed upon him as he 
passed, with an eye which longed to pierce futu- 
rity ; many an agitated maiden looked exquisitely 
unembarrassed, wliile her fiuttering memory feasted 
on the sweet thought that, at any rate, another had 
not captured this unrivalled prize. Perhaps she 
might be the Anson to fall upon this galleon. It 
was worth a long cruize, aud even the chance of a 
shipv^reck. 

He danced with Lady Aphrodite, because, since 
the aflair of the signora, he was most punctilious 
in his attentions to her, particularly in public. 
That affair, of course, she passed over in silence, 
though it was bitter. She, however, had had suf- 
ficient experience of a man to feci that remon- 
strance is a last resource, and usually an ineffectual 
one. It was something that her rival — not that 
her ladyship dignii'ied the bird by that title — it was 
something, that she was not her equal, that she 
was not one with whom she could be put in pain- 
ful and constant collision. She tried to consider ' 
a freak, to believe only half she heard, and to in- 
dulge the fancy, that it was a toy which would 
soon tire. As for Sir Lucius, he saw nothing in 
this adventure, or indeed in the Alhambra system 
at all, which militated against liis ulterior views. 
No one more constantly officiated at the ducal 
orgies than himself, both because he was devoted to 
self-gratification, and because he liked ever to have 
his protege in sight. He studiously prevented 
any other individual from becoming the Pctronius 
of the cixcle. His deep experience also taught him, 
that with a person of the young duke's temper, the 
mode of life which he was now leading was exactly 
the one which not only would ensure, but even 
hurry, the catastrophe his faitiiful friend so eagerlv 



274 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



desired. His plcEisures, as Sir Lucius knew, would 
soon pall ; for he easily perceived that the duke 
was not heartless enough for a roue. When 
thorough satiety is felt, young men are in the cue 
for desfierate deeds. Looking upon happiness as a 
dream, or a prize which, in life's lottery, they have 
missed — worn, hipped, dissatisfied, and desperate, 
they often hurry on a result which they disap- 
prove, merely to close a miserable career, or to 
brave the society with which they cannot sympa- 
thize. 

The duke, however, was not yet sated. As, after 
a feast, when we have despatched a quantity of 
wine, there sometimes, as it were, arises a second 
appetite, unnatural, to be sure, l)ut very keen ; so, 
in a career of dissipation, when our passion for 
pleasure appears to be exhausted, the fatal fancy 
of man, like a wearied hare, will take a new turn, 
throw off the hell-hounds of eanui, and course 
again with renewed vigour. 

And to-night the Duke of St. .Tames was, as he 
had been for some weeks, all life, and fire, and 
excitement; and his eye was even now wandering 
round the room, in quest of some consummate 
spirit, whom he might summon to his Saracenic 
paradise. 

A consummate spirit his eye lighted on. There 
stood May Dacre. He gasped for breath. He 
turned pale. It was only for a moment, and his 
emotion was unperceived. There she stood, beauti- 
ftil as when she first glanced before him ; — there 
.she stood, with all her imperial graces; and all sur- 
rounding splendour seemed to fade away before her 
dazzling presence, like mournful spirits of a lower 
world before a radiant creature of the sky. 

She was speaking with her sunlight smile to a 
young man, whose appearance attracted his notice. 
He was dressed entirely in black, short, but slen- 
derly made; sallow, but clear, with long black curls, 
and a Murillo face, and looked altogether like a 
young Jesuit, or a Venetian official by Giorgione or 
Titian. His countenance was reserved, and his 
manner not very easy ; yet, on the whole, his face 
indicated intellect, and his figure blood. The fea- 
tures haunted the duke's memory. He had met this 
jierson before. There are some countenances 
which, when once seen, can never be forgotten, 
and the young man owned one of these. The duke 
recalled him to his memory with a pang. 

Our hero, — let him still be ours ; for he is rather 
desolate, and he requires the backing of his friends, 
— our hero behaved pretty well. He seized the 
first favourable opportunity to catch Miss Dacre's 
eye, and was grateful for her bow. Emboldened, 
he accosted her, and asked after Mr. Dacie, She 
was very courteous, but amazingly unembarrassed. 
Her calmness, however, piqued him sufficiently to 
allow him to rally. He was tolerably easy, and 
talked of calling. Their conversation lasted only 
lor a few minutes, and was fortunately terminati'd 
without his withdrawal, which would have beei; 
itwkward. The young man whom we have noticed 
c-ame up to claim her hand. * 

"Arundel Dacre, or my eyes deceive me," said 
tlie young duke. " I always consider an old Eto- 
nian a friend, and therefore I address you without 
ceremony." 

The young man accepted, but not with great 
readiness, the offered hand. He blushed, and spoke, 
but in a hesitating and husky voice. Then he 
cleared his tliroat, and spoke again, but not much \ 



more to the purpose. Then he looked to his part 
ner, whose eyes were on the ground, and rose ai 
he endeavoured to catch them. For a moment, he 
was silent again ; then he bowed slightly to Miss 
Dacre, and solemnly to the duke, and then he car- 
ried off his cousin. 

"Poor Dacre!" said the duke; "he always had 
the worst manner in the world. Not in the least 
changed." 

His grace wandered into the tea-room. A knot 
of dandies were in deep converse. He heard his 
own name, and that of the Duke of Burlington ; 
then came " Doncaster Beauty" — " Don't you 
know ?" — " ! yes," — " All quite mad," &c. &c. 
&c. As he passed, he was invited in different way« 
to join this coterie of his admirers, but he declined 
the honour, and passed them with that icy hauteur 
which he could assume, and which, judiciously 
used, contributed not a little to his popularity. 

He could not conquer his depression ; and 
although it was scarcely past midnight, he deter- 
mined to disappear. Fortunately, his carriage was 
waiting. He was at a loss what to do with him- 
self. He d leaded even to be alone. The signora 
was at a private concert, and she was the last person 
whom, at this moment, he cared to see. His low 
spirits rapidly increased. He got terribly ner\'ous,and 
felt perfectly miserable. At last he drove to White's. 

The House had just broke up, and the pohtical 
members had just entered, and in clusters, some 
standing, and some yawning, some stretching their 
arms, and some stretciiing their legs, presented 
symptoms of an escape from boredom. Among 
others, round the fire, was a young man dressed in 
a rough great-coat all cords and sables, with his hat 
bent aside, a shawl tied round his neck with great 
boldness, and a huge oaken staff clenched in his 
left hand. With the other he held the Courier, and 
reviewed with a critical eye the report of the speech 
which he had made that afternoon. This wajt 
Lord Darrell. 

I have always considered the talents of younger 
brothers as an unanswerable argument in favour of 
a Providence. Lord Darrell was the younger son 
of the Earl of Darleyford, and had been educated 
for a diplomatist. A rejwrt some years ago had 
been very current, that his elder brother, then Lord 
Darrell, was, against the consent of his family, 
about to be favoured with the hand of Mrs. Dal- 
lington Vere. Certain it is, he was a very devotx?<l 
admirer of that lady. Of that lady, however, a less 
favoured rival chose one day to say that which 
staggered the romance of the impassioned youth. 
In a moment of rashness, impelled by sacred feel- 
ings, it is reported, at least, for the whole is a mys- 
tery, he communicated what he'had heard with 
horror to the mistress of his destinies. Whatever 
took place, certain it is Lord Darrell challenged 
the indecorous speaker, and was shot through tlie 
heart. The affair made a great sensation, ami the 
Darleyfords and their connexions said bitter things 
of Mrs. Dallingion, and talked much of rash youth 
and subtle women of discreeter years, and passions 
shamefully inflamed, and of purposes wickedly 
egged on. I say nothing of all this ; nor will we 
dwell upon it Mrs. Dallington Vere assuredly 
was no slight sufferer. But she conquered the 
cabal that was formed against her; for the dandies 
were her friends, and gallantly supported her 
through a trial under which some women would 
ha^e sunk. As it was, at the end of the season. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



275 



sne clid travel, but all is now forgotten; and 
Hill-Street, Berkeley Square, again contains, at the 
moment of our story, its brightest ornament. 

The present Lord Darrell gave up all idea of 
being an ambassador, but he was clever; and 
though he humed to gratify a taste for pleasure 
which before had been too much mortiiied, he could 
not relinquish the ambitious prospects with which 
he had, during the greater part of his life, consoled 
himself for his cadetship. He piqued himself upon 
being, at the same time, a dandy and a statesman. 
He spoke in the house, and not without effect. He 
was one of those who had made himself master of 
all the great political questions; that is to say, had 
read a great many reviews and newspapers, and 
was full of others' thoughts, without ever having 
thought himself He particularly prided himself 
upon having made his way into the Alhambra set. 

He was the only man of business among them. 
The duke liked him, — for it is agreeable to be 
courted by those who are themselves considered. 
- Lord Darrell was a great favourite with the 
women. They like a little intellect. He talked 
fluently on all subjects. He was what is called " a 
talented young man." (O ! that odious, canting, 
un-English word !) Then he had mind, and soul, 
and all that. The miracles of creation have long 
agre«d that body without soul will not do ; and even 
a coxcomb in these days must be original, or he is 
a bore. No longer is such a character the mere 
creation of his tailor and his perfumer. He must 
dress, certainly ; assuredly, he must scent. But he 
must also let the world hourly feel by that delicate 
eccentricity which infuses a graceful variety into 
the monotony of life, that he is entitled to invent a 
button, or to bathe in violets. 

Lord Dan-ell was an avowed admirer of Lady 
Caroline St Maurice, and a great favourite with 
her parents, who both considered him an oracle on 
the subjects which respectively interested them. 
You might dine at Fit7.-pompcy House, and hear 
his name quoted at botli ends of the table ; by the 
host upon the state of Europe, and by the hostess 
upon the state of the season. Had it not been for the 
young duke, nothing would have given Lady Fitz- 
pompey greater pleasure than to have received him 
as a son-in-law ; but, as it was, he was only kept in 
store for the second string to Cupid's bow. 

Lord Darrell had just quitted the house in a 
costume which, though rough, was not less studied 
than the finished and elaborate toilet which, in the 
course of an hour, he will exhibit in the enchanted 
holls of Almack's. There he will iigure to the last, 
A\\e most active and the most remarked ; and though 
after these continued exertions, he will not gain his 
couch perhaps till seven, our lord of the treasury 
— for he is one, — will resume his oflicial duties at an 
earlier hour than any functionary in the kingdom. 

Yet our friend is a little annoyed now. What 
is the matter 1 He dilates to his uncle, Lord Sey- 
mour Temple, a gray-headed placeman, on the 
profligacy of the press. What — what is this ? The 
Virgilian line our orator introduced so felicitously 
is omitted. He panegyrises the Mirror of Parlia- 
ment, where he has no doubt the missing verse will 
appear. The quotation was new—" Timeo Danaos." 

Lord Seymour Temple begins a long story about 
Fox and General Fitzjiatrick. This is a signal for 
the general retreat; and the bore, as Sir Boyle 
Roche would sa^, like the last rose of summer, re- 
mains talking to himselC 



CHAPTER VL 

Arundel Dacre was the only child of Mr 
Dacre's only and deceased brother, and heir to tho 
whole of the Dacre property. His father, a man 
of violent passions, had married early in life, 
against the approbation of his family, and had re 
voltcd from the Catholic communion. The eldc 
brother, however, mortified by this great deeil, 
which passion had prompted, and not conscience, 
had exerted his best offices to mollify their exaspe- 
rated father, and to reconcile the sire to the son. 
But he had exerted them inefiectually ; and, as is 
not unusual, found, af\cr much harrowing anxiety 
and deep suffering, that he was not even recom- 
pensed for his exertions and his sympathy by the 
gratitude of his brother. The younger Dacre was 
not one of those minds whose rashness and impe- 
tuosity are counterbalanced, or rather compensated, 
by a generous candour and an amiable remorse. 
He was headstrong, but he was obstinate ; he was 
ardent, but he was sullen ; he was unwary, but he 
was suspicious. Every one who opposed him was 
his enemy : all who combined for his preservation 
were conspirators. His father, whose feelings he 
had outraged, and never attempted to soothe, was 
a tyrant ; his brother, who was devoted to his inte- 
rests, was a traitor. 

These were his living and his dying thoughts. 
While he existed, he was one of those men who, 
because they have been imprudent, think themselves 
unfortunate, and mistake their diseased mind for 
an implacable destiny. When he died, his death- 
bed was consoled by the reflection that his perse- 
cutors might at last feel some compunction : and 
he quitted the world without a pang, because he 
flattered himself that his departure would cost them 
one. 

His father, who had died before him, had left him 
no fortune, and even had not provided for his wife 
or child. His brother made another ineffectual 
attempt to accomplish a reconciliation ; but his 
proffers of love and fortune were alike scorned, and 
himself insulted ; and Arundel Dacre seemed to 
gloat on the idea that he was an outcast and a 
beggar. 

Yet even this strange being had his warm 
feelings. He adored his wife, particularly because 
his father hnd disowned her. He had a friend 
whom he idolized, and who, treating his occa-sionai 
conduct as a species of insanity, had never deserted 
him. This friend had been his college companion, 
and, in the odd chapter of circumstances, had be- 
come a powerful political character. Dacre was a 
man of talents, and his friend took care that he 
should have an opportunity of displaying them. 
He was brought into parliament, ami animated by 
the desire, as he thought, of triumphing over his 
family, he exerted himself with success. But his 
infernal temper spoiled all. His active quarrels 
and his noisy brawls were even more endurable 
than his sullen suspicions, his dark hints, and his 
silent hate. He was always oflended, and always 
offending. Such a man could never succeed as a 
politician, — a character, who, of all others, must 
learn to endure, to forget, and to forgive. He wat. 
soon universally shunned ; but his first friend was 
faithful, though bitterly tried, and Dacre retired 
from public life on a pension. 

His wife had died, and during the latter years of 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



hif3 life, almost his only companion was his son. 
He concentrated on this being all that ardent 
affection which, had he diffused among his 
fellow-creatures, might have ensured his happiness 
and his prosperity. Yet even sometimes he would 
look in his child's face with an anxious air, as if he 
read incubating treason, and then press him to his 
bosom with unusual fervour, as if he would stifle 
he idea, which alone was madness. 

This child was educated in an hereditary hate of 
he Dacre family. His uncle was daily painted as 
a tyrant, whom he classed in his young mind with 
Phalaris or Dionysius. There was nothing that 
he felt keener than his father's wrongs, and nothing 
which he believed more certain than his uncle's 
wickedness. He arrived at his thirteenth year, 
when his father died, and he was to be consigned 
to the care of that uncle. 

Arundel Dacre had left his son as a legacy to his 
friend ; but that friend was a man of the world ; 
and when the elder brother not only expressed his 
wiUingness to maintain the orphan, but even his 
desire to educate and adopt him as his son, he 
cheerfully resigned all his claims to the forlorn boy, 
and felt that, by consigning him to his uncle, he 
had most religiously discharged the trust of his 
confiding friend. 

The nephew arrived at Castle Dacre with a heart 
equally divided between misery and hatred. It 
seemed to him that a fate more forlorn than his 
had seldom been awarded to mortal. Although he 
found his uncle so diametrically opposite to all that 
his misled imagination had painted him ; although 
he was treated with a kindness and indulgence 
which tried to compensate for their too long es- 
tranged affections, Arundel Dacre could never con- 
quer the impressions of his boyhood ; and had it 
not been for his cousin May, a creature of whom 
he had not heard, and of whom no distorted image 
had therefore haunted his disturbed imagination, — 
had it not been for this beautiful girl, who greeted 
him with affection which warmed and won his 
heart, so morbid were his feelings, that he would in 
all probability have puied away under a roof which 
he should have looked upon as his own. 

His departure for Eton was a relief. As he 
grew up, although his knowledge of life and man 
had long taught him the fallacy of his early feelings 
— and although he now yielded a tear of pity, 
rather than of indignation, to the adored names of 
Ids father — his peculiar temper, and his first edu- 
cation never allowed him entirely to emancipate 
himself from his hereditary feelings. His charac- 
ter was combined of many and even of contrary 
qualities. 

His talents were great, but his want of confidence 
made them more doubtful to himself than to the 
world ; yet, at times, in his solitary musings, he 
perhaps even exaggerated his powers. He was 
proud, and yet worldly. He never forgot that he 
was a Dacre ; but he desired to be the architect of 
his own fortune ; and his very love of independence 
made him, at an early period, meditate on the means 
of managing mankind. He was reserved and cold, 
for his imagination required much ; yet he panted 
for a confidant, and was one of those youths with 
whom friendship is a passion. To conclude, he 
was a Protestant among Catholics: and although 
this circumstance, inasmuch as it assisted him in 
the views which he had early indulged, was not an 
ungracious one, he felt that, till he was distinguished. 



it had lessened his consideration,- since he "^.tild 
not count upon the sympathy of hereditary con- 
nexions and ancient party. Altogether, iie was 
one who, with the consciousness of ancient blood, 
the certainty of future fortune, fine talents, great 
accomplishments, and not slight personal advan- 
tages, was unhappy. Yet, although not of a san- 
guine temper, and occasionally delivered to the 
darkest spleen, his intense ambition sustained him, 
and he lived on the hope, and sometimes on the 
conviction, that a bright era would, some day, 
console liim for the bitterness of his past and pre- 
sent life. 

At school and at college he equally distinguished 
himself, and was everywhere respected and often 
regarded ; yet he had never found that friend on 
whom his fancy had often busied itself, and which 
one whose alternations of feeling were so violent 
peremptorily required. His uncle and himself 
viewed each other with mutual respect and regard, 
but confidence did not exist between them. Mr. 
Dacre, in spite of his long and constant efforts, 
despaired of raising in the breast of his nephew the 
flame of filial love ; and had it not been for his 
daughter, who was the only person in the world to 
whom Arundel ever opened his mind, and who 
coidd, consequently, throw some light upon his 
wants and wishes, it would not have been in 
his power to evince to his nephew, that this disap- 
pointment had not affected his uncle's feelmgs in 
his favour. 

When his education was completed, Mr. Dacre 
had wished him to take up his residence in York- 
shire, and, in every sense, to act as his son, as he 
was his successor. But Arundel declined this 
proposition. He obtained from his father's old 
political connexion the appointment of attache to a 
foreign embassy, and he remained on the Continent, 
with the exception of a yearly visit to Yorkshire, 
three or four years. But his views were not in 
the diplomatic line, and this appointment only 
served as a political school until he could enter 
parliament. May Dacre had wormed from him his 
secret, and worked with energy m his cause. An 
opportunity appeared to offer itself, and, under the 
patronage of a Catholic nobleman, he was to ap- 
pear as a candidate for an open borough. It was 
on this business that he returned to England ; but 
whether he succeeded or not, this veritable history 
will relate another time. 



CHAPTER VII. 

We will go and make a morning call. The 
garish light of day, that never suits a chamber, 
was broken by a muslin veil, which sent its soft- 
ened twilight through a room of moderate dimen- 
sions but of princely decoration, and which opened 
into a conservatory. The choice saloon was hung 
with rose-coloured silk, "which diffused a delicate 
tint over the inlaid and costly cabinets. It was 
crowded with tables, covered with bijouterie. Ap- 
parently, however, a road had been cut through the 
furniture, by which you might wind your way up 
to the divinity of the temple. A ravishing perfume, 
which was ever changing, wandered through the 
apartment. Now a violet breeze ^nade you poet- 
ical; now a rosy gale called you to love. And 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



277 



ever and anon the strange but thrilling breath of 
some rare exotic summoned you, like an angel to 
opening Eden. All was still and sweet, save that 
a fountain made you, as it were, more conscious of 
silence — save that the song of birds made jou, as 
it were, more sensible of sweetness. 

Upon a couch, her small head resting upon an 
ann covered with bracelets which blazed like 
a soldan's treasure, reclined Mrs. Dallington Vere. 

She is in thonght. Is her abstracted eye fixed 
in admiration upon that twinkling foot which, 
clothed in its morocco slipper, looks like a serpent's 
tongue, small, red, and pointed ; or does a more 
serious feeling than self-admiration inspire this 
musing ■? Ah ! a cloud courses over that pellucid 
brow. 'Tis gone, but it frowned like the harbin- 
ger of a storm. Again ! A small but blood red 
blush rises into that clear cheek. It was momen- 
tary, but its deep colour indicated that it came 
from the heart. Her eye lights up with a wild 
and glittering fire, but the flash vanishes into dark- 
ness, and gloom follows the unnatural light. She 
clasps her hands ; she rises from an uneasy seat, 
though supported by a thousand pillows, and she 
paces the conservatory. 

A guest is announced. It is Sir Lucius Grafton. 

He salutes her with that studied courtesy which 
shows they are only friends, but which, when 
mamtained between intimate acquaintance, some- 
times makes wicked people suspect that they once 
perhaps were more. She resumes her seat, and he 
throws himself into an easy chair which is opposite. 

"Your note I this moment received. Bertha, and 
I am here. You perceive that my fidelity is as re- 
markable as ever." 

" We had a gay meeting last night." 

" Very much so. So Lady Araniinta has at last 
ehown mercy." 

" I cannot believe it." 

" I have just had a note from Challoner, prelimi- 
nary, I suppose, to my trusteeship. You are not 
the only person who holds my talents for business 
in high esteem." 

"But Ballingford — ^what will he say 1" 

" This is his affair ; and as he never, to my know- 
ledge, spoke to the purpose, his remarks now, I 
suppose, are not fated to be much more apropos." 

" Yet he can say things. We all know — " 

" Yes, yes, we all know, but nobody, believes. 
That is the motto of the present day ; and the only 
way to neutralize scandal and to counteract publici- 
ty." 

Mrs. Dallington was silent, and looked a little 
uneasy ; and her friend perceiving, that although 
she had sent to him so urgent a billet, she did not 
communicate, expressed a little surprise. 

" But you wish to see me. Bertha 1" 

" I do very much, Lucy, and to speak to 5'-ou. 
For these many days I have intended it ; but I do 
not know how it is, I have postponed, and postponed 
our interview. I begin to believe," she added, looking 
up with a faint smile, — " I am half afraid to speak." 

" Good God !" said the baronet, really alarmed, 
" you are in no trouble !" 

" no I make yourself easy. Trouble — trouble ! 
No — no ! I am not exactly in trouble. I am not 
in debt ; I am not in a scrape; but — but — but I am 
in something, Lucy — something worse, perhaps — I 
am in love." 

The baronet looked puzzled. He did not for a 
moment suspect himself to be the hero, yet although 
2 A 



their mutual confidence was illimitable, he did not 
exactly see why, in the present instance, there had 
been such urgency to impart an event not altogether 
either unnatural or miraculous. 

" In love !" said Sir Lucius ; " a very proper situ- 
ation for the prettiest woman in London. Every- 
body is in love with you ; and I heartily rejoice that 
some one of our favoured sex is about to avenge our 
sufferings." 

" Point de morjuerie, Lucy ! I am very misera- 
ble." 

" Dear little pigeon, what is the matter 1" 

" Ah me !" { 

" Speak, speak," said he, in a gay tone ; " you 
were not made for sighs, but smiles. Begin — " 

" Well then — the young duke — " 

"The devil !" said Lucius, alarmed. 

" ! no ; make yourself easy," said Mrs. Dal- 
lington, smiling; "no counterplot, I assure you, 
although really you do not deserve to succeed." 

" Then who is it?" eagerly asked Sir Lucius. 

" You will not let me speak. The young duke — " 

" Damn the duke." 

" How impatient you are, Lucy ! I must begin 
with the beginning. Well, the young duke has 
something to do with it." 

" Pray, pray be explicit." 

" In a word, then," said Mrs. Dallington, in a 
low voice, but with an expression of earnestness 
which Sir Lucius had never before remarked, "I 
am in love, desperately in love with one whom 
hitherto, in accordance with your wishes, I have 
been driving into the arms of another. Our views, 
our interests are oj)posite ; but I wLsh to act fairly, 
if possible, — I wish to reconcile them ; and it is for 
this purpose that I have summoned you this morn- 
ing." 

Arundel Dacre !" said Sir Lucius quietly, and 
I' Tapped his cane on his boot. The blood-red 
spot again arose in his companion's cheek. 

There was silence for about a minute. Sir 
Lucius would not disturb it, and Mrs. Dallington 
again spoke. 

" St. James and the little Dacre have again met. 
You have my secret, Lucy. I do not ask your — 
which I might at another time — I do not ask your 
good services with Arundel ; but you cannot expect 
me to work against myself. Depend, then, no 
longer on my influence with May Dacre ; for, to 
be explicit, as we have always been, most heartily 
should I rejoice to see her a dutchess." 

" The point. Bertha," said Sir Lucius very qui- 
etly, " is not that I can no longer count upon you 
as an ally ; but I must, I perceive, reckon you an 
opponent." 

" Cannot we prevent this 1" asked Mrs. Dalling- 
ton, with energy. 

" I see no alternative," said Sir Lucius, shaking 
his head with great unconcern. " Time will prove 
who will have to congratulate the other." 

" Lucy," said Mrs. Dallington, with briskness 
and decision, " no aliectation between us. Drop this 
assumed unconcern. You know — you know well, 
that no incident could occur to you at this moment 
more mortifying than the one I have communicat- 
ed, which deranges your plans, and probably may 
destroy your views. You cannot misconceive niy 
motives in making this, not very agreeable, com- 
munication. I might have pursued my object, 
without your knowledge and permission. In a 
word, I might have betrayed you. But with me. 



2T8 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



every consideration has yielded to friendship. I 
cannot forget how often and how successfully we 
have combined. I should grieve to see our ancient 
and glorious alliance annulled. I am yet in hopes 
that we may both obtain our objects through its 
medium." 

" I am not aware," said Sir Lucius, with more feel- 
iiig, " that I liave given you any cause to complain 
cf my •« ant of candour. We are in a difhcult po- 
sition, I have nothing to suggest, but I am ready 
to listen. You know. Bertha, how ready I am to 
adopt all your suggestions ; and I know how sel- 
dom you have wanted an expedient." 

" The little Dacre, then, must not marry her 
cousin : but we cannot flatter ourselves that such a 
girl will not want to marry some one : — I have a 
conviction that this is her decisive season. She 
must be occupied. In a word, Lucy, some one 
must be found." 

The baronet started from his chair, and nearly 
knocked down a table. 

" Confound your tables. Bertha," said he, in a 
pettish tone ; " I can never consult in a room full 
of tables." He v^-alked into the conservatory, and 
she followed him. He seemed plunged in thought. 
They were again silent. Suddenly he seized her 
hahd, and led her back to the sofa, on which they 
both sat down. 

" My dear friend," he said, in a tone of agitated 
solemnity, " I will conceal no longer from you what 
1 have sometimes endeavoured to conceal from my- 
self, — I love that girl to distraction." 

"You ! Lucy !" 

"Yes! to distraction. Ever since wc first met, 
her image has haunted me. I endeavoured to crush 
a feehng which promised only to plunge me into 
anxiety, and to distract my attention from my im- 
jiortant objects ; hut in vain, in vain. Her unex- 
pected appearance yesterday has revived my passion 
with triple fervour. I have passed a sleepless 
night, and rise with the determination to obtain 
her." 

" You^know your own power, Lucius, better per- 
haps than I do, or the world. I rank it high — 
none higher — yet, nevertheless, I look upon this 
declaration as insanity." 

He raised her hand to his lips, and pressed it 
with delicate warmth, and summoned his most in- 
sinuating tone. " With your aid, Bertha, I should 
not despair !" 

" Lucy, I am your friend, perhaps your best 
friend, — but these Dacres^. Would it were any 
one but a Dacre ! No, no, this cannot be." 

" Bertha, you know me better than the world — 
I am a ruuc ,- and you — are my friend ; but, believe 
nje, I am not quite so vain as to indulge for a mo- 
ment in the idea, that May Dacre should be aught 
to me but what all might approve, and all might 
honour. Yes, dove, I intend her for my wife." 

" Your wife, Lucy ! You are, indeed, prema- 
ture." 

" Not quite so premature as you perhaps imagine. 
Know, then, that the great ])oint is on the eve of 
achievement. Urged by the information which she 
thinks she unconsciously obtains from Lachen, and 
harrowed by the idea that I am about to tear her 
from England, she has appealed to the duke in a 
manner to which they were both unused. Hitherto, 
lier docile temper has not permitted her to abuse 
her empire. Now, she exerts her power with an 
energy to which he believed her a stranger. He is 



staggered by his situation. He at the same lime 
repents having so rashly engaged the feelings of a 
woman, and is flattered that he is so loved. They 
have more than once consulted upon the expedi 
ency of an elopement." 

" This is good news." 

" ! Bertha, you must feel like me before you 
can estimate it. Yes !" he clenched his fist with 
horrible energy, — " tliere is no hell like a detested 
wife !" 

They were again silent ; but when she thought 
that his emotion had subsided, she again recalled 
their consideration to the object of their interview. 

" You play a bold game, indeed ; but it shall not 
fail, Lucy, from any deficiency on my part. — But 
how are we to proceed at present 1 Who is to in- 
terest the feelings of the little Dacre at once 1" 

" Who but her future husband ] What I want 
you to do is tliis : we shall call ; but prepare the 
house to receive us, not only as acquaintances, but 
as desirable inmates. You know what to say. I 
have an idea that the divine creature entertains no 
very unfavourable opinion of your obedient slave ; 
and with her temper, I care not for what she will 
not probably hear, — the passing opinion of a third 
person. I stand at present, thanks to Afy, veiy 
high with the public ; and you know, although my 
life has not the least altered, that my indiscretions 
have now a dash of discretion in them ; and a re- 
formed rake, as all agree, is the personification of 
morality. Prepare my way with the Dacres, and 
all will go right. And as for this Arundel, I know 
him not ; but you have told me enough to make 
me consider him the most fortunate of men. 1 can- 
not conceive that there can be any ditiiculty. You 
have, I suppose, to throw your handkerchief. As 
for love between cousins, I laugh at it. A glance 
from you will extinguish the feeble flame, as a sun- 
beam does a fire : and for the rest, the world does 
me the honour to believe, that if Lucius Grafton be 
remarkable for one thing more than another, it is , 
for the influence he attains over young minds. I 
will get acquainted with this boy ; and for once, 
let love be unattended by doubt." 

Long was their counsel. The plans we have 
hinted at were analyzed, canvassed, weighed, and 
finally matured. They parted after a long morning, 
well aware of the diliiculties which awaited their 
fulfilment, but also full of hope. 



CHAPTER Vm. 

SiTcn able and congenial spirits as Mrs. Dalling- 
ton Vere and Sir Lucius Grafton, prosecuted their 
plans with the success which they had a riglit to 
anticipate. Lady Aphrodite, who was proud of her 
previous acquaintance, however slight, with the 
most distinguished girl in London, and eager to 
improve it, unconsciously assisted their operations. 
Society is so constituted, that it requires no little 
talent, and no slight energy, to repel the intimacy 
even of those whose acquaintance is evidently not 
desirable ; and there are many people in this world 
mixing, apparently, with great spirit and self-es- 
teem in its concerns, who really owe their constant 
appearance and occasional influence in circles of 
consideration, to no other qualities than their own 
callous impudence, and the indolence and the irre 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



279 



solution of their victims. They, who at the same 
time have no delicacy and no shame, count fearful 
odds : and, much as is murmured about the false 
estimation of riches, there is little doubt that the 
parvenu as often owes his, or rather her, advance- 
ment in society to her perseverance as to her pelf. 

When, therefore, your intimacy is courted by 
those whose intimacy is an honour, and tliat too 
with an art which conceals its purpose, you often 
find that you have, and are, a devoted friend, really 
before you have felt suiFicient gratitude for the 
opera-box which has been so often lent, the car- 
riage which has been ever at hand, the brother who 
has received such civilities, or the father who has 
been requested to accept some of the very unat- 
tainable tokay, which he has charmed you by ad- 
miring at your own table. 

The manoeuvres and the tactics of society are 
infinitely more numerous and infinitely finer than 
tliose of strategy. Wo betide the rash knight who 
dashes into the thick of the polished mtlce without 
some slight experience of his barb and his lance ! 
Let him look well to his arms ! He will do well 
not to appear before his helm be plumed with some 
reputation, however slight He may be very rich, 
or even very poor. I have seen that answer with 
a Belisarius-like air ; and more than one hero 
without an obolus has stumbled upon a fortune, 
merely from his contempt of riches. If to fight, or 
write, ordress be above you, why, then, you can 
ride, or dance, or even skate ; but do not think, as 
many young gentlemen arc apt to believe, that 
talking will sene your purpose. That is the quick- 
sand of your young beginners. All can talk in a 
public assembly, that is to say, all can give us 
exhortations which do not move, aud arguments 
which do not convince ; but to converse in a pri- 
vate assembly is a very diiferent aflair, and rare are 
the characters who can be endured, if they exceed 
a whisper to their neighbours. But, though mild and 
silent, be ever ready with the rapier of repartee, 
and be ever armed with the breastplate of good 
temper. You will infallibly gather laurels, if you 
add to these the spear of sarcasm, and the shield 
of nonchalance. 

The high style of conversation where eloquence 
and philosophy emulate each other, where princi- 
ples are profoundly expounded, and felicitously 
illustrated — all this has ceased. It ceased in the 
country with Johnson and Burke, and it requires a 
Jolinson and a Burke for its maintenance. There 
is no mediocrity in such a discourse, — no interme- 
diate character between the sage and the bore. The 
Second style, where men, not things, are the staple, 
but where wit, and refinement, and sensibility in- 
vest even personal details with intellectual interest, 
does flourish at present, as it always must in a 
highly civilized society. S. is, or rather was, a fine 
specimen of this school, and M. and L. are his 
worthy rivals. This style is indeed, for the mo- 
ment, excessively interesting. Then comes your 
conversation man, who, I confess, is my aversion. 
His talk is a thing apart, got up before he enters 
the company from whose conduct it should grow 
out. He sits in the middle of a large table, and 
with a brazen voice, bawls out his anecdotes, about 
Sir Thomas, or Sir Humphry, Lord Blank, or my 
Lady Blue. He is incessant, yet not interesting; 
ever varying, yet always monotonous. Even if we are 
amused, we are no more grateful for the entertain- 



ment than we are to the lamp over the table for the 
light which it universally sheds, and to yield which 
it was obtained on puqiosc. We are more gratified 
by tlie slight conversation of one who is often si- 
lent, but who speaks from his momentary feelings, 
than by all this huUaballoo. Yet this machine is 
generally a favourite piece of furniture with the 
hostess. I have often caught her eye, as he re- 
counts some adventure of the morning, which proves 
that he not only belongs to every club, but goes to 
them, light up with approbation : and then, when 
the ladies withdraw, and the female senate deliver 
their criticism upon the late actors, she will ob- 
serve, with a gratified smile, to her confidant, that 
the dinner went off well, and that Mr. Bellow was 
very strong to-day ! 

AH this is horrid, and the whole affair is a delu- 
sion. A variety of people are brought together, 
who all come as late as possible, and retire as soon, 
merely to show they have other engagements. A 
dinner is prepared for them, which is hurried over, 
in order that a certain number of dishes should be 
— not tasted, but seen ; and provided that there is 
no moment that an absolute silence reigns ; pro- 
vided that, besides the bustling of the servants, the 
clattering of the plates and knives, a stray anec- 
dote is told, which, if good, has been heard before, 
and which, if nev^', is generally flat ; provided a 
certain number of certain names of people of con- 
sideration are introduced, by which some stranger, 
for whom the party is often secretly given, may 
learn the scale of civilization of which he this mo- 
ment forms a part ; provided the senators do not 
steal out too soon to the House, and their wives to 
another party, the hostess is congratulated on the 
success of her entertainment. 

And this glare, and heat, and noise — this con- 
geries of individuals without sympathy, and dishes 
without flavour — this is society I What an eflect 
without a cause ! A man must be very green, 
indeed, to stand this for two seasons. I cannot 
help thinking, that one consequence of the increased 
intelligence of the present day will be a great change 
in the habits of our intercourse. 

After all, all conversation is an effort, and all 
eflbrts, in the long run, are wearying. The only 
exception is, when we interchange ideas with some 
individual with Vv'hom we deeply sympathize. This, 
perliti j)s, is even superior to revery : for we express, 
without artifice, all that we feel, and guage at the 
same time the value of our ideas. But such com- 
munion must be ever rare. What delightful hours 
have I not passed in this manner, when pacing the 

terrace at , with the amiable and interesting 

* * * I How readily does his learned spirit supply, at 
all times, facts for ail speculations — develope the im- 
perfect, confirm the doubtful, illustrate the obscure I 
How beautifully does the calm candour of his plii- 
losophic mind repress the passionate inference or 
the prejudiced conclusion ! How agreeably does 
his deep experience of all his great and good con- 
temporaries mingle with his unrivalled knowledge 
of the great and good of all ages ! In a lot with 
which I am altogether dissatisfied, there is, to me, 
no subject of more thorough self-congratulation, 
than that the being who is entitled to my most 
devoted affections should not be a bore. 

O, my father ! in these refined regions, where \. 
breathe clear and classic air, I think of thee. A 
poor return for infinite afl'ection ! And ytt, oiir 



280 



D' ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



friendship is a hallowed joy : — it is my pride, and 
let it be my solace. O'er the waters that cannot 
part our souls, I breathe good wishes. Peace brood 
o'er thy lettered bowers, and Love smile in the 
cheerful hall, that I shall not forget upon the swift 
Symplegados, or where warm Syria, with its pahiiy 
shore, recalls our holy ancestry ! 

To our (ale — to our tale : we linger. Few who 
did not know too much of Sir Lucius Grafton 
could refrain from yielding him their regnrd when 
he chose to challenge it, and with the Dacres he 
was soon an acknowledged favourite. As a new 
M. P., and hitherto doubtful supporter of the Ca- 
tholic cause, it was grateful to Mr. Dacre's feelings 
to find in him an ally, and flattering to Mr. Dacre's 
judgment, when that ally ventured to consult him 
on his friendly operations. With Miss Dacre, he 
was a mild, amiable man, who knew the world ; 
tiioroughly good, but void of cant, and owner of a 
virtue not less to be depended on because his 
passions had once been strong, and he had once in- 
dulged them. His experience of life made him 
value domestic felicity ; because he knew that there 
was no other source of happiness which was at 
once so pure and so permanent. But he was not 
one of those men who consider marriage as an ex- 
tinguisher of all those feelings and accomplish- 
ments which throw a lustre on existence ; and he 
did not consider himself bound, because he had 
plighted his faith to a beautiful woman, imme- 
diately to terminate the very conduct which had 
induced her to join him in the sacred and eternal 
pledge. His gayety still sparkled, his wit still 
flashed ; still he hastened to be foremost among 
the courteous ; and still his high and rendy gal- 
lantry indicated that he was not prepared to yield 
the fitting ornament of his still blooming youth. A 
thousand unobtrusive and delicate attentions which 
the innocent now received from him without a 
thought, save of Lady Aphrodite's good fortune ; 
a thousand gay and sentimental axioms, which 
proved not only how agreeable he was, but how 
enchanting he must have been ; a thousand little 
deeds which struggled to shun the light, and which 
palpably demonstrated that the gayety of his wit, 
the splendour of his accomplishments, aud the ten- 
derness of his soul were only equalled by his un- 
bounded generosity and unparalleled good temper, — 
all these combined had made Sir Lucius Grafton, 
to many, always a delightful, often a dangerous, 
and sometimes a fatal companion. He was one 
of those whose candour is deadly. It was when he 
least endeavoured to conceal his character that his 
hideousness least appeared. He confessed some- 
times so much, that you yielded that pity which, 
ere the shrived culprit could receive, by some fatal 
alchymy was changed into passion. His smile was 
a lure, his speech was a spell ; but it was when he 
was silent, and almost gloomy, when you caught 
•lis serious eye, charged, as it were, with passion, 
gazing on yours, that if you had a g\iardian svlph, 
you should have invoked its aid ; and, I pray, if 
ever you^eet the man of whom I write, your invo- 
talion may not be forgotten, or be, what is more 
likely — too late. 

The Dacres, this season, were the subject of 
universal conversation. She was the distinguished 
beauty, and the dandies all agreed that his dinners 
were worthy of his daugliter. Lady Fitz-pompey 
was noi oehind the welcoming crowd. She was 



too politic a leader not to fee! anxious to enlist 
under her colours a recruit who was so well calcu- 
lated to maintain the reputation of her forces. 
Fitz-pompey House must not lose its character for 
assembling the most distinguished, the most agree- 
able, and the most refined, — and May Dacre was a 
divinity who would summon many a crowd to her 
niche in this pantheon of fashion. 

If any difficulty were for a moment anticipated 
in bringing about this arrangement, a fortunate 
circumstance seemed sufficient to remove it. I^ord 
St. Maurice and Arundel Dacre had been acquainted 
at Vienna, and though the intimacy was slight, it 
was sweet. St. Maurice had received many fa- 
vours from the ntlache, and as he was a man of 
family, and reputation, had been very happy to 
greet him on his arrival in London. Before the 
Dacres made their appearance in tovi-n for the 
season, Arundel had been initiated in the mysteries 
of Fitz-pompey House, and therefore a desire from 
that mansion to cultivate the good graces of his 
Yorkshire relations seemed not only not forced, 
but extremely natural. So, the fimilies met, and, 
to the surprise of each other, became even intimate, 
— for May Dacre and Lady Caroline soon evinced 
a mutual regard for each other. Female friend- 
ships are of rapid growth, and in the present in- 
stance, when there was nothing on each side which 
was not loveable, it was quite miraculous, and the 
friendship, particularly on the part of Ledy Caro- 
line, shot up in one night like a blooming aloe. 

I think there is nothing more lovely than the 
love of two beautiful women, who are not en- 
vious of each other's charms. How delightfully 
they impart to each other the pattern of a cap, or 
flounce, or frill ! how charmingly they intrust 
some slight, slender secret about tinting a flower, 
or netting a purse ! Now one leans over the other, 
and guides her inexperienced hand, as it moves in 
the mysteries of some novel work, and then the 
other looks up with an eye beaming with devotion ; 
and then again the first leans down a little lower, 
and gently presses her aromatic lips upon her 
friend's polished forehead. These are sights which 
we quiet men, who, like "small Jack Horner," 
know where to take up a safe position, occasion- 
ally enjoy, but which .your noisy fellows, who 
think that women never want to he alone — a sad 
mistake — and consequently must be always break- 
ing or stringing a guitar, or cutting a pencil, or 
splitting a crow-quill, or overturning the gold ink, 
or scribbling over a pattern, or doing any other of 
the thousand acts of mischief, are debarred from. 

Not that these bright flowers often bloomed 
alone — a blossom not less brilliant generally shared 
with them the same parterre. Mrs. Dallington 
completed the bonqtiet, and Arundel Dacre was 
the butterfly, who, she was glad to perceive, was 
seldom absent, when her presence added l)eauty to 
the beautiful. Indeed, she had good reason to feel 
confidence in her attractions. Independent of her 
charms, which, assuredly, were great, her fortune, 
which was even greater, possessed, she was well 
aware, no slight allurement to one who ever 
trembled when he thought of his dependence, and 
often glowed when he mused over his ambition. 
His slight but increasing notice was duly estimated 
by one who was perfectly acquainted with his 
peculiar temper, and daily perceived how disregard- 
ful he \\3.s of all others, except her and his cousin. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



281 



But a cousin ! She felt perfect confidence in the 
theory of Sir Lucius Grafton. 

And the young duke — have we forgotten him ? 
Sooth to say, he was very seldom with our heroine 
or heroines. He had called on Mr. Dacre, and 
had greeted him with marked cordiality, and he 
had sometimes met him and his daughter hi society. 
But, although invited, he had hitherto avoided 
being their visiter ; and the comparatively secluded 
life which he now led prevented him from seeing 
them often at other houses. Mr. Dacre, who was 
unaware of what had passed between him and his 
daughter, thought his conduct inexplicable; but 
his former guardian remembered that it was not 
the first time that his behaviour had been unusual ; 
and it was never the disposition of Mr. Dacre to 
promote explanations. 

Our hero felt annoyed at his own weakness. It 
would have been infinitely more worthy of so 
celebrated, so unrivalled a personage as the Duke 
of St. James, not to have given the woman who 
had rejected him this evidence of her power. Ac- 
cording to etiquette, he should have called there 
daily and have dined there weekly, and yet never 
have given the former object of his adoration the 
slightest idea that he cared a breath for her pre- 
sence. According to etiquette he should never 
have addressed her but in a vein of pfrsiJJaf^e, and 
with a smile, which indicated liis perfect heartease, 
and her bad taste. According to etiquette, he 
should have flirted with every woman in her com- 
pany, rode with her in the park, walked with her 
in the gardens, chatted with her at the opera, and 
champagned with her on the river; and finally, to 
prove how sincere he was in his former estimation 
of her judgment, have consulted her on the pre- 
sents which he should make to some intimate 
friend of hers, whom he announces as his future 
hride. This is the way to manage a woman ; and 
the result may be conceived. She stares, she starts, 
she sighs, she weeps; feels highly offended at her 
friend daring to accept him ; writes a letter of 
rejection herself to the affianced damsel, which she 
makes him sign, and then presents him with the 
hand which she always meant to be his. 

But this was above our hero. The truth is, 
whenever he thought of May Dacre, his spirit 
sank. She had cowed him; and her arrival in 
London had made him as dissatisfied with his 
present mode of fife, as he had been with his 
former career. They had met again, and under 
circumstances apparently, to him, the most unfa- 
vourable. Although he was hopeless, yet he 
dreaded to think what she might hear of him. Her 
contempt was bitter; her dislike would even be 
worse. Yet it seemed impossible to retrieve. He 
was plunged deeper than he imagined. Embar- 
rassed, entangled, involved, he flew to Lady Afy, 
half in pique, and half in misery. Passion had 
ceased to throw a glittering veil around this idol ; 
but she was kind, and pure, and gentle, and de- 
voted. It was consoling to be loved, to one who 
was so wretched. It seemed to him, that life must 
ever be a blank without the woman who, a few 
months ago, he had felt an encumbrance. The 
recollection of past joys was balm to one who was 
so forlorn. He shuddered at the thought of losing 
his only precious possession, and he was never 
more attached to his mistress than when the soul 
of friendship rose from the body of expired love. 
36 



CHAPTER IX. 

Thk Duke of St. James dines to-day with Mr. 
Annesley. Men and things should be our study ; 
and it is universally acknowledged that a dinner is 
the mo.st important of affiiirs, and a dandy the 
most important of individuals. If I liked I could 
give you a description of the fife, which should 
make all your mouths water, — and my cookery 
has been admired in its day, which was right ; 
because my gastronomical details were the reminis- 
cences of experience, and not of reading : but every 
one cooks now, and ekes out his page by robbing 
Jarrin, and by rifling Dolby. 

Charles Annesley was never seen to more ad- 
vantage than when a host. Then his supercilious- 
ness would, if not vanish, at least, subside. He 
was not less calm, but somewhat less cold, like a 
summer lake. Therefore we will have an eye upon 
his party ; because, to dine with dandies should be 
a prominent feature in your career, and must not 
be omitted in this sketch of the " Life and 1'imes" 
of our young hero. 

The party was of that number which at once 
secures a variety of conversation, and the impossi- 
bility of two persons speaking at the same time. 
The guests were — his grace, Lord Squib, and Lord 
Darrell. 

The repast, like every thing connected with Mr. 
Annesley, was refined and exquisite, rather slight 
than solid, and more novel than various. There 
was no affectation of gourriiaiiflise, the vice of 
male dinners. Your imagination and your sight 
were not at the same time dazzled and confused 
by an . agglomeration of the peculiar luxuries of 
every clime and every season. As you mused 
over a warm and sunny flavour of a brown soup, 
your host did not dilate upon the milder and moon- 
light beauties of a white one. A gentle dallying 
with a whiting — that chicken of the ocean, was 
not a signal for a panegyric of the darker attrac- 
tion of a mafe/o/fe a, la royitle. The disappear- 
ance of the first course did not herald a catalogue 
of discordant dainties. You were not reconmiendcd 
to neglect the crnq-itctlefi, ]>ecause the houdins might 
claim attention ; and while you were crowning 
your important labours with a quail, you v;ere not 
reminded that the jxiie da Troyes, unlike the less 
reasonable human race, would feel offended if it 
were not cut. Then the wines were few. Some 
sherry, with a pedigree like an Arabian, heightened 
the flavour of the dish, not interfered with it; as 
a toadey keeps up the conversation which he does 
not distract. A goblet of Gratfenburg, with a 
bouquet like woman's. breath, made you, as you 
remembered some liquid which it had been your 
fate to fill! upon, suppose that German wines, like 
German barons, rciiuired some discrimination, and 
that hock, like other titles, was not always the sign 
of the high nobility of its owner, A glass of 
claret was the third grace. But if I had been there, 
I should have devoted myself to one of tiie spark- 
ling sisters ; for I think that one wine, like one 
woman, is sufficient to interest our feelings for 
four-and- twenty hours. Fickleness I abhor. ■ 

" I observed your riding to-day with the gentle 
Leonora, St. James," said Mr. Annesley. 

" No ! her sister." 

" Indeed ! Those girls are uncommonly alike. 
2A8. 



S83 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



The fact is, now, that neither face nor figure de- 
pends upon nature." 

" No," said Lord Squib ; " all that the artists of 
the present day waut is a model. Let a family 
provide one handsome sister, and the hideousness 
of the others will not prevent them, under good 
management, from being mistaken, by the best 
judges, for the beauty, six times in the same 
hour.'' 

" You are trying, I suppose, to account for your 
unfortunate error at Cleverley's, on Monday, 
Squib," said Lord Darrell, laughing. 

" Pooh ! Pooh ! all nonsense." 

" What was itl" said Mr. Annesley. 

" Not a word true," said Lord Squib, stifling 
curiosity. 

" I believe it, " said the duke, without having 
heard a syllable. " Come, Darrell, out with it !" 

" It really is nothing very particular, — only it is 
whispered that Squib said something to Lady Cle- 
verly, which made her ring the bell, and that he 
excused himself to his lordship by protesting, that 
from their similarity of dress and manner, and 
strong family likeness, he had mistaken the 
countess for her sister." 

Oinnes. " Well done. Squib ! And were you 
introduced to the right person!" 

" Why," said his lordship, " fortunately, I con- 
trived to fall out about the settlements, and so I 
escaped." 

" So the chaste Diana is to be the new pa- 
troness," said Lord Darrell, 

" So I understand," rejoined Mr. Annesley. 
" This is the age of unexpected appointments." 

"Ort (lit, tliat when it was notified to the party 
most interested, there was a rider to the bill, ex- 
cluding my lord's relations." 

"Ha, ha, ha," faintly laughed Mr. Annesley, — 
" What have they been doing so very particular!" 

" Nothing," said Lord Squib. " 'That is just 
their fault. They have every recommendation : 
but when any' member of that family is in a room, 
everybody feels so exceedingly sleepy, that they 
all sink to the ground. That is the I'eason that there 
are so many ottomans at Heavyside House." 

" Is it true," asked the duke, " that his grace 
really has a flapper 1" 

"Most unquestionably," said Lord Squib. 
" The other day I was announced, and his attend- 
ant was absent. He had left his instrument on 
a sofa. I immediately took it up, and touched my 
lord upon his hump. I never knew him more en- 
tertaining. He really was quite lively." 

" But Diana is a favourite goddess of mine," 
said Annesley, — " taste that hock." 

" Superb I where did you get it V 

" A present from poor Raflenburg." 

" Ah ! where is he now 1" 

" At Paris, I believe." 

" Paris ! and where is she V 

" I liked Raflenburg," said Lord Squib ; " he 
always reminded me of a country inn-keeper who 
supplies you with ))ipes and tobacco gratis, pro- 
vided that you will dine with him." 

" He had unrivalled meerschaums," said Mr. 
Annesley, "ard he was most liberal. These are 
two. — You know, I never use them, — but they 
are handsome furniture.'' 

" Those (.'hampagnys arc fine girls," said the 
Duke of St. James. 

" Very pretty creatures ! Do you know, St. 



•lames," said Annesley, "I think the youngest one 
something like May Dacre ?" 

" Indeed ! I cannot say the resemblance struck 
me." 

" I sec old mother Champagny dresses her as 
much like the Doncaster belle as she possilily can." 

" Yes, a«d spoils her," said Lord Squib ; " but 
old mother Champagny, with all her fuss, was ever 
a bad cook, and overdid every thing." 

" Young Champagny, they say," observed Lord 
Darrell, " is in a sort of a scrape." 

"Ah! what!" 

" ! some confusion at head quarters. — A great 
tallow-chandler's son got into the regiment, and 
committed some heresy at mess." 

" Champagny is in want of the loan of a thou- 
sand pounds, I suppose," said Mr. Annesley. 

" I do not know the brother," said the duke. 

"You are very fortunate, theii. He is one of 
those unendurables fit only for a regiment. To 
give you an idea of him — suppose you met him 
here, (which you never will,) he would write to 
you the next day, ' my dear St. James.' " 

" My tailor presented me his best compliments, 
the other morning," said the duke. 

" The world is growing too familiar," said Mr 
Annesley. 

"There must be some great remedy," said Lord 
Darrell. 

" Yes !" said Lord Squib, with still greater in- 
dignation. " Tradesmen, no\v-a-days, console them- 
selves for not gelling their bills paid by asking 
their customers to dinner." 

" It is very shocking," said Mr. Annesley, with 
a forlorn air: ."do you know I never enter society 
now without taking as many preliminary precautions 
as if the plague raged in all our chambers. In vain 
have I hitherto prided myself on my existence 
being unknown to the million. I never now stand 
still in the street, lest my portrait be caught for a 
lithograph ; I never venture to a strange dinner, 
lest I should stumble upon a fashionable novelist : 
and even with all this vigilance, and all this denial, 
I have an intimate friend whom I cannot cut, and 
who, they say, writes for the Court Journal." 

"But why Qinnot vou cut hiaal'' asked Lord 
Darrell. 

" He is my brother ; and, you know, I pride 
myself upon my domestic feelings." 

" Yes!" said Lord Squib, — "to judge from what 
the world says, one would think, Annesley, you 
were a Brummel !" 

" Squib, not even in jest, couple my name with 
one whom I will not call a savage, merely because 
he is unfortunate." 

" What did you think of little Eugenie, Annes- 
ley, last night !" asked the duke. 

" Very well — very well, indeed — something like 
Brocard's worst." 

" I was a little disappointed in her debut, and 
much interested in her success. She was rather a 
favourite of mine at Paris, so I took her home to 
the Alhambra yesterday, with a whole bevy, and 
Claudius Piggott and Co. I had half a mind to 
pull you in, but I know you do not much admire 
Pig;^0tt." 

" On the contrary, I have been in Piggott's com- 
pany, without being very much oll'ended." 

" I think Piggott improves," said Lord Darrell. 

" It was those waistcoats which excited such 4 
prejudice against him when he first came over " 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



283 



" What ! a prejudice against Peacock Piggott !" 
said Lord Squib — " pretty Peacock Piggott ! Tell 
it not in Gath : whisper it not in Askelon — and 
above all, insinuate it not to Lady de Courcy." 

•' There is not much danger of my insinuating 
any thing to her," said Mr. Annesley. 

" Your compact, I liope, is religiously observed," 
said the duke. 

" Yes — very well. There was a slight infraction 
once, but I sent Henry Fitzroy as an ambassador, 
and war was not declared." 

" Do you mean," asked Lord Squib, " when 
your cabriolet broke down before her door, and she 
sent out to request that you would make yourself 
quite at home V 

" I mean that fatal day," replied Mr. Annesley. 

" I afterwards discovered she had bribed my 
tiger." 

" Do you know Eugenie's sister, St. James?" 
asked Lord Darrell. 

" Yes : she is very clever, indeed — very popular 
at Paris. But I like Eugenie because she is so 
good-natured. That girl always laughs so ! One 
good grin from her always cures my spleen !" 

" You should buy her, then," said his host, " for 
she m'ust be invaluable. For my part, I consider 
existence a bore." 

" So it is," said Lord Squib. " Do you remem- 
ber that girl at Madrid, Annesley V 

" What, Isidora ! She is coming over." 

" But I thought it vi-as high-treason to plunder 
the grandees' dovecotes 1" 

" Why, all our regular official negotiations have 
failed. She is not permitted to treat with a foreign 
manager ! but the new ambassador has a secretary, 
and that secretary has a pcncka7it, and so — Isidora 
IS to be smuggled over." 

" In a red box, I suppose," said Lord Squib. 

" I rather admire our Adelc," said the Duke of 
St. James. 

" O ! certainly ; she is a favourite of mine." 

" But I like that wild little Ducie," said Lord 
Squib. " She puts me in mind of a wild-cat." 

" And Marunia of a Bengal tiger," said his 
grace. 

" She is a fine woman, though," said Lord 
Dan-cll. 

" I think your cousin, St. James," said Lord 
Squib, " will get into a scrape with Marunia. I 
remember Chatwynd telling me, — and he was not 
apt to complain on that score, — that he never 
should have broken up, if it had not been for her." 

" But he was a most extravagant scoundrel," 
.said Mr. Annesley : " he called me in at his 
bouleversenient for advice, as I have the reputation 
of a good economist. I do not know how it is, 
though I see these things perpetually happen ; 
but why men, and men of small fortunes, should 
commit such follies, really exceeds my comprehen- 
sion. Ten thousand pounds for trinkets, and half 
as much for old furniture ! Why this is worse 
than Squib's bill of seventeen hundred pounds for 
snuif!" 

" It was not seventeen hundred pounds, Amies- 
ley : that included cigars." 

" Chetwynd kept it up for a good many years, 
though, I think," said Lord Darrell. " I remember 
going to see his rooms when I first came over. 
You recollect his mother-of-pearl fountain of Co- 
K^gne water 1" 

" Mille Colonnes fitted up liis place, I think ?" 



asked the young duke, — " but it was before my 
time." 

" ! yes, litflc Bijou," said Annesley. " He 
has done you justice, St. James. I think the Al- 
hambra much the prettiest thing in town." 

" I was attacked the othei day most vigorously, 
by Mrs. Dallington to obtain a sight," said Lord 
Squib. " I referred her to Lucy Grafton. — Do you 
know, St. James, I have half a strange idea, that 
there is a renewal in that quarter!" 

" So they say," said the duke ; " if so, I con- 
fess I am surprised." But they remembered Lord 
Darrell, and the conversation turned. 

" These are pretty horses of Lincoln Graves'," 
said Mr. Annesley. 

" Neat cattle, as Bagshot says," observed Lord 
Squib. 

" Is it true that Bag is going to marry one of 
the Wrekins !" asked the duke. 

" Which ]" asked Lord Squib ; " not Sophy, 
surely 1 I thought she was to be your cousin. I 
dare say," he added, " a false report. I suppose to 
use a Bagshotism, his governor wants it ; but I 
should think Lord Cub would not yet be taken in. 
By-the-by, he says you have promised to propose 
him at White's, St. James." 

" Oppose him, I said," rejoined the duke. " Bag 
really never underistands English. However, I think 
it as probable that he will lounge in the bow-win- 
dow, as on the treasuiy bench. That was his 
' governor's' last shrewd plan." 

" Darrell," said Lord Squib, ' is there any chance 
of my being a commissioner for any thing 1 It 
struck me last night that I had never been in 
office." 

" I do not think, Squib, that you ever will be in 
office, if even you be appointed." 

" On the contrary, my good fellow, my punctu- 
ality would surprise you. I should like very much 
to be a lay-lord, because I cannot afford to keep a 
yacht, and theirs, they say, arc not sufliciently 
used, for the admirals think it spoony, and the 
land-lubbers are alwaj's sick." 

" I think myself of sporting a yacht this sum- 
mer," said the Duke of St. James. " Be my, captain 
Squib." 

" Agreed ! Really, if you be serious, I will com- 
mence my duties to-morrow." 

" I am serious. I think it will be rather amus- 
ing. I give you full authority to do exactly what 
you like, provided, in two month's time, I have the 
best vessel in the club ; copper-bottom, crack crew, 
and ten knots an hour." 

" You are all witnesses," said Lord Squib, " and 
so I begin to press. Annesley, your dinner is so 
good, that you will be purser : and Darrell, you 
are a man of business, — you shall be purser's clerk. 
For the rest, I think St. Maurice may claim a place, 
and — " 

" Peacock Piggott, by all means," said the duke. 
" A gay sailor is quite the thing." 

" And Henrj' Fitzroy," said Annesley, " because 
I am under obligation to him, and promised to 
have him in my eye." 

♦' And Bagshot for a butt," said the duke. 

" And Backbite for a buffoon," said Mr. Annes- 
ley, 

" And for the rest," said the young duke, " th 
rest of the crew I vote shall be women. The Cham- 
pagnys will just do." 

"And the Uttle Trevors," said Lord DarrelL 



284 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" And Long Harrington," said Lord Squib. 
" She is my beauty." 

" And the young Ducie," said Annesley. "And 
Mrs. Dahington of course, and Carohne St. Mau- 
lice, and Charlotte Bloomerly, really, she was 
dressed most prettily last nitcht ; and, above all, 
the queen-bee of the hive — May Dacre, eh ! St. 
James! and I have another proposition," said An- 
nesley, with increased and unusual animation. 
" Ma}' Dacre won the St. Lcger and ruled the 
course ; and May Dacre shall win the cup, and rule 
the waves. Our yacht shall be christened by the 
Lady-l)inl of Yorkshire." 

" What a delightful thing it would he," said the 
Duke of St. James, " if throughout life, we might 
always choose our crew; cull the beauties, and 
banish the bores." 

" But that is impossible," said Lord Darrell. 
"Every ornaiuent of society is counterbalanced i)y 
some accompanying blur. I have invariably ob- 
served that the ugliness of a chaperon is exactly in 
proportion to the charms of her charge ; and that 
if a man be distinguished for his wit, his appear- 
ance, his style, or any other good qiiality, he is sure 
to be saddled with some family or connexion, who 
require all his popularity to gain them a passport 
into the crowd." 

" One might collect a very unexceptionable cote- 
rie from our present crowd," said Mr. Annesley. 
" It would be curious to assemble all the pet lambs 
of the flock." 

" Is it impossible 1" asked the duke. 

" Burlington is the only man who dare try," said 
Lord Darrell. 

" I doubt whether any individual would have suf- 
ficient pluck," said Lord Squib. 

"Yes," said the duke, "it must, I think, boa 
ioint-stock company to share the glory and the 
odium. Let us do it !" 

There was a start, and a silence, broken by An- 
nesley in a low voice. 

" By heavens, it would be sublime — if practica- 
ble ; but the ditliculty does indeed seem insur- 
mountable." 

" Why, we would not do it," said the young 
duke, " if it were not difficult. The first thing is 
to get a frame for our picture, to hit upon some 
happy pretence for assembling in an impromptu 
style, the young and gay. Our purpose must not 
be too obvious. It must be something to whicJi all 
expect to be asked, and where the presence of all is 
impossible ; so that in fixing upon a particular 
member of a family, we may seem influenced by 
the wish, that no circle should be neglected. Then, 
too, it should be something like a water-party or a 
fele-dumipetre, where colds abound, and fits are 
always caught, so that a consideration for the old 
and the infirm may authorize us not to invite them ; 
then, too — " 

Omnts. " Bravo ! bravo ! St. James. It .shall 
be ! it shall be !" 

"It must be a fHe-cliampetre" said Annesley, 
decidedly, " and as far from town as possible." 

" Twickenham is at your service," said the 
duke. 

" Just the place, and just the distance. The only 
objection is, that by being yours, it will saddle the 
enterprise too much upon you. Wc must all bear 
our share in the upr'^ar, for, trust me, there will be 
one ; but th'- » are a thousand ways liy which our 
resp" .sibili.y may be insisted upon. For instance, 



let us make a list of all our guests, and then let one 
of us act as secretary and sign the invitations, which 
shall be like tickets. No other name need appear, 
and the hosts will indicate themselves at the place 
of rendezvous." 

" My lords." said Lord Squib, " I rise to propose 
the health of Mr. Secretary Annesley, and I thiidc 
if any one carry the business through, it "will he 
he." 

" I accept the trust. At present, gentlemen, be 
silent as night ; for we have too much to mature, 
and our success depends upon our secrecy." 



CHAPTER X. 

AnrxBEL Dache, though little apt to cultivate 
an acquaintance with any one, called on the young 
duke the morning after their meeting. The truth 
is, his imagination was touched b> our hero's ap- 
pearance. His grace possessed all that accomplish- 
ed manner of which he painfully felt the want, and 
to which he eagerly yielded his admiration. He 
earnestly desired the duke's friendship, but with his 
usual mnm)(iise hunie, their meeting did not ad- 
vance his wishes. He was as shy and constramed 
as usual, and being really desirous of appearing to 
advantage, and leaving an impression in his favour, 
his manner was even divested of that somewhat 
impo.sing coldness which was not altogether inef- 
fective. In short, he was extremely disagreeable. 
The duke was courteous, as he u.sually was, and 
ever to the Dacres, but he was not cordial. He dis- 
liked Arundel Dacre, — in a word, he looked upon 
him as his favoured rival. The two young men oc- 
casionally met, but did not grow more intimate. 
Studiously polite the young duke ever was both to 
him and to his lovely cousin, for his pride conceal- 
ed his pique, and he was always afraid lest his man- 
ner should betray his mind. 

In the mean time. Sir Lucius Grafton apparently 
was running his usual course of triumph. It is for- 
tunate that those who will watch and wonder about 
every thing are easily satisfied with a reason, and 
are ever quick in detecting a cause : so Mrs. Dal- 
lington Vere was the fact that duly accounted for 
the baronet's intimacy with the Dacres. All was 
right again between them. It was unusual, to be 
sure — these rifaclinentof; ,- still she was a charming 
woman ; and it was well known that Lucius had 
spent twenty thousand on the county. Where was 
that to come from, they should like to know, but 
from old Dallington Vere's Yorkshire estates, which 
he had so wisely left to his pretty wife by the pink 
paper codicil 1 

And this lady of so many loves, — how felt she 1 
Most agreeably, as all dames do who dote upon a 
passion which they feel convinced vv'ill be returned, 
but which still waits for a response. Arundel Dacre 
would yield her a smile from a face more v^orn by 
thought than joy ; and Arundel Dacre, who was 
wont to muse alone, was now ever ready to join his 
cousin and her friends in the ride or the promenade. 
Miss Dacre, too, had noticed to her a kindly change 
in her cousin's conduct to her father. He was 
more cordial to his uncle, sought to ])ay him defe- 
rence, and seemed more desirous of gaining his good- 
will. The experienced eye, too, of this pretty wo- 
man allowed her often to observe that her hero's 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



285 



presence was not particularly occasioned, or par- 
ticularly inspired, by his cousin. In a word, it was 
to herself that his remarks were addressed, his at- 
tentions devoted, and often she caught his dark and 
liquid eye fixed upon her beaniin^j and refulgent 
brow. 

Sir Lucius Grafton proceeded with that strange 
mixture of craft and passion which characterized 
him. Each day his heart yearned more for the be- 
ing on whom his thoughts should never have pon- 
dered. Now exulting in her increased confidence, 
she seemed already his victim ; now awed by her 
majestic spirit, he despaired even of her being his 
bride. Now melted by her unsophisticated inno- 
cence, he cursed even the last unhallowed of his 
purposes ; and now enchanted by her consummate 
loveliness, he forgot all but her beauty and his own 
passion. 

Often had he dilated to her, with the skill of an 
arch deceiver, on the blessings of domestic joy ; 
often, in her presence, had his eye sparkled, when 
he watched the infantile graces of some playful 
children. Then he would embrace them with a 
soft care and gushing fondness, enough to melt the 
heart of any mother whom he was desirous to se- 
duce, and then, with a half-murmured sigh, he 
regretted, in broken accents, that he too was not a 
father. 

In due time, he proceeded even further. Dark 
Jiints of domestic infelicity broke unintentionally 
from his ungoverned lips. May Dacre stared. He 
quelled the tumult of his thoughts, struggled with 
his outbreaking feelings, and triumphed ; yet not 
without a tear, which forced its way down a face 
not formed for grief, and quivered upon his fair and 
downy cheek. Sir Lucius Grafton was well aware 
of the magic of his beauty, and used his charms to 
betray, as if he were a woman. 

May Dacre, whose soul was sympathy, felt in 
silence for this excellent, this injured, this unhap- 
py, this agreeable man. Ill could even her practised 
manner check the current of her mind, or conceal 
from Lady Aphrodite that she possessed her dis- 
like. As for the young duke, he fell into the lowest 
abyss of her opinions, and was looked upon as ahke 
frivolous, heartless, and irreclaimable. 

But how are the friends with whom we dined 
yesterday 1 Frequent were the meetings, doep the 
consultations, infinite the suggestions, innumerable 
the expedients. In the morning, they met and 
breakfasted with Annesley ; in the afternoon, they 
met and lunched with Lord Squib ; in the evening, 
they met and dined with Lord Darrell ; and at 
night, they met and supped at the Alhambra. 
Each council only the more con^'inced them, that 
the scheme was feasible, and must be glorious. At 
last their ideas were matured, and Annesley took 
steps to break the great event to the world, who 
were on the eve of being astonished. 

He repaired to Lady Bloomerly. The world 
sometimes talked of her ladyship and Mr. Annes- 
ley, the world were quite wrong, as they often are 
on this subject. Mr. Annesley knew the value of 
a female friend. By liady Bloomerly's advice, 
the plan was intrusted in confidence to about a 
dozen dames equally influential. Then a few of 
the most considered male friends heard a strange 
report. Lord Darrell dropped a rumour at the 
Treasury, but with his finger on his mouth, and 
leaving himself out of the list, proceeded to give 
his favourable opinion of the project, merelj as a 



disinterested and expected guest. Then the duke 
promised Peacock Piggott one night at the Alham- 
bra, but swore him to solemn secrecy over a vase 
of sherbet. Then Squib told his tailor, in con- 
sideration that his bill should not be sent in , and 
finally, the Bird of Paradise betrayed the whole 
affair to the musical world, who were, of course, 
all agog. Then, when rumour began to wag its 
hundred tongues, the twelve peeresses found them- 
selves bound in honour to step into the breach, 
yielded the plan their decided approbation, and 
their avowed patronage, puzzled the grumblers, 
silenced the weak, and sneered down the obsti 
nate. 

The invitations began to issue, and the outcry 
against them burst forth. A fronde was formed, 
but they wanted De Retz ; and many kept back, 
with the hope of being bribed from joining it. 
The four cavaliers soon found themselves at the 
head of a strong party ; and then, like a faction 
who have successfully struggled for toleration, they 
now openly maintained their supremacy. It was 
too late to cabal. The uninvited could only con- 
sole themselves by a passive sulk, or an active 
sneer; but this would not do, and their bilious 
countenances betrayed their chagrin. 

The difficulty now was, not to keep the bores 
away, but to obtain a few of the beauties who 
hesitated. A chaperon must he found for one ; 
another must be added on to a party, like a star to 
the cluster of a constellation. Among those whose 
presence was most ardently desired, but seemed 
most doubtful, was May Dacre. An invitation 
had been sent to her father ; but he was out of 
town, and she did not like to join so peculiar a 
party without him : but it was unanimously agreed 
that without her the affair would be a failure ; and 
Charles Annesley was sent, envoy extraordinaiy, 
to arrange. With the good aid of his friend Mrs. 
Dallington, all was at length settled ; and fervid 
prayers that the important day might be ushered 
in by a smiling sun were offered up during the 
next fortnight, at half-past six every morning, by 
all civilized society, who then hui-ried to their 
night's rest. 



CHAPTER XL 

Tn^ fete at the " Pavilion" — such was the title 
of the Twickenham villa — though the subject of 
universal interest, was anticipated by no one with 
more eager anxiety than by Sir Lucius Grafton, 
for that day, he detem:ined, should decide the fate 
of the Duke of St. James. He was sanguine as to 
the result — nor without reason. For the last 
month he had, by his dark machinery, played des- 
perately upon the feelings of Lady Aphrodite; and 
more than once had she despatched rapid notes to 
her admirer, for counsel and for consolation. The 
duke was more skilftil in soothing her griefs than in 
devising expedients for their removal. He treated 
the threatened as a distant evil ! and %viped away 
her tears in a manner which is almost an encou- 
ragement to weep. 

At last the eventful mom arrived, and a scorching 
sun made those exult to whom the barge and the 
awning promised a progress equally calm and cool. 
Wo to the dusty britchska !^— wo to the molten fur 
nace of the crimson cabriolet ! 



S86 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



They came, as the stars come out from the hea- 
vens, vvhat time the sun is in his first repose — now 
a single hcn>, brilliant as a planet — now a splendid 
party c!u-toring like a constellation. Music is on 
the waters, anrl perfume on the land : each moment 
a bark gliiles up with its cymbals — each moment a 
cavalcadf bright with bouquets ! 

Ah ! gathering; of brightness ! — ah ! meeting of 
lustre ! — why, are you to be celebrated by one so 
obscure and dull as I am ! Ye Lady Carolines, 
and ye Lady Franceses — ye Lady Barbaras, and 
ye Lady B:anches, is it my fault? 

O ! graceful Lord Francis, why, why have you 
left us — why, why have you exchanged your Ionian 
lyre lor an Irish harp! You were not made for 
politics — leave them to clerks. Fly — fly back to 
pleasure, to frolic, and fun ! Confess, now, that 
you sometimes do feel a little queer. I say nothing 
of the diiference between May Fair and Donny- 
brook. 

And thou, too, Luttrell — gayest hard that ever 
threw o!f a triplet amid the clattering of cabs and 
the chattering of clubs— -art thou, too, mute ] Where 
— where dost thou linger 1 Is our druid among;^ 
the oaks of Ampthill — or, like a truant Etonian, is 
he lurkingaiiong the beeches of Burnham! What! 
has the inunortal letter, unlike all other good advice, 
absolutely not been thrown away ! — or is the jade 
incorrigible ? Whichever be the case, you need 
not be silent. There is yet enough to do, and yet 
eiiough to instruct. Teach us, that wealth is not 
elegance; that profusion is not magnificence; and 
that splendour is not beauty. Teach us, that taste 
is a talisman, which can do greater wonders than 
the jnil lions of the loan-monger. Teach us, that to 
vie is notj, to rival; and to imitate not to invent. 
Teach us, that pretension is a bore. Teach us, 
that wit is excessively good-natured, and, like 
Champagne, not onlyr^parkles, but is sweet. Teach 
us the vulgarity of malignity. Teach us, that envy 
spoils our complexions, and that anxiety destroys 
our ligure. Catch the fleeting colours of that sly 
chameleon, capt, and show what excessive trouble 
we are ever taking to make ourselves miserable and 
silly. Teach us ail this, and Aglaia shall stop a 
crow in its course, and present you with a pen — 
Thalia hold the golden fluid in a Sevre vase — and 
Euphrosync support the violet-coloured scrawl. 

The f )ur husls greeted the arrivals, and assisted 
the disembarkations, like the famous four sons of 
Ayinou. Tiiey were all dressed alike, and their 
costHme excited great attention. At first, it was 
to have been very plain, — black and white, and a 
single rose; but it was settled that sirnphcity had 
been ovej-d >ne. and, like a country-girl after her 
first season, had turned into a most affected bag- 
gage, — so they agreed to be regal ; and fancy uni- 
forms, worttiy of the court of Obenm, were the 
order of iha d .y. I shall not describe them, for the 
description of costvnne is the most inventive pro- 
vine lit <),n- 'iist)rical novelists, and I never like 
to be uufa;r. or irench upon my neighbour's lands 
or rights; lui: the Alhambra button indicated a 
mysti.Ml i oiifederacy, anti made the women quite 
frant;<- witii curios-ity. 

The guests wandered through the gardens, 
always vmims, and now a paradise of novelty. 
There we e fmr brothers, fresh from the wildest 
recesses ol' !he Carpathian mount, who threw out 
such w:)odnot.-s wild, that all the artists stared ; and 
it was universally agreed, that had they not been 



French chorus-singers, they would have been quit* 
a miracle. But the Lapland sisters were the true 
prodigy, who danced the mazurka in the national 
style. There was also a fire»eater; but some said 
he would never set the river in flames, though he 
had an antidote against all poisons! But, then, 
our Mithridates always tried its virtues on a stuffed 
poodle, whose hark evinced its vitality. There 
also was a giant in the wildest parts of the shrub- 
bery, and a dwarf, on whom the ladies showered 
their sugar-plums, and who, in return, offered 
them tobacco. But it was not true that the giant 
sported stilts, or that the dwarf was a sucking 
babe. Some people are so suspicious. Then a 
bell rang, and assembled them in the concert- 
room; and the Bird of Paradise, who, to-day, wa3 
consigned to the cavaliership of Peacock Piggott, 
condescended to favour them with a new song, 
which no one had ever heard, and which, conse- 
quently, made them feel more intensely all the 
sublimity of cxclusiveness. Shall I forget the 
panniers of shoes which Melnotte had placed in 
every quarter of the gardens T I will say nothing 
of Maradan's cases of caps, because, for this inci- 
dent. Lord Bagshot is my authority. 

On a sudden, it seemed that a thousand bugles 
broke the blue air, and they were summoned to a 
df'jeuner in four crimson tents, worthy of Sarda- 
napalus. Over each waved the scutcheon of tlie 
president. Glittering were the glories of the hun-, 
dred quarterings of the house of Darrell. " iSV nxn 
evero c ben fnivdto," was the motto. Lord Darrell's 
grandfather had been a successful lawyer. Lord 
Squib's emblazonry was a satire on its owner. 
'^ Ifo/dfast." was the motto of a mail who -had let 
loose. Annesley's simple shield spoke of the cor.- 
qucst : but all paled before the banner of the house 
of Hautevillc, for it indicated an alliance with 
royalty. The attendants of each pavilion wore 
the livery of its lord. 

Shall I attempt to describe the delicacy of this 
banquet, where imagination had been racked for 
novel luxury 1 Through the centre of each table 
ran a rivulet of rose-water, and gold and silver 
fish glanced in its unrivalled course. The bou- 
quets were exchanged every half-hour, and n.usic 
soft and subdued, but constant and thrilling, wound 
them up by exquisite gradations to that pitch of 
refined excitement which is so strange a union of 
delicacy and voluptuousness, when the soul, as it 
vvere, becomes sensual, and the body, as it were, 
dissolves into spirit. And in this choice assembly, 
where all was youth, and elegance, and beauty, 
was it not right that every sound should be melody, 
every sight a sight of loveliness, and every thought 
a thought of pleasure ? 

They arose, and assembled on the lawn, whei'fl 
they found to their surprise had arisen in their 
absence a Dutch fair. Numerous were the booths, 
— innumerable were the contents. The first artists 
had arranged the picture and the costumes: the 
first artists had made the trinkets and the toys. 
And what a very agreeable fair where all might 
suit their fincy without the permission of that sulky 
tyrant, — a purse ! All were in excellent humour, 
and no mauvaise honte prevented them from plun- 
dering the boutiques. The noble pro[)rietors set 
the example. Annesley offered a bouquet of pre- 
cious stones to Charlotte Bloomerly, and it wan 
accepted : and the Duke of St. James showered a 
sack of whimsical breloques among a ecrambling 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



387 



crowd of laughing beauties. Among them was 
May Dacre. He had not observed her. Their 
eyes met, and she laughed. It seemed that he had 
never felt happiness before. 

Ere the humours of the fair could be exhausted, 
they were summoned to the margin of the river, 
where four painted and gilded galleys, which might 
have sailed down the Cydnus, and each owning its 
peculiar cliief, prepared to struggle for pre-eminence 
in speed. All betted ; and the duke, encouraged 
by the smile, hastened to Miss Dacre to try to win 
back some of the Doncaster losses ; but Arundel 
Dacre had lier arm in his, and slie was evidently 
deUghted with his discourse. His grace's blood 
turned, and he walked away. 

It was sunset when they returned to the lawn ; 
and then the ball-room presented itself; but the 
twilight was long, and the night was warm ; there 
were no hateful dews, no odious mists, and there- 
fore' a great number danced on the lawn. The fair 
was illuminated, and all the little marchandes and 
their lusty porters walked about in their costume. 

The duke again rallied his courage, and seeing 
Arundel Dacre with Mrs. Dallington Vere, he ab- 
solutely asked May Dacre to dance. She was 
engaged. He doubted, and walked into the house 
disconsolate ; yet if he had waited one moment he 
would have seen Sir Lucius Grafton rejoin her, and 
lead her to the cotillun that was forming on the 
turf. The Juke sauntered to Lady Aphrodite, but 
she would not dance, — yet she did not yield his 
arm, and proposed a stroll. They wandered away 
to the extremity of the grounds. Fainter and 
fainter grew the bursts of the revellers, yet neither 
oif them spoke much, for both were dull. 

Yet at length her ladyship did speak, and amply 
made up for her previous silence. All former 
scenes, to this, were but as the preface to the book. 
All she knew and all she dreaded, all her suspicions, 
all her certainties, all her fears, were poured forth 
in painful profusion. This night was to decide 
her fate. She threw herself on his mercy, if he 
had forgotten his love. Out dashed all those argu- 
ments, all those appeals, all those assertions, which 
they say are usual under these circumstances. She 
wa.s a woman-, he was a man. She had staked 
her happiness on this venture ; he had a thousand 
cards to play. Love, and fust love with her, as 
with all women, was every thing; he and all men, 
at the worst, had a thousand resources. He might 
plunge into politics, — he might game, — he might 
fight, — he might ruin himself in innumerable ways, 
but she could only ruin herself in one. Miserable 
woman! Miserable sex ! She had given him her all. 
She knew it was little : woulil she had more ! She 
knew she was unworthy of him : would she were 
not ! She did not ask him to sacrifice himself to 
her: she could not expect it; she did not even de- 
sire it. Only, she thought he ought to know exact- 
ly the state of ailairs and of con-equences, and tliat 
certainly if they were parted, which assuredly they 
would be, most decidedly she would droop, and 
fade, and die. She wept, she sobbed ; his entrea- 
ties alone seemed to prevent hysterics. 

These scenes are painful at all times, and even 
the callous, they say, have a twinge ; but when the 
acti-ess is really beautiful and pure, as this lady 
was, and the actor young, and inexperienced, and 
amiable, as this actor was, the consequences are 
more serious than is usual. The Duke of St. James 
was unhappy — he was discontented — he was dis- 



satisfied with himself. He did not love this lady, 
if love were the passion which he entertained for 
May Dacre, — but she loved him. He knew thai 
she was beautiful, and he was convinced that she 
was excellent. The world is malicious, — but the 
world had agreed that Lady Aphrodite was an un- 
blemished pearl ; yet this jewel was reserved for 
him ! Intense gratitude almost amounted to love 
In short, he had no idea at this moment that feeluigs 
are not in our power. His were captive, even if 
entrapped. It was a great responsibihty to desert 
this creature, the only one fri)m whom he had ex- 
perienced devotion. To coixclude : a season of extra- 
ordinary dissipation, to use no harsher phrase, had 
somewhat exhausted the nervous powers of our 
hero : his energies were deserting him ; he had not 
heart, or hearyessness enough to extricate himself 
from this dilenuna. It seemed that if this being, to 
whom he was indebted for so much joy, were 
miserable he must be unhappy ; that if she died, 
life ought to have — could have no charms for him. 
He kissed away her tears — he pledged his faith — 
and Lady Aphrodite Grafton was his betrothed ! 

She wonderfully recovered. Her deep but silent 
joy seemed to repay him even for this bitter sacri- 
fice. Compared with the late racking of his feel- 
ings, the present calm, which was merely tlie result 
of suspense being destroyed, seemed happiness. 
His conscience whispered approbation, and he felt 
that, for once, he had sacrificfed himself to another. 
They re-entered the villa, and he took the first 
opportunity of wandering alone to the least fre- 
quented parts of the grounds : — ^his mind demanded 
solitude, and his soul required soliloquy. 

" So the game is up ! Truly, a most lame and 
impotent conclusion ! And this, then, is the result 
of all my high fancies and indefinite aspirations ! 
Verily, I am a very distinguished hero, and have 
not abused my unrivalled advantages in the least ! 
What ! am I bitter on myself 1 There will be 
enough to sing my praises, without myself joinuig 
in this chorus of congratulation. ! fool, fool ! 
Now I know what fully is. But barely fifteen 
months since, I stepped upon these shores, full of 
hope and full of pride ; and now I leave them — ■ 
how 1 O ! my dishonoured fathers ! Even my 
posterity, which God grant I may not have, will 
look on my memory with hatred, and on hers with 
scorn ! 

" Well, I suppose we must live for ourselves. We 
both of us know the world ; and Heaven can bear 
witness that we should not be haunted by any 
uneasy hankering after what has brought us such 
a heartache. If it were for love — if it were for — but 
away ! I will not profane her name. If it were 
for her that I was thus sacrificing myself, I could 
bear it — I could welcome it. I can imagine perfect 
and everlasting bliss in tlie sole society of one single 
being — but she is not that l)eing. Let nie not con- 
ceal it; let me wrestle with this bitter conviction! 
" And am I, indeed, bound to close my career thus 
— to throw away all hope, all chance of feli. ity, at 
my age, for a point of honour'! ISo, no, it is not 
that. After all, I have experienced that widi her, and 
from her, which I have with no other woman ; and 
she is so good, so gentle, and all agree so lovely ! 
How infinitely worse would her situation be, if 
deserted, than mine is, as her perpetual ci mpanion ! 
The very thought makes my heart bleed. Yes! 
amiable, devoted, dearest Aly, I throw aside these 
morbid feelings — you shall never repent uivLng 



288 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



placed your trust in me. I will be proud and 
happy of such a friend, and you shall be mme for- 
ever !" 

A shriek broke on the air : he started. It was 
near : he hastened after the sound. He entered 
into a small green glade surrounded by shrubs, 
where had been erected a fanciful hermitage. There 
he found Sir Lucius Grafton on his knees, grasping 
the hand of the indignant but terrified May Dacre. 
The duke rushed forward ; Miss Dacre ran to meet 
him ; the baronet rose. 

" This lady, Sir Lucius Grafton, is under my 
protection,'" said the young duke, with a flashing 
eye but a calm voice. She clung to his arm ; he bore 
her away. The whole was the aflair of an instant. 

The duke and his companion proceeded in 
silence. She tried to hasten, but he felt her limbs 
shake upon his arm. He stop"ped : — no one, not 
even a servant, was near. He could not leave her 
for an instant. There she stood trembling, her 
head bent down, and one hand clasping the other 
which rested on his arm. Terrible was her strug- 
gle, but she would not tliint, and at length succeeded 
in repressing her. emotions. They were yet a 
considerable way from the house. She motioned 
with her left hand to advance ; but still she did 
not speak. On they walked, though more slowly, 
for she was exhausted, and occasionally stopped 
for breath, or strength. 

At length she said, ' in a faint voice, — " I cannot 
join the party. I must go home directly. How 
can it be done ?" 

" Your companions," said the duke — 
• " Are of course engaged, or not to be found; but 
surely, somebody, I know, is departing. Manage 
it — manage it : say I am ill." 

'' O ! Miss Dacre, if you knew the agony of my 
mind !" 

"Do not speak — for Heaven's sake do not 
speak !" 

He turned off from the lawn, and approached by 
a small circuit the gate of the ground. Suddenl}', 
he perceived a caniage on the point of gomg off. 
It was the Dutchess of Shropsliire's. 

'• There is the Dutchess of Shropshire ! You 
know lier — but not a minute is to be lost. There 
is such a noise, they will not hear. Are you afraid 
to stop here one instant by yourself? I shall not 
be out of sight, and not away a second. I run 
very quick." 

" No — no, I am not afraid. Go — go !" 

Away rushed the Didie of St. James, as if hie 
life were on his speed. He stopped the carriage, 
spoke, and was back in an instant. 

" Lean — lean on me with all your strength. I 
have told every thing necessary to Lady Shropshire. 
Nobody will speak a word, because they believe you 
have a terrible headach. I will say every thing 
necessary to Mrs. Dallington and your cousin. Do 
not give yourself a moment's uneasiness And, ! 
Miss Dacre, if I might say one word !" 

She did not stop him. 

•• If," continued he, " it be your wish that the 
outrage of to-night should be known only to myself 
and him, I pledge my word it shall be so ; though 
willingly, if I were authorized, I would act a differ- 
ent part in this affair." 

" It is my wish." She spoke in a low voice, 
with lier eyes still upon the ground — " And I thank 
you for this, and for all." 



They had now joined the Shropshires ; but it 
was now discovered Miss Dacre had no shawl ; 
and sundry other articles were wanting, to the 
evident dismay of the Ladies Wrekin. They 
offered theirs, but their visiter refused, and would 
not allow the duke to fetch her own. OIT they 
drove ; but when they had proceeded about half a 
mile, a continued shout on the road, which the fat 
coachman, for a long time, would not hear, stopped 
them, and up came the Duke of St. James, covered 
with dust, and panting like a racer, with Mis.s 
Dacre's shawl. 



CHAPTER XIL 

So much time was occupied by this adventure 
of the shawl, and by making requisite explana- 
tions to Mrs. Dallington Vere, that almost the 
whole of the guests had retired, when the duke 
found himself again in the saloon. His brother- 
hosts, too, were off with various parties, to which 
they had attached themselves. He found the Fitz- 
pompeys, and a few still lingering for their car- 
riages ; and Arundel Dacre and his fair admirer. 
His grace had promised to return with Lady Afy, 
and was devising some scheme by which he might 
free himself from this, now not very suitable en- 
gagement, when she claimed his arm. She was 
leaning on it, and talking to Lady Fitz-pompey, 
when Sir Lucius approached, and with his usual 
tone, put a note into the duke's hand, saying at 
the same time, " This appears to belong to you. 
I shall go to town with Piggot ;" — and then he 
walked away. 

With the wife leaning on his arm, the young 
duke had the pleasure of reading the following 
lines, written with the pencil of the husband. 

" After what has just occurred, only one more 
meeting can take place between us, and the sooner 
that takes place the better for all parties. This is 
no time for etiquette. I shall be in Kensington 
Gardens, in the grove on the right side of the sum- 
mer-house, at half-past six to-morrov^^ morning, and 
shall doubtless find you there." 

Sir Lucius was not out of sight when the duke 
had finished reading his cartel. Making some 
confused excuse to Lady Afy, which was not ex- 
pected, he ran after the baronet, and soon reached 
him. 

" Sir Lucius Grafton, I shall be punctual : but 
there is one point on which I wish to speak to you 
at once. The cause of this meeting jnay be kept, 
I hope, a secret 1" 

" As far as I am concerned, an inviolable one," 
bowed the baronet, very stiffly ; and they parted. 

The duke returned satisfied, for Sir Lucius 
Grafton ever observed his word — to say nothing of 
the great interest which he surely had this time in 
maintaining his pledge. 

Our hero thought that he never should reach 
London. The journey seemed a day; and the 
effort to amuse Lady Afy, and to prevent her from 
suspecting, by his conduct, that any thing liad 
occurred, was most painful. Silent, however, he 
at last became; but her mind too was engaged; 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



and she supposed that her admirer was quiet only 
because, like herself, he was happy. At length 
they reached her house, but he excused hiroself 
from entering, and drove on immediately to An- 
nesley. He was at Lady Bloomerly's. Lord 
Darrell had not returned, and his servant did not 
expect him. Lord Squib was never to be found. 
The duke put on a great-coat over his uniform, and 
drove to White's : it was really a wilderness. Never 
had he seen fewer men there in his life, and there 
were none of his set. The only young-looking 
man was old Colonel Carlisle, who, with his skil- 
fully enamelled cheek, flowing auburn locks, 
shining teeth, and tinted whiskers, might have been 
mistaken for gay twenty-seven, instead of gray 
seventy-two ; but the colonel had the gout, to say 
nothing of any other objections. 

The duke took up the Courier, and read three or 
four advertisements of quack medicines — but no- 
body entered. It was nearly midnight : he got 
nervous. Somebody came in — Lord Hounslow for 
his rubber. Even his favom-ed child, Bagshot, 
would be better than nobody. The duke protested 
that the next acquaintance who entered should be 
his second, old or young. His vow had scarcely 
been registered, when Arundel Dacre came in 
alone. He was the last man to whom the duke 
wished to address himself, but fate seemed to have 
decided it, and the duke walked up to him. 

" Mr. Dacre, I am about to ask of you a favour 
to which I have no claim." 

Mr. Dacre looked a little confused, and mur- 
mured his willingness to do any thing, 

" To be exphcit, I am engaged in an affair of 
honour of a very urgent nature. Will you be my 
friend ]" 

" With the greatest willingness." He spoke 
with more ease, "May I ask the name of^ the 
other party, — the — the cause of the meeting]" 

" The other party is Sir Lucius Grafton." 

" Hum !" said Arundel Dacre, as if he were no 
longer curious about the cause, " When do you 
meef?" 

" At half past six, in Kensington Gardens, to- 
morrow — I believe I should say, this mornmg." 

" Your grace must be wearied," said Arundel, 
with unusual ease and animation. " Now, follow 
my advice. Go home at once, and get some rest. 
Give yourself no trouble about preparations : leave 
every thing to me, I will call upon you at half 
past five precisely, with a chaise and post-horses, 
which will divert suspicion. Now, good-night !" 

" But, really, your rest must be considered — and 
tlien all this trouble I" 

" O ! I have been in the habit of sitting up all 
night. Do not think of me, — nor am I quite 
inexperienced in these matters, in too many of 
which I have unfortunately been engaged in Ger- 
ffiny." 

The youn^ men shook hands with great cor- 
liality, and the duke hastened home. Fortunately, 
the Bird of Paradise was at her own establishment 
in Baker street, a bureau where her secretary, in 
her behalf, transacted business with the various 
courts of Europe, and the numerous cities of Great 
Britani. Here many a negotiation was carried on 
for opera engagements at Vienna, or Paris, or Ber- 
lui, or St. Petersburg. Here many a diplomatic 
correspondence conducted the fate of the musical 
festivals of York, or Norwich, or Exeter. 
37 



CHAPTER Xin. 

Let us return to Sir Lucius Grafton, He is as 
mad as any man must be who feels that the impru- 
dence of a moment has dashed to the ground all 
the plans, and all the hopes, and all the great re- 
sults over which he had so often pondered. The 
great day from which he had expected so much 
had passed, nor was it possible for four-and-twenty 
hours more completely to have reversed all his feel- 
ings, and all his prospects. May Dacre had shared 
the innocent but unusual and excessive gayety, 
which had properly become a scene of festivity at 
once so agreeable, so various, and so novel. Sir 
Lucius Grafton had not been insensible to the ex- 
citement. On the contrary, his impetuous pas- 
sions seemed to recall the former and more fervent 
days of his career, and his voluptuous mind dan- 
gerously sympathized with the beautiful and lux- 
urious scene. He was elated too with the thought, 
that his freedom would perhaps be sealed this even- 
ing, and still more by his almost constant atten- 
dance on his fascinating companion. As the par- 
ticular friend of the Dacre family, and as the secret 
ally of Mrs. Dallington Vere, he in some manner 
contrived always to be at May Dacre's side. With 
the laughing but insidious pretence that he wag 
now almost too grave and staid a personage for 
such scenes, he conversed with f^fir others, and 
humorously maintaining that his " dancing days 
were over," danced with none but her. Even when 
her attention was engaged by a third person, he 
lingered about, and with his consummate know- 
ledge of the world, easy wit, and constant resources, 
generally succeeded in not only sliding into the 
conversation, but engrossing it. Arundel Dacre, 
too, although that young gentleman had not de- 
parted from his usual coldness in favour of Sir 
Lucius Grafton, the baronet would most provo- 
kingly consider as his particular friend : never 
seemed to be conscious that his reserved companion 
was most punctilious in his address to him, but on 
the contrary called him m return, " Dacre," and 
sometimes " Arundel." In vain young Dacre 
struggled to maintain his position. His manner 
was no match for that of Sir Lucius Grafton. 
Annoyed with himself, he felt confused, and often 
quitted his cousin that he might be free of his 
friend. Thus Sir Lucius Grafton contrived never 
to permit Miss Dacre to be alone with Arundel, 
and to her he was so courteous, so agreeable, and 
so useful, that his absence seemed always a 
blank, or a period in which something ever went 
wrong. 

The triumphant day rolled on, and each moment 
Sir Lucius felt more sanguine and more excited. 
We will not dwell upon the advancing confidence 
of his desperate mind. Hope expanded into cer- 
tainty, — certainty burst into impatience. In a des- 
perate moment he breathed his passion. 

May Dacre was the last girl to feel at a loss in 
such a situation. No one would have rung him 
out of a saloon with an air of more contemptuous 
majesty. But the shock, — the solitary strangeness 
of the scene, — the fear, for the first time, that none 
were near, and perhaps, also, her exhausted energy, 
frightened her, and she shrieked. One only had 
heard that shriek, yet that one was Legion. Sooner 
might the whole world know the worst, tlian thin 
SB 



290 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



person suspect the least. Sir Lucius was left 
silent with rage, mad with passion, desperate with 
hate. 

He gasped for breath. Now his brow burnt, — 
now the cold dew ran off his countenance in 
streams. He clenched his fist, — he stamped with 
agony, — he found at length his voice, and he 
blasphemed to the unconscious woods. 

His quick brain flew to the results like light- 
ning. The duke had escaped from his mesh ; his 
madness had done more to win this boy May 
Dacre's heart than an age of courtship. He had 
lost the ido|, of his passion, he was fixed for ever 
with the creature of his hate. He loathed the 
idea. He tottered into the hermitage, and buried 
his face in liis hands. 

Something must be done. Some monstrous act 
of energy must repair this fatal blunder. He 
appealed to the mind which had never deserted 
him. The oracle was mute. Yet vengeance 
might even slightly redeem the bitterness of despair. 
This fellow should die ; and his girl — for already 
he hated May Dacre — should not triumph in her 
minion. He tore a leaf from his tablets, and wrote 
the lines we have already read. 

The young duke reached home. You expect, of 
course, that he sat up all night making his will and 
answering letters. By no means. The first object 
that caught his eye was an enormous ottoman. He 
threw himself upon it without undressing and 
without speaking a word to Luigi, and in a mo- 
ment was fast asleep. He was fairly exhausted. Lui- 
gi started, and called Spiridion to consult. They 
agreed that they dare not go to bed, and must not 
leave their lord ; so they played ecarte, till at last 
tliey quarrelled and fought with the candles over 
the table. But even this did not wake their un- 
reasonable master ; so Spiridion threw down a few 
chairs by accident ; but all in vain. At half-past 
five there was a knocking at the gate, and they 
hurried away. 

Arundel Dacre entered with them, woke the 
duke, and praised him for his punctuality. His 
grace thought that he had only dozed a few mi- 
nutes ; but time pressed ; five minutes arranged his 
toilet, and they were first on the field. 

In a moment Sir Lucius and Mr. Piggot ap- 
peared. Arundel Dacre, on the way, had anx- 
iously inquired as to the probability of reconciliation, 
but was told at once it was impossible, so now he 
measured the ground and loaded the pistols with 
a calmness which was admirable. They fired at 
once ; the duke in the air, and the baronet in his 
friend's side. When Sir Lucius saw his grace fall 
his hate vanished. He ran up with real anxiety 
and unfeigned anguish. 

" Have I hit you, by h-U !" 

His grace was of course magnanimous, but the 
case was urgent A surgeon gave a favourable 
report, and extracted the ball on the spot. The 
tiuke was carried back to his chaise, and in an hour 
was in the state bed, not of the Alhambra — but of 
his neglected mansion. 

Arundel Dacre retired when he had seen lus 
friend home, but gave urgent commands that he 
should be kept quiet No sooner was the second 
out of sight, than the principal ordered \he room to 
be cleared with the exception of Spiridion, and 
then, rising in his bed, wrote this note, which the 
page was secretly to deliver. 



« House, , 1S2-. 

" Dear Miss Dacre, — A very unimportant but 
somewhat disagreeable incident has occurred. I 
have been obliged to meet Sir Lucius Grafton, and 
our meeting has fortmiately terminated without any 
serious consequences. Yet, I wish that you should 
hear of this first from me, lest you might imagine 
that I had not redeemed my pledge of last night, 
and that I had placed for a moment my own feel- 
ings in competition with yours. This is not 
the case, and never shall bo, dear Miss Dacre, 
with one whose greatest pride is to subscribe 
himself 

" Your most obedient and faithful servant, 

" St. James." 



CHAPTER XIV. 

The world talked of nothing but the duel be- 
tween the Duke of St. James and Sir Lucius 
Grafton. It was a thunderbolt ; and the phenome- 
non was accounted for by every cause but the right 
one. Yet even those who most confidently solved 
the riddle were the most eagerly employed in 
investigating its true meaning. The seconds were 
of course applied to. Arundel Dacre was pro- 
verbially unpumpable ; but Peacock Piggott, whose 
communicative temper was an adage, how came 
he on a sudden so di{)lomatic 1 Not a syllable 
oozed from a mouth which was ever open : not a 
hint from a countenance which never could conceal 
its mind. He was not even mysterious, but really 
looked just as astonished, and just as curious as 
themselves. Fine times these for " The Universe," 
and " The New World !" All came out about 
Lady Afy ; and they made up for their long and 
previous ignorance, or, as they now boldly blustered, 
their long and considerate forbearance. Sheets 
given away gratis,— edition on Saturday night for 
the country, and wood-cuts of the Pavilion fete ; 
— the when, the how, and the wherefore. A. The 
summer-house, and Lady Aphrodite meeting the 
young duke. B. The hedge behind which Sir 
Lucius Grafton was concealed. C. Kensington 
Gardens, and a cloudy morning ; and so on. Cruik- 
shanks did wonders. 

Let us endeavour to ascertain the feelings of 
the principal agents in this odd affair. Sir Lucius 
now was cool, and the mischief being done, took a 
calm review of the late mad hours. As was his 
custom, he began to inquire whether any good 
could be elicited from all evil. He owed his late 
adversary sundry moneys, which he had never 
contemplated the possibility of repaying to the 
person who had eloped with his wife. Had he 
shot his creditor, the accomit would equally have 
been cleared ; and this consideration, although it 
did not prompt, had not dissuaded the- late despe- 
rate deed. As it was, he now appeared still to enjoy 
the possession both of his wife and his debts, and 
had lost his friend. Bad generalship. Sir Lucy ! 
Reconciliation was out of the question. The 
duke's position was a good one. Strongly in- 
trenched with a flesh wound, he had all the sym- 
pathy of society on his side : and after having been 
confined for a few weeks, he could go to Paris for 
a few months, and then retiurn, as if the Graftons 
had never crossed his eye, rid of a troublesome 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



291 



iTi.istress and a troublesome friend. His position 
was certainly a good one, but Sir Lucius was 
astute, and he determined to turn this Shumla of 
his grace. The quarrel must have been about her 
ladyship. Who could assign any other cause for it 1 
And the duke must now he weak with loss of blood 
and anxiety, and totally unable to resist any appeal, 
particularly a personal one, to his feelings. He 
determined, therefore, to drive Lady Afy into his 
grace's arms. If he could only get her into the 
house for an hour, the business would be settled. 

These cunning plans were, however, nearly 
being crossed by a very simple incident. Annoyed 
at finding that her feelings could be consulted only 
by sacriiicing those of another woman, May Dacre, 
quite confident that, as Lady Aphrodite was inno- 
cent in the present instance, she must be immacu- 
late, told every thing to her father, and stifling 
her tears, begged him to make all public ; but 
Mr. Dacre, after due consideration, enjoined si- 
lence. 

In the mean time, the young duke was not in 
so calm a mood as the baronet. Rapidly the late 
extraordinary events dashed through his mind, and 
already those feelings which had prompted his 
soliloquy in the garden were no longer his. All 
forms, all images, all ideas, all memory, meJted 
into May Dacre. He felt that he loved her with a 
perfect love ; that she was to him' what no other 
woman had been, even in the factitious delirium of 
early passion. A thought of her seemed to bring 
an enth-ely novel train of feelings, impressions, 
wishes, hopes. The world with her must be a 
totally different system, and his existence in her 
society a new and another life. Her very purity 
refined the passion which raged even in his 
exhausted mind. Gleams of virtue, morning 
streaks of duty, broke upon the horizon of his 
hitherto clouded soul ; an obscure suspicion of the 
utter worthlessness of his life whispered in his 
hollow ear ; he darkly felt that happiness was too 
philosophical a system to be the result, or the 
reward, of impulse, however unbounded, and 
that principle alone could create, and could support, 
that bliss which is our being's end and aim. 

But when he turned to himself, he viewed his 
situation with hoiTor and yielded almost to despair. 
What — what could she think of the impure liber- 
tine who dared to adore her ] If ever time could 
bleach his own soul, and conciliate hers, what — 
what was to become of Aphrodite 1 Was his new 
career to commence by a new crime 1 Was he 
to desert this creature of his affections, and break a 
heart which beat only for him ] It seemed that the 
only compensation he could offer for a life which 
had achieved no good, would be to establish the 
felicity of the only being whose happiness seemed 
in his power. Yet what a prospect 1 If before he 
had trembled — now — 

But his harrowed mind and exhausted body no 
longer allowed him even anxiety. Weak, yet 
excited, his senses fled ; and when Arundel Dacre 
returned in the evening he found his friend de- 
lirious. He sat by his bed for many hours. Sud- 
denly the dulie speaks. Arundel Dacre rises : — he 
leans over the sufferer's couch. 

Ah ! why turns the face of the listener so pale 
— and why gleam those eyes with terrible fire? 
The perspiration courses down his clear but sallow 
cheek : he throws his dark and clustering curls 
aside, and passes his hand over his damp brow, as 



if to ask whether he, too, had lost his senses from 
this fray. 

The duke is agitated. He waves his arm in the 
air, and calls out in a tone of defiance and of hate. 
His voice sinks ; it seems that he breathes a milder 
language, and speaks to some softer being. There 
is no sound, save the long-drawn breath of one on 
whose countenance is stamped infinite amazement. 
Arundel Dacre walks the room disturbed ; often he 
pauses, plunged in deep thought. 'Tis an hour 
past midnight, and he quits the bedside of the young 
duke. 

He pauses at the threshold, and seems to respire 
even the noisome air of the metropolis as if it were 
Eden. As he proceeds down Hill Street, he stops, 
and gazes for a moment on the opposite house. 
What passes in his mind we know not. Perhaps 
he is reminded that in that mansion dwell beauty, 
wealth and influence — and that all might be his. 
Perhaps love prompts that gaze — perhaps ambition. 
Is it passion or is it power ] or does one struggle 
with the other ? 

As he gazes, the door opens, hut without ser- 
vants ; and a man, deeply shrouded in his cloak, 
comes out. It was night, and the individual was 
disguised ; but there are eyes which can pierce at 
all seasons, and through all concealments, — and 
Arundel Dacre marked with astonishment Sir Lu- 
cius Grafton. 



CHAPTER XV. 

Whkx it was understood that the Duke of St. 
James had been delirious, public feeling reached 
what is called its height ; that is to say, the cu- 
riosity and the ignorance of the world were about 
equal. Everybody was indignant, — not so much 
because the young duke had been shot, but because 
they did not know why. If the sympathy of wo- 
men could have consoled him, our hero might 
have been reconciled to his fate. Among these, no 
one appeared more anxious as to the result, and 
more ignorant as to the cause, than Mrs. Dallington 
Vere. Arundel Dacre called on her the morning 
ensuing his midnight observation, but understood 
that she had not seen Sir Lucius Grafton, who, 
they said, had quitted London, which she thought 
probable. Nevertheless, Arundel thought proper 
to walk down Hill Street at the same hour, and, if 
not at the same minute, yet, in due course of time, 
he discovered the absent baronet. 

In two or three days the young duke was de- 
clared out of immediate danger, though his attend- 
ants must say, he remained exceedingly restless, 
and by no means in a satisfactory state ; yet, with 
their aid, they had a right to hope the best. At 
any rate, if he were to go oft', his friends would 
have the satisfaction of remembering, that all had 
been done that could be. So saying. Dr. X. took 
his fee, and Surgeons Y. and Z. prevented his con 
duct from being singular. 

Now began the operations on the Graflon side 
A letter from Lady Aphrodite full of distraction. 
She was fairly mystified. What could have in- 
duced Lucy suddenly to act so puzzled her, as well 
it might. Her despair, and yet her confidence in 
his grace, seemed equally great. Some talk there 
was of going oflf to Cleve at once. Her husband, 
on the whole, maintained a rigid silence and studied 



292 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



coolness. Yet he had talked of Vienna and Flo- 
rence, and even murmured something about public 
disgrace and public ridicule. In short, the poor 
lady was fairly worn out, and wished to terminate 
her harassing career at once, by cutting the Gor- 
dian knot. In a word, she proposed coming on to 
her admirer, and, as she supposed, her victim ; and 
having the satisfaction of giving him his coohng 
draughts and arranging his bandages. 

If the meeting between the young duke and Sir 
Lucius Grafton had been occasioned by any other 
cause than the real one, I cannot say what might 
have been the fate of this proposition. My own 
opinion is, that this work would have been in two 
volumes; for the requisite morality would have 
made out the present one : but, as it was, the image 
of May Dacre hovered above our hero as his guar- 
dian genius. He despaired of ever obtaining her ; 
but yet he determined not wUfuUy to crush all 
hope. Some great eflbrt must be made to right his 
position. Lady Aphrodite must not be deserted — 
the vei-y thought increased his fever. He wrote, to 
gain time ; but another billet, in immediate answer, 
only painted mcreased terrors, and described the 
growing urgency of her persecuted situation. He 
was driven into a comer ; but even a stag at bay is 
awful — what then must be a young duke, the most 
noble animal in existence 1 

111 as he was, he wrote these lines, not to Lady 
Aphrodite, but to — her husband. 

" Mr DEAR Grafton : — You will be surprised 
at hearing from me. I trust you will not be dis- 
pleased. Is it necessary for me to assure you, that 
my interference on a late occasion was quite acci- 
dental 1 And can you, for a moment, maintahi 
that, under the circumstances, I could have acted 
in a different manner ? I regret the whole unhappy 
business ; but most I regret that we were placed in 
colhsion. 

" I am ready to cast all memory of it into obU- 
vion ; and as I most unintentionally offended, I 
indulge the sweet hope that, in this conduct, you 
will bear me company. 

" Surely men like us are not to be dissuaded from 
following our inclinations by any fear of the opinion 
of the world. The whole affair is, at present, a 
mystery; and, I think, with our united fancies, 
sozne explanation may be hit upon which will ren- 
der the mystery quite impenetrable, while it pro- 
fesses to offer a satisfactory solution. 

*' I do not know whether this letter expresses my 
meaning, for my mind is somewhat agitated and 
my head not very clear ; but if you be inclined to 
understand it in the right spirit, it is sufficiently lu- 
cid. At any rate, my dear Grafton, I have once 
more the pleasure of subscribing myself, faithfujly 
yours, St. James." 

This letteir was marked " immediate," consigned 
to the custody of Luigi, with positive orders to de- 
liver it i^rsonally to Sir Lucius ; and if not at home, 
to follow till he found him. 

He was not at honje^ and he was found at 's 

club-house. Sullen, dissatisfied with himself, doubt- 
ful as to the result of his fresh manoeuvres, and 
brooding over his infernal debts, Sir Lucius had 

stepped uito , and passed the whole morning 

gaming desperately with Lord Hounslow and Baron 
de Berghen. Never had he experienced such a 
Bmasliing; morning. He had long far exceeded his 



banker's account, and was proceeding with a vague 
idea that he should find money somehow or other, 
when this note was put into his hand, as it seemed 
to him, by Providence. The signature of Semirar 
mis could not have imparted more exquisite deUghl 
to the mysterious Mr. Upcott, or lucid Dawson 
Turner, whose letter is not forgotten among the 
Apennines. (6) Were his long views, his com- 
phcated objects, and doubtful results, to be put in 
competition a moment with so decided, so simple^ 
and so certain a benefit 1 Certainly not, by a 
gamester. He rose from the table, and with strange 
elation wrote these lines. 

" Mx DEAHEST PRiEiTD : — You forgive me — bul 
can I forgive myself? I am plunged in the most 
overwhelming grief. Shall I come onl Youi 
mad but devoted friend, Lucius Graftoit." 

" The Duke of St. James," 
&c. &.C. &c. 

They met the same day. After a long consulta- 
tion, it was settled that Peacock Piggott should be 
intrusted, in confidence, with the secret of the 
affair — merely a drunken squabble, " growing out" 
of the Bird of Paradise. Wine, jealousy, an artful 
woman, and headstrong youth, will account for any 
thing — they accounted for the present affair. The 
story was believed, because the world were always 
puzzled at Lady Aphrodite being the cause. The 
baronet proceeded with promptitude to make the 
version pass current. He indicted " The Universe* 
and " The New World ;" he prosecuted the cari 
caturists ; and was seen everywhere with his wife 
"The Universe" and "The New World" revenged 
themselves on the signora ; and then she indicted 
them. They could not now even Ubel an opera- 
singer with impunity — where was the boasted 
liberty of the press 1 

In the mean time, the young duke, once more 
easy in his mind, wonderfully recovered ; and on 
the eighth day after the Ball of Beauty, he returned 
to the Pavilion, which had now resumed its usual 
calm character, for fresh air and soothing quiet. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

On the morning of the young duke's departure 
for Twickenham, as Miss Dacre and Lady Caro- 
hne St. Maurice were sitting together at the house 
of the former, and moralizing over the last night's 
ball, Mr. Arundel Dacre was announced. 

" You have just arrived in time to offer your con- 
gratulations, Arundel, on an agreeable event," said 
Miss Dacre. " Lord St. Maurice is about to lead 
to the hymeneal altar " 

" Lady Sophy Wrekin — I know it." 

" How extremely diplomatic I The attache in 
your very air. I thought, of course, I was to sur- 
prise you ; but future ambassadors have such ex- 
traordinary sources of information." 

" Mine is a very simple one. The dutchess, 
imagining, I suppose, that my attentions were di- 
rected to the wrong lady, warned me some weeks 
past. However, my congratulations shall be duly 
paid. Lady CaroUne St. Maurice, allow me to 
express " 

" All that you ought to feel," said Miss Dacre, 
" But men at the present day pride themselves on 
insensibiUty." 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



093 



"Do you think I am insensible, Lady Caroline 1" 
asked Arundel. 

" I must protest against unfair questions," said 
her ladyship. 

" But it is not unfair. You are a person who 
have now seen me more than once, and therefore, 
according to May, you ought to have a perfect 
knowledge of my character. Moreover, you do not 
share the prejudices of my family. I ask you, 
then, do you think I am so heartless as May would 
insinuate 1" 

" Does she insinuate so muchi" 

" Does she not call me insensible, because I am 
not in raptures that your brother is about to marrj- 
a young lady, who, for aught she knows, may be 
the object of my secret adoration'?" 

" Arundel, you are perverse," said Miss Dacre. 

" No, May, I am logical." 

" I have always heard that logic is much worse 
than wilfulness," said Lady Caroline. 

" But Arundel always was both," said Miss 
Dacre. " He is not only unreasonable, but he will 
always prove that he is right. Here is your purse, 
sir," she added, with a smile, presenting him with 
the result of her week's labour. 

" This is the way she always bribes me. Lady 
Caroline. Do you approve of this corruption V 

" I must confess, I have a slight, though secret, 
kindness for a little bribery. Mamma is now on 
her way to Mortimer's, on a very con-upt embassy. 
The nouvelle mariee, you know, must be reconciled 
to her change of lot by quite a new set of play- 
things. I can give you no idea of the necklace that 
our magnificent cousin, in spite of his wound, has 
sent Sophy." 

"But, then, such a cousin!" said Miss Dacre. 
" A young duke, like the young lady in the fair}'- 
tale, should scarcely ever speak without producing 
brilliants." 

" Sophy is highly sensible of the attention. As 
she musingly observed, except himself marrying 
her, he could scarcely do more. I hear the car- 
riage. Adieu, love ! Good morning, Mr. Dacre." 

" Allow me to see you to your carriage. I am 
to dine at Fitz-pompey House to-day, I believe." 

Arundel Dacre returned to his cousin, and seat- 
ing himself at the table, took up a book, and began 
reading it the wrong side upwards ; then he threw 
down a ball of silk, then he cracked a netting- 
needle, and then, with a husky sort of voice, and a 
half-blush, and altogether an air of infinite confu- 
sion, he said, " This has been an odd affair. May, 
of the Duke of St. James and Sir Lucius Grafton." 

" A very distressing affair, Arundel." 

" How singular that I should have been his second, 
May !" 

" Could he have found any one more fit for that 
office, Arundel 1" 

" I think he might. I must say this ; that had I 
known at the time the cause of the fray, I should 
have refused to attend him." 

She was silent, and he resumed. 

" An opera singer at the best ! Sir Lucius Graf- 
ton showed more discrimination. Peacock Piggott 
was just the character for his place, and I think my 
principal, too, might have found a more congenial 
sprite. What do you think, May 1" 

" Really, Arundel, this is a subject of which I 
know nothing." 

" Indeed ! Well, it is very odd, May ; but do you 



know 1 I have a queer suspicion that you know 
more about it than anybody else 1" 

"I! Arundel]" she exclaimed, with marked 
confusion. 

" Yes, you. May," he repeated,with great firmness, 
and looked her in the face with a glance wliich 
would read her sovd. "Ay ! I am sure you do." 

" Who says so 1" 

" ! do not fear that you have been betrayed. 
No one says it ; but I know it. We future ambas- 
sadors, you know, have such extraordinary sources 
of information." 

" You jest, Arundel, on a grave subject." 

" Grave I — yes, it is grave, May Dacre. It '<) 
grave that there should be secrets between us; it 4 
grave, that our house should have been insulted ; t 
is grave that you, of all others, should have been 
outraged ; but ! it is much more grave, it is bit- 
ter, that any other arm than this should have avenged 
the wrong." He rose from his chair, he paced the 
room in fearful agitation, and gnashed his teeth with 
an expression of vindictive hate, tliat he tried not to 
suppress. 

" ! my cousin, my dear, dear cousin ! spare me, 
spare me !" She hid her face in her hands, yet she 
contmued speaking in a broken voice, " I did it for the 
best. It was to suppress strife, to prevent bloodshed. 
I knew your temper, and I feared for your life — yet 
I told my father, I told him all ; and it was by his 
advice that I have maintained throughout the silence 
which I, perhaps too hastily, at first adopted." 

" My own dearest May ! spare me, spare me. I 
cannot mark a tear from you without a pang. How 
I came to know this, you wonder. It was the de- 
lirium of that person who should not have played 
so proud a part m this affair, and who is yet our 
friend ; it was his delirium that betrayed all. In the 
madness of his excited brain, he reacted the frightful 
scene, declared die outrage, and again avenged it. 
Yet, believe me, I am not tempted by any petty 
feeling of showing I am not ignorant of what is con- 
sidered a secret, to declare all this. I know, I feel 
your silence was for the best, — that it was prompted 
by sweet and holy feelings for my sake. Believe 
me, my dear cousin, if any thing could increase the 
infinite aflection with which I love you, it would be 
the consciousness that, at all times, whenever my 
image crosses your mind, it is to muse for my benefit, 
or to extenuate my errors. 

" Dear May, you, who know me better than the 
world, know well my heart is not a mass of ice ; 
and you, who are ever so ready to find a good reason 
even for my most wilful conduct, and an excuse for 
my most irrational, will easily credit, that in inter- 
fering in an affair in which you are concerned, I am 
not influenced by an unworthy, an officious, or a 
meddlmg spirit. No, my own May, it is because I 
tliink it better for you that we should speak upon 
this subject, that I venture to treat upon it. Per- 
haps, I broke it in a crude, but, credit me, not in an 
uiJund spirit. I am well conscious I have a some- 
what ungracious manner; but you, who have par- 
doned it so often, will excuse it now. To be brief, 
it is of your companion to that accursed fete that I 
would speak." 

"Mrs. Dallingtonl" 

" Surely, she. Avoid her. May. I do not like 

that woman. You know I seldom speak at hazard • 

if I do not speak more distinctly now, it is because 

I will never magnify suspicions into ci-rtaintiea, 

2 B 2 



294 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



which we must do even if we mention them. But 
I suspect — greatly suspect. An open rupture would 
be disagreeable — would be unwaiTantable — would 
be impolitic. The season draws to a close. Quit 
town somewhat earlier than usual, and, in the mean 
time, receive her, if necessary — but, if possible, never 
alone. You have many friends ; and, if no other, 
Lady Caroline St. Maurice is worthy of your so- 
ciety." 

He bent down his head, and kissed her forehead : 
she pressed his faithful hand. 

" And now, dear May, let me speak of a less im- 
portant object, — of myself. I find this borough a 
mere delusion. Every day new difficulties arise ; 
and every day my chance seems weaker. I am 
wasting precious time, for one who should be in ac- 
tion. I think, then, of returning to Vienna, and at 
once. I have some chance of being appointed sec- 
retary of legation, and I then shall have achieved 
what was the great object of my life — indepen- 
dence." 

" This is always a sorrowful subject to me, Arun- 
del. You have cherished such strange — do not be 
offended if I say such erroneous ideas on the sub- 
ject of what you call independence, that I feel that, 
upon it, v^'e can consult neither with profit to you 
nor satisfaction to myself. Independence ! Who 
is independent, if the heir of Dacre bow to any one 1 
Independence ! Who can be independent, if the 
future head of one of the first fomilies in this great 
counti-y will condescend to be the secretary even of 
a kingl" 

" We have often talked of this. May, and perhaps 
I have carried a morbid feeling to some excess ; but 
my paternal blood flows in these veins, and it is too 
late to change. I know not how it is, but I seem 
misplaced in life. My existence is a long blun- 
der." 

" Too late to change, dearest Arundel ! O ! thank 
you for those words. Can it, can it ever be too late 
to acknowledge error 1 Particularly if, by that very 
acknowledgment, we not only secure our own hap- 
piness, but that of those we love, and those who 
love us." 

" Dear May ! when I talk with you, I talk with 
my good genius ; but I am in closer and more con- 
stant converse with another mind, and of that I am 
the slave. It is my own. I will not conceal from 
you, from whom I have concealed nothing, that 
doubts and dark misgivings of the truth and wisdom 
of my past feelings and my past career will ever 
and anon flit across my fancy, and obtrude them- 
selves upon my consciousness. Your father — yes ! 
I feel that I have not been to him what nature in- 
tended, and what he deserved." 

" 0, Arundel !" she said, with streaming 
eyes, "he loves you like a son. Yet, yet, be 
one !" 

He seated himself on the sofa by her side, and 
took her small hand, and bathed it with his 
jcisses. 

" My sweet and faithful friend — my very sister. 
I am overpowered with feelings to which I have 
hitherto been a stranger. There is a cause for all 
this contest of my passions. It must out. My 
being has changed. The scales have fallen from 
my sealed eyes, and the fountain of my heart o'cr- 
flows. Life seems to have a new purpose, and ex- 
istence a new cause. Listen to me, listen; and if 
you can. May, comfort me !" 



CHAPTER XVIL 

At Twickenham, the young duke recovered 
rapidly. Not altogether displeased with his recent 
conduct, his self-complacency assisted his conva- 
lescence. Sir Lucius Grafton visited him daily 
Regularly, about four or five o'clock, he galloped 
down to the Pavilion, with the last ora dit : some 
gay message from the bow-window, a mot of Lord 
Squib, or a trait of Charles Annesley. But while 
he studied to amuse the wearisome hours of hia 
imprisoned friend, in the midst of all his gayety an 
interesting contrition was ever breaking forth, not 
so much by words as looks. It was evident that 
Sir Lucius, although he dissembled his aflliction. 
was seriously afiected by the consequence of his 
rash passion ; and his amiable victim, whose mag- 
nanimous mind was incapable of harbouring an 
inimical feeling, and ever responded to a soft and 
generous sentiment, felt actually more aggrieved for 
his unhappy friend than for himself. Of Arundel 
Dacre the duke had not seen much. That gentle- 
man never particidarly sympathized with Sir Lucius 
Grafton, and now he scarcely endeavoured to co?> 
ceal the little pleasure which he received from the 
baronet's society. Sir Lucius was the last man not 
to detect this mood ; but as he was confident that 
the duke had not betrayed him, he could only sup- 
pose that Miss Dacre had confided the affair to her 
family, and therefore, under all circumstances, he 
thought it best to be unconscious of any alteration 
in Arundel Dacre's intercourse with him. Civil, 
therefore, they were when they met; the baronet 
was even courteous ; but they both mutually avoided 
each other. 

At the end of three weeks the Duke of St. James 
returned to town in perfect condition, and received 
the congratulations of his friends. Mr. Dacre had 
been of the few who had been permitted to visit him 
at Twickenham. Nothing had then passed between 
them on the cause of his illness ; but his grace could 
not but observe, that the manner of his valued friend 
was more than commonly cordial. And Miss 
Dacre, with her father, was among the first to hail 
his return to health and the metropolis. 

The Bird of Paradise, who, since the incident, 
had been several times in hysterics, and had written 
various notes, of three or four lines each, of inquiries 
and entreaties to join her noble friend, had been 
kept off from Twickenham by the masterly tactics 
of Lord Squib. She, however, would drive to the 
duke's house the day after his arrival in town, and 
was with him when sundry loud knocks, in quick 
succession, announced an approaching levee. He 
locked her up in his private room, and hastened to 
receive the compliments of his visiters. In the 
same apartment, among many others, he had the 
pleasure of meeting, for the first time. Lady Aphro- 
dite Grafton, Lady Caroline St. Maurice, and Miss 
Dacre, all women whom he had either promised, 
intended, or offered to marry. A curious situation 
this ! And really, when our hero looked upon them 
once more, and viewed them, in delightful rivalry, 
advancing with their congratulations, he was not 
surprised at the feelings with which they inspired 
him. Far, far exceeding the bonhomie of Macheath, 
the duke could not resist remembering, that had it 
been his fortune to have lived in the land in which 
lus historiographer will soon be wandering — in short, 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



295 



to have been a pasha instead of a peer, he might 
have married all three. 

A prettier fellow and three prettier women had 
never met since the immortal incident of Ida. 

It required the thorough breeding of Lady Afy 
to conceal the anxiety of her passion ; May Dacre's 
eyes showered triple sunshine, as she extended a 
hand not too often offered ; but Lady Caroline was 
a cousin, and consanguinity, therefore, authorized 
as well as accounted for the warmth of her greeting. 



CHAPTER XVin. 



A VERT few days after his return, the Duke of 
St. James dined with Mr. Dacre. It was the first 
time that he had dined with him durmg the season. 
The Fitz-pompeys were there ; and, among others, 
his grace had the pleasure of again meeting a few 
of his Yorkshire friends. 

Once more he found himself at the right hand 
»f May Dacre. All his career, since his arrival in 
England, flitted across his mind. Doncaster, dear 
Doncaster, where he had first seen her, teemed only 
with delightful reminiscences to a man whose fa- 
vourite had bolted. Such is the magic of love ! 
Then came Castle Dacre and the Orange Terrace, 
and their elegant romps, and the delightful party to 
Hauteville ; and then Dacre Abbey. An involun- 
tary shudder seemed to damp all the ardour of his 
soul ; but when he turned and looked upon her 
Deaming face he could not feel miserable. 

He thought that he had never been at so agreea- 
ble a party in his life : yet it was chiefly composed 
of the very beings whom he daily execrated for 
their powers of boredom. And he himself was not 
very entertaining. He was certainly more silent 
than loquacious, and found himself very often gazing 
with mute admiration on the little mouth, every 
word breathed forth from which seemed inspiration. 
Yet he was happy ; ! what happiness is his who 
•lotes upon a woman ! Few could observe from his 
conduct what was passing in his mind ; yet the 
quivering of his softened tones, and the mild lustre 
of his mellowed gaze ; his subdued and quiet man- 
ner ; his unpcrceived yet infinite attentions ; his 
memory of httle incidents, that all but lovers would 
have forgotten ; the total absence of all compli- 
ment, and gallantry, and repartee — all these, to a 
fine observer, might have been gentle indications 
of a strong passion ; and to her to whom they were 
addressed, sutficiently intimated that no change had 
taken place in his feelings, since the warm hour 
in which he first whispered his o'erpowering love. 
The ladies retired, and the Duke of St. James 
fell into a revery. A political discourse of the most 
elaborate genus now arose. Lord Fitz-pompey 
got parliamentary. Young Faulcon made his es- 
cape, having previously whispered to another 
youth, not unheard by the Duke of St. James, that 
his mother was about to depart, and he was con- 
voy. His grace, too, had heard Lady Fitz-pompey 
say that she was going early to the opera. Shortly 
afterward, parties evidently retired. But the debate 
still raged. Lord Fitz-pompey had caught a stout 
Yorkshire squire, and was delightedly astounding, 
with official graces, his stern opponent. A sudden 
thought occurred to the duke : he stole out of the 
room, and gained the saloon. 



He found it almost empty. With sincere plea- 
sure, he bid Lady Bahnont, who was on the point 
of departure, farewell, and promised to look in at 
her box. He seated himself by Lady Greville Nu 
gent, and dexterously made her follow Lady Bal- 
mont's example. She withdrew with the conviction 
that his grace would not be a moment behind her. 
There was only old Mrs. Hungerford and her rich 
daughter remaining. They were in such raptures 
with Miss Dacre's singing, that his grace was quite 
in despair; but chance favoured him. Even old 
Mrs. Hungerford this night broke through her rule 
of not going to more than one house, and she drove 
oft' to Lady de Courcy's. 

They were alone. It is sometimes an awful 
thing to be alone with those we love. 

" Sing that again !" asked the duke, imploringly 
" It is my favourite air ; it always reminds me of 
Dacre." 

She sang, she ceased ; she sang with beauty, and 
she ceased with grace ; but all unnoticed by the 
tumultuous soul of her adoring guest. His thoughts 
were intent upon a greater object. The opportunity 
was sweet ; and yet those boisterous wassailers, they 
might spoil all. 

" Do you know that this is the first time that I 
have seen your rooms lit up 7" said the duke. 

" Is it possible ! I hope they gain the approbation 
of so distinguished a judge." 

" I admire them exceedingly. By-the-by, I sea 
a new cabinet in the next room. Swaby told me 
the other day that you were one of his lady patron- 
esses. I wish you would show it me. I am very 
curious in cabinets." 

She rose, and they advanced to the end of another 
and a longer room. 

"This is a beautiful saloon," said the duke. 
"How long is if?" 

" I really do not know ; but I thmk, between 
forty and fifty feet." 

" O ! you must be mistaken. Forty or fifty feet. 
I am an excellent judge of distances. I will try. 
Forty or fifty feet. Ah ! the third room included. 
Let us walk to the end of the next room. Each of 
my paces shall be one foot and a half." 

They had now arrived at the end of the third 
room. 

" Let me see," resumed the duke ; " you have a 
small room to the right. O ! did I not hear that you 
had made a conservatory 1 I see — I see it — lit up 
too ! Let us go in. I want to gain some hints 
about London conservatories." 

It was not exactly a conservatory ; but a balcony 
of large dimensions had been fitted up on each side 
with coloured glass, and was open to the gardens. 
It was a rich night of fragrant June. The moon 
and stars were as bright as if they had shone over 
the terrace of Dacre, and the perfume of the flowers 
reminded him of his favourite orange trees. The 
mild, cool scene was such a contrast to the hot and 
noisy chamber they had recently quitted, that for 
a moment they were silent. 

" You are not afraid of this delicious air 1" asked 
his grace. 

" Midsummer air," said Miss Dacre, " must 
surely be harmless." 

Again there was silence ; and Miss DacTB, afler 
having plucked a flower and tendered a plant, 
seemed to express an intention of withdrawing. 
Suddenly he spoke, and in a gushing voice of heaii- 
felt words. 



296 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Miss Dacre, you are too kind, too excellent to 
De oflcnded, if I dare to ask whether any thing could 
induce you to view with more indulgence one who 
sensibly feels how utterly he is unworthy of you 1" 

" My lord, you are the last man whose feelings 
I should wish to hurt. Let us not revive a con- 
versation to which, I can assure you, neither of us 
looks back with satisfaction." 

" Is there then no hope 1 Must I ever live with 
the consciousness of being the object of your 
scorn V 

" ! no, no ! My lord, as you will speak, let us 
understand each other. However I may approve 
of my decision, I have lived quite long enough to 
repent the manner in which it was conveyed. I 
cannot, without the most unfeigned regret — I can- 
not for a moment remember, that I have addressed 
a bitter word to one to whom I am under the great- 
est obligations. If my apologies — " 

" Pray, pray be silent I" 

" I must speak. If my apologies, my most com- 
plete, my most humble apologies, can be any com- 
pensation for treating with such lightness feehngs 
which I now respect, and oilers by which I now 
consider myself honoured, — accept them !" 

" ! Miss Dacre, that flital word — respect !" 

" My lord, we have warmer words in this house 
for you. You are now our friend." 

" I dare not urge a suit which may offend you ; 
yet if you could read my heart, I sometimes think 
that we might be happy. Let me hope !" 

" My dear Duke of St. James, I am sure you will 
not ever ofl'end me, because I am sure you will not 
ever wish to do it. There are few people in this 
world for whom I entertain a more sincere regard 
than yourself. I am convinced, I am conscious, 
that when we met, I did sufficient justice neither to 
your virtues nor your talents. It is impossible for 
me to express with what satisfaction I now feel, 
that you have resumed that place in the aftections 
of this family to which you have a hereditary right. 
I am grateful, truly, sincerely grateful for all that 
you feel with regard to me individually ; and be- 
lieve me, in again expressing my regret that it is 
not in my power to view you in any other light 
than as a valued friend, I feel that I am pursuing 
that conduct which will conduce as much to your 
happiness as my own." 

" My happiness, Miss Dacre I" 

" Indeed, such is my opinion. I will not again 
endeavour to depreciate the feelings which you en- 
tertain for me, and by which, ever remember, I feel 
honoured ; but these very feelings prevent you from 
viewing their object as dispassionately as I do." 

" I am at a loss for your meaning — at least, favour 
me by speaking explicitly : — you see, I respect 
your sentiments, and do not presume to urge that 
on which my very happiness depends." 

" To he brief, then, my lord, I will not affect to 
onceal that marriage is a state which has often 
reen the object of my meditations. I think it the 
duty of all women that so important a change in 
their destiny should be well considered. If I know 
any thing of myself, I am convinced that I should 
never survive an unhappy marriage." 

" But why dream of any thing so utterly impos- 
fiiblel" 

" So very probable, — so very certain, you mean, 
my lord. Ay ! I repeat my words, for they are 
Uuth. If I ever marry, it is to devote every feeling, 
and every thought, each hour, each mstant of exist- 



ence, to a single being for whom I alone live. Such 
devotion I expect in return ; without it, I should 
die, or wish to die; but such devotion can never 
be returned by you." 

" You amaze me ! I ! who live only on you 
image." 

" My lord, your education, the habits in which 
you have been brought up, the maxims which have 
been instilled into you from your infancy, the sys- 
tem which each year of your life has more matured, 
the worldly levity with which every thing connected 
with woman is viewed by you and your compa- 
nions ; whatever may be your natural dispositions, — 
all this would prevent you — all this would render 
it a perfect impossibility, — all this will ever make 
you utterly unconscious of the importance of the 
subject on which we are now conversing. My lord, 
pardon me for saying it — you know not of what 
you speak. Yes ! however sincere may be the 
expression of your feelings to me this moment, I 
shudder to think on whom your memory dwelt but 
yesterday, even this hour. I never will peril my 
happiness on such a chance ; but there are others, 
my lord, who do not think as I do." 

" May Dacre ! save me, save me ! If you knew 
all, you would not doubt. This moment is my des- 
tiny." 

" My lord, save yourself. There is yet time. 
You have my prayers." 

" I^et me then hope — " 

" Indeed, indeed, it cannot be. Here our con- 
versation on this subject ends forever." 

" Yet we part friends !" He spoke in a broken 
voice. 

" The best and truest !" She extended her arm ; 
he pressed her hand to his impassioned lips, and 
quitted the house, mad with love and misery. 

This scene should have been touching : but, I 
know not why, when I read it over it seems to me 
a tissue of half-meanings. What I meant is stamped 
upon my brain, if indeed I have a brain; but I have 
lost the power of conveying what I feel, if indeed 
that power were ever mine. I write with an aching 
head and quivering hand ; yet I must write, if but 
to break the solitude, which is to me a world quick 
with exciting life : I scribble to divert a brain which, 
though weak, will struggle with strong thoughts, 
and lest my mind should muse itself to madness. 

The mmd is an essence, there is no doubt, and 
infinitely superior to the grosser body. Yet some- 
how that rebel will turn round upon its chief, and 
wonderfully mar our great careers. Mind is a fine 
thing, I won't deny it, and mine was once as full of 
pride and hope as infant empire. But where are 
now my deeds and aspirations, and where the fame 
I dreamed of when a boy 1 I find the world just 
slipping through my fingers, and cannot grasp the 
jewel ere it falls. I quit an earth where none will 
ever miss me, save those whose blood requires no 
laurels to make them love my memory. My life 
has been a blunder and a blank, and all ends by my 
adding one more slight ghost to the shadowy realm 
of fotal precocity ! These are the rubs that make 
QS feel the vanity of life — the littleness of man. Yet 
I do not groan, and will not murmur. My punish- 
ment is no caprice of tyranny. I brought it on my- 
self, as greater men have done before. Prometheus 
is a lesson how to bear torture ; but I think my case 
is most like Nebuchadnezzar's. 

But this is dull. I know not how it is : but, as 
is the custom to observe, when sometliing is about 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



297 



to be said particularly flat, I have " a shrewd sus- 
picion," that our light talc is growing tragical. When 
men have been twice rejected, their feelings are 
somewhat strange ; and when men feel keenly, they 
act violently. I have half a mind to give it up, and 
leave these volumes in imperfect beauty, like two 
lone columns on an Argive plain. 

Perhaps it is the hour, — perhaps the place ; but I 
am gloomy. The moon is in her midnight bower, 
and from the walls of the huge hall in which I sit 
many a marble chief and canvass cardinal frown, as 
it were, upon the intrusive stranger, who sits scrib- 
bling in their presence, and whom, if they were 
alive, they would no more think of stabbing, poison- 
ing, or burning, than of eating flesh in Lent. A 
moan is heard, too, in the lengthening galleries, and 
doors slam in chambers wliich none e'er enter. 
There is nothing so vast and desolate as an Italian 
palace. 

lama great votary of the genus loci : it is a doc- 
trine I have often proved. Now, if I were seated in 
some Albanian chambers, all varnished mahogany, 
and crimson damask, round tables, and square 
couches, with dwarf bookcases, which hold not too 
many volumes, and ever and anon crowned with a 
bronze or bust, some slight antique, which just re- 
minds us that had we lived at Athens or at Eome 
we are of the select few who would have joined 
Aspasian coteries and Horatian suppers, — or if even 
I had taken refuge in a temporary apartment in 
dingy Jermyn Street, or sly St. James's Palace, 
some little room, small, snug, and smoky, cozy, neat, 
and warm, and vtry comfortable, — why then aflairs 
would alter. I'd snuff my candles, and I'd poke my 
fire, and, with a pen brisk as the morn, glance off a 
chapter which might make some people stare ; for 
even the critics, never much my friends, confess I 
have shown a considerable turn for satire. 

But after one-and-twenty, men grow mild — at 
least I did. And so this rare gift gets thrown by 
with cricket, boxing, fencing, foils, and fives,— all 
pursuits, excellence in which, as iji satire, depends 
on hitting hard. So a little calm gaycty is all I now 
allow myself, and after that, I am ever doubly se- 
rious, as thrifty housewives occasionally indulge in a 
slight debauch, and tax the ensuing week the 
butcher's bill. 

I said the critics were never much my friends, 
which I regret, and which has occasioned me many 
a heartache. Because we all know, that they are 
always right, and never make a miss. So, their 
approbation is a feather in an author's cap, and in- 
finitely to be preferred to public sympathy and pri- 
vate praise. 

I don't know how it was, but certainly I did not 
hit the fancy of these gentry. I suppose I tried to 
mount the throne without the permission of the 
Praetorians. In the literary as in all other worlds, 
tlie way to rise is to be patronised. " Talent" is 
admired ; but then it must be docile, and defer. In 
spite of my many faults, the cant of the clique was 
wanting, and the freemasons discovered I was not 
a brother. I am sure I had no wish, and no inten- 
tion to mingle in their ranks. I dressed some crude 
inventions in a thoughtless style, without any idea 
my page would live beyond the week that gave it 
birth. I was brought up m due abhorrence of this 
unthrifty life, and was kept from ink as some boys 
are kept from wine, or from what grave signers 
think even worse. 

There also was § rumour ripe and deep, that I 
3S 



had ventured to doubt the inspiration of some ex 
alted bards, whose seats upon Parnassus were so 
high, that I suppose they were covered with the 
clouds, for I had never yet detected their divinity- 
ships. But nevertheless it was voted, nem. con., 
that innocent I must be the blaspheming rogue, and 
so all Grub street sent its toothless mastiffs at my 
heretic feet. There is nothing so virulent as an 
irritated dunce, particularly if he be on a wrong 
scent. In short, I was voted quite a dangerous 
character— T-one of those who would not cry ei^ux^t 
o'er a genius not yet found, or fall into ecstasies at 
the originality of an echo. 

I understand that it was settled that I should be 
vrritten down. I wonder why these kind gentle- 
men did not succeed. I am sure I did every thing 
I could to help them. Sometimes I was very fine, 
and sometimes much too witty. Then, I have seen 
even purer English than my earliest page; but per- 
haps my foreign slip-slop made up for that, which 
indicated the travelled man. 

But the public backed me, as we back the weaker 
party in a boisterous row. The public will some- 
times read the book they ought not. " 'Tis true, 
'tis pity, pity 'tis 'tis true." But this blundering 
brings gall to the critic's lip, and many a bilious 
" article" flows from a pen which itself has failed 
where the stigmatised has succeeded. When I 
begin again I shall know better. I am not one of 
those minds on which experience is thrown away. 
I will get a magazine or so to say something for me 
sweet and soft. Who knows then what I muy not 
come to ! Perhaps some congenial editor may some 
day hail me as " a talented young man I" Perhaps, 
in the long perspective of my glory, I may even in 
time be reckoned a supernumerary of the " two 
thousand most distinguished writers of the day." 
And, after all, it is amusing to find even my boyish 
nonsense, the flagrant defects of which could only 
be excused by the speedy oblivion which awaited 
them, upon the Rhine, the Danube, and the Elbe. 
I have had my back, too, patted on the Seine, and 
shrugged my shoulders over indiscretions which 
had travelled even as far as where the mountains 
shoot the turbid Arno from their dark green womb. 

If I might be permitted to give an opinion, which 
I never do, I should say that bluster was scarcely 
the right way to stifle youth. A sneer is the inost 
active hostility that I should recommend under such 
circumstances ; but the best would be silence. As 
we advance, quiet is the to k^aov of existence; but 
when we are juvenals, and think the world a great 
matter, and ourselves not altogether the most insig- 
nificant part of it, we are but too ready to put on 
the gloves, and young blood is not exactly the fluid 
to be bullied. I am sure that my first literary of- 
fence would have been my last, if I had not been 
dared ; but when scribbling became a point of 
honour, I set to, and would not prove a craven. 

The public backed me: I am very willing to 
ascribe their support merely to their good nature, 
for I have found mankind far more amiable than, 
misled by books, I once dared to hope. But lest 
this cause alone should be considered a slur upon 
their discrimination, I will believe, that some few 
sparks of feeling rose from my false inventions, 
some slight flame of truth broke out from my dark 
crudities, and won their sympathy. 

In this artificial world, we pine for nature, and 
we sigh for truth. It is this that makes us hasten 
to fictitious worlds to find what in our own should be. 



298 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



and yet is not. It is this that makes us prize 
Uie page that makes us leel. It is this that bows us 
down before the magic of creative mind, wliose in- 
spiration is but tho voice of disabused humanity. 
He who, while he shares the passions of his race, 
yet muses deeply on their deep results, and search- 
ing into his own breast, can transform experience 
into existence, and create past passions into present 
]ife — he who can do all this without the cynic's 
sneer or sophist's gloss, is a rare being ; — but where 
is he 1 

Since the Thunderer sank to night in Mis- 
solonghi's fatal marsh, the intellectual throne has 
remained vacant. His chiefs and rivals will neither 
claim nor yield the proud pre-eminence. Each feels 
that supremacy must be the meed of novel conquests ; 
and it is too late for that. Some, like Napoleon's 
marshals, have grown fixt and rich ; some, which is 
much worse, lean and gray. So, these heroes divide 
the provinces, and repose under their laurels, that 
is to say, they amuse themselves with some slight 
deeds, which, by their contrast, keep alive the 
memory of their great achievements. One founds 
a school ; another writes a school-book. Having 
enchanted the fatliers, they condescend to conjure 
before the children. 

Moore alone, like Murat charging in the hottest 
fight, still maintains the war. O ! long may victory 
poise on his unsullied plume ! long may the trench- 
ant sabre of his wit gleam in our ranks, and long 
his trumpet sound to triumph ! Mcthinks that 
whenever he may leave us — on that day, the sun 
will be less warm, the stars less bright, the moon 
less soft ; — that a cloud will burst over the gardens 
of Cashmere, and the peris grow pale in tb.e pala- 
ces of Amrabad ; — that every nightingale will pine, 
and every rose will fade ! 

But while the Paladins surround the throne 
with their broad shields, and in oligarchical disdain 
support the literary regency, a far difi'erent scene 
opens without the pale. There I view a vast tu- 
multuous crowd, mad with the lust of praise, and 
fierce with the ungorged appetite of insatiable 
vanity. Fired with the glory tliat the great captains 
have won in long campaigns, and flushed with the 
prospect of the distant crown, bands rush to fight, 
and, as they hope, to conquer. How wide the 
combat ! How innumerable the combatants ! What 
itiflnite rashness ! What unprecedented self-confi- 
dence ! What vast variety of manojuvres ! What 
complicated tactics ! What bootless and yet 
unceasing stratagems ! What deceitful exultation! 
What idle boasting! What false triumph ! What 
struggling, what panting, what cursing, and what 
a dust ! 

But when that dust subsides, — as ever and anon 
a calm will hang o'er battle,— ^what see we then 1 
The throne still empty, and the guard unbroken ; 
and the plain strewn only with the exhausted bodies 
and brittle armour of the hot but weak assailants. 
Then the game begins again. A fresh hero darts 
on the field, amid the hired cheers of hollow 
tribes ; but ere their leader throws his boastful 
lance, he turns a craven. Each moment has its 
miracle, that proves a cheat ; each hour its fresh 
prophet, that predicts the past. 

I say notliing, because I am no judge ; but I will 
Bay this, that all cannot be the right man. The 
minds of men are, on the whole, very similar, and 
genius is, whatever some may think, a very rare 
production. When I watch this scene of ineffect- 1 



ual strife, and mark them chasing shadows, in spitfc 
of all their high fantastic tricks, their elaborate 
caprice, their affected novelty, their disguised and 
salted staleness, their stolen beauty and their stu- 
died grace, first as I would be, to hail a master-sprite, 
I see nothing but the Protean forms of a multiplied 
mediocrity. They are too many. As in the last 
days of the fated city, each alley has its prophet. 
All I hope is, that before I eat a kabob in Persia, 
they will have discovered the true leader ; and that 
when I return, if I do return, I may find a good 
literary creed, strong, vehement, and infallible, 

I wash my hands of any participations in this 
contest. What I am I know not, nor do I care. I 
have that within me which man can neither give 
nor take away, which can throw light on the dark- 
est passages of life, and draw, from a discordant world, 
a melody divine. For it I would live, and foritalone. 
O ! my soul, must we then, parti Is this the end of 
all our conceptions, all our musings, our panting 
thoughts, our gay fancies, our bright imaginings, our 
delicious reveries, and extiuisite communing'! Is this 
the end, the great and full result, of all our sweet 
society 1 I care not for myself ; I am a wretch be- 
neath even pity. My thousand errors, my ten 
thousand follies, my infinite corruption, have well 
deserved a bitterer fate than this. But thou ! — I feel 
I have betrayed thee. Hadst thou been the inmate 
of more spiritual clay, bound with a brain less head- 
strong, and with blood less hot, thou mightest 
have been glorious. I care not for myself, but thou 
— the bright friend that ne'er was wanting, that in 
my adversity hast softened sorrow, and in my days 
of joy have tripled rapture, who hast made obscuri- 
ty an empire, and common life a pageant — thou, 
Haram of my life, to whose inviolable shrine I fled 
in all my griefs, and found a succour, must we then 
part indeed, my delicate Ariel ! and must thou quit 
this earth without a record ! ! mistress, that I 
have ever loved ! — ! idol, that I have ever 
worshipped ! how like a fond wife, who clings even 
closer when we wrong her most, how faithful art 
thou, even in this hour of need, and how consoling 
is thy whispering voice ! 

Where are we 1 I think I was saying, that 
'tis difficult to form an opinion of ourselves. They 
say it is impossible ; which sounds like sense, and 
probably is truth. And yet, I sometimes think I 
write a pretty style, though spoiled by that con- 
founded ptippyism ; but then mine is the puppy 
age, and that will wear otT. Then, too, there are 
my vanity, my conceit, my affectation, my arro- 
gance, and my egotism ; all very heinous, and 
painfully contrasting with the imperturbable propri- 
ety of my fellow-scribblers, — " All gentlemen in 
stays, as stifl'as stones." But I may mend, or they 
fall off, and then the odds will be more equal. 

Thank heavens ! I am emancipated. It was a 
hard struggle, and cost me dear. Born in the most 
artificial country of this most artificial age, was it 
wonderful that I imbibed its false views, and shared 
its fatal passions ? But I rode out the storm, and 
found a port, although a wreck. I look back with 
disgust upon myself, — on them, with pity. A 
qualm comes over me when, for a moment, I call 
to mind tlieir little jealousies and tlieir minute 
hatreds, their wretched plans, and miserable purpo- 
ses ; their envy, their ignorance, and their malice ; 
their strife, their slander, their struggles, their false 
excitement, and their fictitious rapture; their short- 
sighted views, and long delusions. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



299 



Is it not wisdom, then, to fly from all this hot 
anxiety and wearing care, and to forget these petty 
griefs, and pettier joys, hy the soft waters of 
this southern sea? Here I find all that I long 
have thirsted for. Here my soul throws off tlie 
false ideas of vulgar life, and recurs to its own 
nature. Here each beam is rapture, and each breeze 
is bliss. Here my days are reveries, and my nights 
are dreams. Here, each warm morn, I muse o'er 
exquisite creation ; and, when the twilight blushes 
in the west, I heal- a whispering sound that nature 
sends, which tells me secrets man cannot invent. 
O ! why cannot life be passed in perpetual thought, 
and in the excitement of beautiful ideas ! 

And here, as far as converse is concerned, I now 
could live without mankind ; but I should miss 
their exquisite arts, which render existence more 
intense. Ah ! that my earliest youth had wan- 
dered here I Ah ! that my fathers ne'er had left 
their shores ! I check the thought, for while I 
muse, my memory wanders to another region, and 
too well I feel that, even amid the blue iEgean 
isles, my thoughts will fly to a remoter land and 
colder sea. 

O, England ! — O ! my country — not in hate I 
left thee — not in bitterness am I wandering here. 
My heart is thine, although my shadow falls upon 
a foreign strand ; and although full many an eastern 
clime and southern race have given me something 
of their burning blood, it flows for thee ! I rejoice 
that my flying fathers threw their ancient seed on 
the stern shores which they have not dishonoured : 
J am proud to be thy child. Thy noble laws have fed 
with freedom a soul that ill can brook constraint. 
Among thy hallowed hearths, I own most beautiful 
aflections. In thy abounding tongue my thoughts 
find music; and with the haughty fortunes of thy 
realm my destiny would mingle ! 

What though the immortal glory which here 
shoots forth from out the tombs of empires, bathes 
with no lambent gleams thy immemorial clifl's ! 
Still there we proudly witness the more active 
sublimity of great and growing empire. What 
Rome and Carthage were, thou art conjoined, my 
country ! In each eternal zone there floats the 
sovereign standard of St. George, and each vast 
deep groans with the haughty bulwarks of the 
globe. Earth has none like unto thee, thou queen 
of universal waters ! Europe watches thy nod. 
The painted Indian vails his feathery crown to 
thee, l^hce sultry Afric fears ; and dusky Asia 
is thy teeming dower ! 

VVhat though no purple skies, no golden suns, 
gild in thy land the olive and the vine — yet 
beauty Ungers in thy quiet vales, and health still 
wanders on thy peaceful plains, rich with no hu- 
man gore. Nature has given thee much ; and all 
that she has denied, is the quick tribute of the hast- 
ening climes. Free are thy sons, and high their 
rising hearts, that pant for power ; and whom in 
the harams of the glowing earth, whither I bend 
my fated steps, shall I find to match the dazzling 
daughters of my native land ! 

Alas ! that hot anxiety should spoil the noblest 
nation that ever rose to empire ! O ! my country- 
men, think — think ere it is too late, that life is love, 
and love is heaven. Feel — feel, that wealth is but 
a means, and power an instrument. Away, then, 
with the short-sighted views of harsh utility ! Our 
hours are few, — they might be beautiful. Our life 
is brief, — but pleasiue lengthens days. Man is 



made for absolute enjoyment. " It is thy vocation, 
Hal !" and they may preach and groan, growl an«[ 
hiss, but for this we live, and sooner or later to this 
we shall recur. The new philosophy that is at hand 
is but an appeal to our five senses. I may not live 
to hear its gay decrees, nor may my son ; but I feel 
confident the golden age is not far off. The world 
is round, so is eternity, and so is time. The iron age 
must cease, although by polish we have contrived 
to make it steel. Man can bear it no longer, — and 
then King Saturn will hold his court again. We 
have had enough of bloody Jupiter. And so, fare- 
well my country ! Few can love thee better than he 
who traces here these idle lines. Worthier heads 
are working for thy glory and thy good ; but if ever 
the hour shall call, my brain and life are thine. 

Meantime, I cast my fortune on the waters. Let 
them waft me where they wist. Where'er my fate 
may urge me, I can view the world with a deep 
passion, that can extract a moral from the strange 
and draw from loneliness delight. 

My gentle reader ! — gentle you have been to me, 
and ever kind — broad seas and broader lands divide 
\is. We no longer meet. Take, then, these pages 
as a morning call. Methinks, even as I write, my 
faithful steed stops at thy cherished door. Once 
more thy smoky knocker soils my rosy glove ; once 
more thy portal ojiens, and the geranium gale 
heralds the sweetness of thy chambers. We meet, 
and while you net a purse, or some small work, 
which exercises at the same time the body and the 
mind, you are also excessively amusing. How ami- 
able is your scandal ! How piquant your morality ! 
Aurelia is about to be married, but she herself is 
not sure to which brother : she is so good-natured ! 
And Brilliant says, that Louisa's eyebrows fell off 
in the agitation of a new dance, — but he is not to 
be believed : he is so ill-natured ! And thus glides 
on an hour in easy chat, until a pealing knock 
drives me away — a nervous man who shuns a 
strange incursion. We part with the hope, that the 
park or the opera may again bring together, in the 
course of four-and-twenty hours, the two most 
amusing people in town. 

Dreams I dreams ! O ! why from out the misty 
caves of memory call I these visions to the light 
of life 1 And yet there is a charm in just remem- 
bering we have been charmed. There is some- 
thing soft and soothing in the reminiscence of a 
lounging hour. But, hark! The convent bell 
sends forth a matin peal. I hear the wakening 
of an early bird — I feel the freshness of the growing 
morn. I have exceeded all bounds, and shall get 
reported, for I have a spy in my establishment. 
That I have long discovered. I think it must be 
my valet ; but he vows it is the cook, who again 
protests — but I'll unearth the traitor, and put him 
on board-wages for his pains. In the mean time, 
I must prepare for a rowing letter by return of 
post. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

The duke threw himself into his carriage in thai 
mood which fits us for desperate deeds. What he 
intended to do, indeed, was doubtful, but something 
very vigorous, very decided, perhaps very terrible. 
An indefinite great efibrt danced, in misty magni- 
ficence, before the visions of his mind. Hi« whola 



9oe 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



being was to be changed — his life was to be revo- 
lutionized. Such an alteration was to take place, 
that even she could not doubt the immense, yet in- 
credible result. Then despair whispered its cold- 
blooded taunts, and her last hopeless words echoed 
in his car. But he was too agitated to be calmly 
miserable, and, in the poignancy of his feelings, he 
even meditated death. One thing, however, he could 
obtain — one instant relief was yet in his power — 
solitude. He panted for the loneliness of his own 
chamber, broken only by his agitated musings. 

The carriage stopped ; the lights and noise 
called him to life. This, surely, could not be 
home ! Whirled open the door, down dashed the 
steps, with all that prompt precision which denotes 
the practised hand of an aristocratic retainer. 

" What is all this, Symmons 1 Why did you 
not drive home?" 

" Your grace forgets that Mr. Annesley and 
some gentlemen sup with your grace to-night at 
the Alhambra." 

" Impossible ! Drive home." 

" Your grace perhaps forgets that your grace is 
expected," said the experienced servant, who knew 
when to urge a master, who, to-morrow, might 
blame him for permitting his caprice. 

'♦ What am I to do 1 Stay here. I will run up 
stairs and put them off." 

He ran up into the crush-room. The opera was 
just over, and some parties, who were not staying 
the ballet, had already assembled there. As he 
passed along, he was stopped by Lady Fitz-pompey, 
who would not let such a capital opportunity 
escape of exhibiting Caroline and the young duke 
together. 

" Bulkley," said her ladyship, " there must be 
something wrong about the carriage." An expe- 
rienced, middle-aged gentleman, who jobbed on in 
society by being always ready, and knowing his 
cue, resigned the arm of Lady Caroline St. Mau- 
rice, and disappeared. 

" George," said Lady Fitz-pompey, " give your 
arm to Carry, just for one moment." 

If it had been anybody but his cousin, the duke 
would have easily escaped ; but Caroline he inva- 
riably treated with marked regard ; perhaps be- 
cause his conscience occasionally reproached him 
that he had not treated her with a stronger feeling. 
At this moment, too, she was the only being in 
the world, save one, whom he could remember 
with satisfaction. He felt that he loved her most 
affectionately, but, somehow, she did not inspire 
bim with those peculiar feelings which thrilled his 
heart at the recollection of May Dacre. 

In this mood he offered an arm, which was ac- 
cepted ; but he could not in a moment assume the 
tone of mind befitting his situation and the scene. 
He was silent ; for him a remarkable circumstance. 

" Do not stay here," said Lady Caroline, in a 
soft voice, which her mother could not overhear. 
" I know you want to be away. Steal off"." 

" Where can I he better than with you. Carry 1" 
said the young duke, determined not to leave her, 
and loving her still more for her modest kindness ; 
and thereon he turned round, and, to show that he 
was sincere, began talking with his usual s[)irit. 
Mr. Bulkley, of course, never returned, and Lady 
Fitz-pompey felt as satisfied with her diplomatic 
talents as a plenipotentiary who has just arranged 
an advantageous treaty. 

J andel Dacre came up, and spoke to Lady 



Fitz-pompey. Never did two persons converse to- 
gether who were more dissimilar in their manner 
and their feelings; and yet Arundel Dacre did 
contrive to talk — a result which he could not al 
ways accomplish, even with those who could sym- 
pathize with him. Lady Fitz-pompey listened to 
liim with attention ; for Arundel Dacre, in spite of 
his odd manner, or perhaps in some degree in con- 
sequence of it, had obtained a distinguished repu- 
tation both among men and women ; and it was 
the great principle of Lady Fitz-pompey to attach 
to her the distinguished youth of both sexes. She 
was pleased with this public homage of Arundel 
Dacre ; because he was one who, with the reputa- 
tion of talents, family, and fashion, seldom spoke to 
any one, and his attentions elevated their object. 
Thus she maintained her empire. 

St. Maurice now came up to excuse himself to 
the young duke for not attending at the Alhambra 
to-night. " Sophy could not bear it," he whis- 
pered ; " she had got her head full of the most 
ridiculous fancies, and it was in vain to speak : so 
he had promised to give up that, as well as Crock- 
ford's." 

This reminded our hero of his party, and the 
purpose of his entering the opera. He determined 
not to leave Caroline till her carriage was called; 
and lie began to think that he really must go to 
the Alhambra after all. He resolved to send them 
off at an early hour. 

" Any thing new to-night, Henry ]" asked his 
grace of Lord St. Maurice. " I have just come in." 

" O ! then you have seen them !" 

"Seen whom"!" 

" The most knowing forestieri we ever had. 
We have been speaking of nothing else the whole 
evening. Has not Caroline told you ? Arundel 
Dacre introduced me to them." 

" Who are they 1" 

" I forget their names. Dacre, how do you call 
the heroes of the night 1 Dacre never answers. 
Did you ever observe that 1 But, see ! there they 
come." 

The duke turned, and observed Lord Darrell 
advancing with two gentlemen, with whom his 
grace was well acquainted. These were Prince 
Charles do Whiskerburg and Count Frill. 

None of your paltry ***** princes, none of your 
scampy ***** counts, but noiiles such as Hungary 
and Britain can alone produce. M. de Whisker- 
burg was the eldest son of a prince, who, besides 
being the premier noble of the empire, possessed in 
his own country a very pretty park of two or three 
hundred miles in circumference, in the boundaries 
of which the imperial mandate was not current, 
but hid'its diminished head before the supremacy 
of a subject worshipped under the title of John the 
Twenty-fourth. M. de Whiskerburg was a very 
young man, very tall, with a very line figure, and 
very fine features. In short, a sort of Hungarian 
Apollo ; only his beard, his mustachios, his whis- 
kers, his favor is, his padishas, his sultanas, his 
mignonettas, his dulcibellas, did not certainly en- 
title him to the epithet of imberbis, and made him 
rather an after-representative of the Hungarian 
Hercules. 

Count Frill was a very different sort of person- 
age. He was all rings and ringlets, ruffles, and a 
little rouge. Much older than his companion, 
short in stature, plump in figure, but with a most 
defined waist, fair, blooming, with a nmltiplicity 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



sot 



of long light curls, and a perpetual smile playing 
upon his round countenance, he looked like the 
Cupid of an opera Olympus. 

The Duke of St. James had been very intimate 
with these distinguished gentlemen in their own 
country, and had received from them many and 
most distinguished attentions. Often had he ex- 
pressed to them his sincere desire to greet them 
in his native land. Their mutual anxiety of never 
again meeting was now removed. If his heart, 
instead of beuig bruised, was absolutely broken, 
still honour, conscience, the glory of his house, his 
individual reputation, alike urged him not to be 
cold or backward at such a moment. He advanced, 
therefore, with a due mixture of grace and wannth, 
and congratulated them on their arrival. At this 
moment Lady Fitz-pompey's carriage was an- 
nounced. Promising to return to them in an in- 
stant, he hastened to his cousin ; but Mr. Arundel 
Dacre had already offered his arm, which, for Arun- 
del Dacre, was really pretty well. 

The duke was now glad that he had a small re- 
union this evening, as he could at once pay a 
courtesy to his foreign friends. He ran into the 
signora's dressing-room, to assure her of his pre- 
sence. He stumbled upon Peacock Piggott as he 
came out, and summoned him to fill the vacant 
place of St. Maurice, and then sent him with a 
message to some ladies who yet lingered in their 
box, and whose presence he thought might be an 
agreeable addition to the party. 

You entered the Alhambra by a Saracenic clois- 
ter, from the ceiling of which an occasional lamp 
tlirew a gleam upon some eastern arms hung up 
against the wall. This passage led to the armoury, 
a room of moderate dimensions, but hung with rich 
contents. Many an inlaid breastplate — many a 
Mameluke scimitar and Damascus blade — many a 
gemmed pistol and pearl-embroidered saddle might 
there be seen, though viewed in a subdued and 
quiet light. All seemed hushed, and still, and 
shrouded in what had the reputation of being a 
palace of pleasure. 

In this chamber assembled the expected guests. 
His grace and the Bird of Paradise arrived first, 
w ilh their foreign friends. Lord Squib, and Lord 
Darrell, Sir Lucius Grafton, Mr. Annesley, and Mr. 
Peacock Piggott, followed, but not alone. There 
were two ladies who, by courtesy, if by no other 
right, bore the titles of Lady Squib, and Mrs. An- 
nesley. There was also a pseudo Lady Aphrodite 
Grafton. There was Mrs. Montfort, the famous 
hlnnde, of a beauty which was quite ravishmg, and 
dignified as beautiful. Some said, (but really peo- 
ple say such tilings,) that there was a talk, (I never 
believe any thing I hear,) that had not the Bird of 
Paradise flown in, (these foreigners pick up every 
thing,) Mrs. Montfort would have been the Dut- 
chess of St. James. How this may be I know 
not : certain, however, this superb and stately 
donna did not openly evince any spleen at her 
more fortunate rival. Probably, although she found 
herself a guest at the Alhambra instead of being 
the mistress of the palace : probably, like many 
other ladies, she looked upon this affair of the sing- 
ing-bird as a freak that must end — and then, per- 
haps, his grace, who was a charming young man, 
would return to his senses. There, also, was her 
sister, a long, fair girl, who looked sentimental, but 
was only silly. There was a Uttle French actress, 
like a highly-finished miniature ; and a Spanish | 



danseuse, tall, dusky, and lithe, glancing \ike a lynx, 
and graceful as a jennet. 

Having all arrived, they proceeded down a small 
gallery to the banquetmg-room. The doors are 
thrown open. Pardon me, if for a moment I do 
not describe the chamber; but really the blaze 
affects my sight. The room was large and lofty. 
It was fitted up as an eastern tent. The walls 
were hung with scarlet cloth, tied up with ropes of 
gold. Round the room crouched recumbent lions 
richly gilt, who grasped in their paw a lance, the 
top of which was a coloured lamp. The ceiling 
was emblazoned with the Hauteville arms, and was 
radiant with burnished gold. A cresset lamp was 
suspended from the centre of the shield, and not 
only emitted an equable flow of soft though brilliant 
light, but also, as the aromatic oil wasted away, 
distilled an exquisite perfume. 

The table blazed with golden plate, for the Bird 
of Paradise loved splendour. At the end of the 
room, under a canopy and upon a throne, the shield 
and vases lately executed for his grace now ap- 
peared. Every thing was gorgeous, costly, and 
imposing; but there was no pretence, save in the 
original outline, at maintaining the oriental cha- 
racter. The furniture was French ; and opposite 
the throne Canova's Hebe, by Bartolini, hounded 
with a golden cup from a pedestal of ormolu. 

The guests are seated ; but after a few minutes 
the servants withdraw. Small tables of ebony and 
silver, and dumb-waiters of ivory and gold, con- 
veniently stored, are at hand, and Spiridion never 
leaves the room. The repast was most refined, 
most exquisite, and most various. It was one of 
those meetuigs where all eat. When a few persons, 
easy and unconstrained, unencumbered with cares, 
and of dispositions addicted to enjoyment, get to- 
gether at past midnight, it is extraordinarj' what an 
appetite they evince. Singers also are proverbially 
prone to gormandise ; and though the Bird of 
Paradise unfortunately possessed the smallest mouth 
in all Singingland, it is astonishmg how she pecked I 
But they talked as well as feasted, and were 
really gay. It was amusing to observe, — that is to 
say, if you had been a dumb-waiter, and had time 
for observation, — how characteristic was the afiecta- 
tion of the women. Lady Squib was witty, Mrs. 
Annesley refined, and the pseudo Lady Afy fashion- 
able. As for Mrs. Montfort, she was, as her wont, 
somewhat silent, but excessively sublime. The 
Spaniard said nothmg, but no doubt indicated the 
possession of Cervantic humour by the sly calm- 
ness with which she exhausted her own waiter, and 
pillaged her neighbours'. The Uttle Frenchwoman 
scarcely ate any thing, but drank Champagne and 
chatted, with equal rapidity and equal composure. 

" Prince," said the duke, " I hope Madame de 
Harestein approves of your trip to England 1" 

The prince only smiled, for he was of a silent 
disposition, and therefore wonderfully well suited 
liis travelling companion. 

"Poor Madame de Harestein!" exclaimed Count 
Frill. " What despair she was in when you left 
Vienna, my dear duke ! Ah ! mon Dieu ! I did 
what I could to amuse her. I used to take my 
guitar, and sing to her morning and night, but with- 
out the least effect. She certainly would have died 
of a broken heart, if it had not been for tlie danc- 
ing-dogs." 

" The dancing-dogs !" minced the pseudo Lady 
Aphrodite. " How shocking !" 
2C 



302 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



"Did they bite herl" asked Lady Squib, "and 
so inoculate her with gayety." 

" O ! the dancing-dogs, my dear ladies ! every- 
body was mad about the dancing-dogs. They came 
from Peru, and danced the mazurka in green jackets 
with a.jahof. O ! what ajabot /" 

" I dislike animals excessively," remarked Mrs. 
Annesley. 

" Dislike the dancing-dogs !" said Count Frill. 
" Ah ! my good lady, you would have been en- 
chanted. Even the kaiser fed them with pistachio 
nuts. ! so pretty ! delicate leetle things, soft, 
shining little legs, and pretty Utile faces ! so sensi- 
ble, and with such Jabuls /" 

" I assure you, they were excessively amusing," 
said the prince, in a soft, confidential under-tone to 
his neighbour, Mrs. Montfort, who, admiring his 
silence, which she took for state, smiled and bowed 
with fascinating condescension. 

" And what else has happened very remarkable, 
count, since I left you ]" asked Lord DaiTcll. 

" Nothing, nothing, my dear Darrell. This 
befise of a war has made us all serious. If old 
Clamstandt has not married that gipsy Uttle Du- 
giria, I really think I should have taken a turn to 
Belgrade." 

" You should not eat so much. Poppet !" drawled 
Charles Annesley to the Spaniard. 

" Why not !" said the little French lady, with 
great animation, always ready to fight anybody's 
battle, provided she could get an opportunity to 
talk. " Why not, Mr. Annesley 1 You never 
will let anybody eat — I never eat myself, because 
every night, having to talk so much, I am dry, dry, 
dry, — so I drink, drink, drink. It is an extraordi- 
nary thing, that there is no language which makes 
you so thirsty as French. I always have heard 
that all the southern languages, Spanish and Italian, 
make you hungry." 

" What can be the reason l" seriously asked the 
pseudo Lady Afy. 

" Because there is so much salt in it," said Lord 
Squib. 

" Delia," drawled Mr. Annesley, " you look very 
pretty to-night!" 

" I am charmed to charm you, Mr. Annesley. 
Shall I tell you what Lord Bon Mot said of you!" 

" No, ma migtioniie .' I never wish to hear my 
©wn good things." 

" Spoiled, you should add," said Lady Squib, 
"if Bon Mot be in the case." 

" Lord Bon Mot is a most gentlemanly man," 
said Delia, indignant at an admirer being attacked. 
" He always wants to be amusing. Whenever lie 
dines out, he comes and sits with me for half an 
hour to catch the air of a Parisian badinage." 

"And you tell him a variety of little things?" 
asked Lord Squib, insidiously drawling out the 
secret tactics of Bon Mot. 

" BKiiccoup, beaticoiip," said Delia, extending 
two little white hands sparkling with gems. " If 
he come in ever so — how do you call it 1 heavy — 
Not that — in the domps — Ah ! it is that — If ever 
he come in the domps, he goes out always like a 
soujflee." 

" As empty, I have no doubt," said Lady Squib. 

"And as sweet, I have no doubt," said Lord 
Squib ; " for Delcroix complains sadly of your ex- 
cesses, Delia." 

" Mr. Delcroix complain of me ! That, indeed, 
e too bad. Just because I recommended Mont- 



morency de Versailles to him for an excellent cus- 
tomer, ever since he abuses me, merely because 
Montmorency has forgot, in the hurry of going oflf, 
to pay his little account." 

"But he says you have got all the things," said 
Lord Squib, whose great amusement was to put 
Delia in a passion. 

"What of that?" screamed the little lady. 
" Montmorency gave them me." 

" Don't make such a noise," said the Bird of 
Paradise. " I ;jiever can eat when there is a noise. 
St. James," continued she, in a fretful tone, " they 
make such a noise !" 

" Annesley, keep Squib quiet." 

" Delia, leave that young man alone. If Isidora 
would talk a little more, and you eat a little more, 
I think you would be the most agreeable little 
ladies I know. Poppet! put those Z/o/jiwis in your 
pocket. You should never eat sugarplums in 
company." 

Thus talking agreeable nonsense, tasting agree- 
able dishes, and sipping agreeable wines, an hour 
ran on. Sweetest music from an unseen source 
ever and anon sounded, and Spiridion swung a 
censer full of perfumes round the chamber. (7) 
At length the duke requested Count Frill to give 
them a song. The Bird of Paradise would never 
sing for pleasure, only for fame and a slight check. 
The count begged to decline, and at the same time 
asked for a guitar. The signora sent for hers ; and 
his excellency, preluding with a beautiful simper, 
gave them some slight thing to tliis effect : 

I. 

Charming Bisrnella ! charmina; Bignetla ! 
Whal a gay liille girl is charming Bignetla! 

She (lances, she prallle's, 

She rides ami she rallies ; 
But she always is charming— ihat charming jjignellat 

ir. 

Charming Bignetla ! charming Bignelta ! 
What a wild litlle witch is charming Bignetta ! 

When she smiles I'm all madness ; 

When she fnnvns I'm all sadness ; 
But she always is smiling— that charming Bignelta ! 

III. 
Charming Bignetta ! charming Bignelta ! 
What a wicked young rogue is charming Bignetta ! 

She laughs at my shyness. 

And flirts wiih his highness; 
Yet still she is charming— that charming Bignetla ! 

IV. 

Charming Bignetta! charming Bignetla ! 

What a dear litlle girl is charming Bignetla! 
" Think me only a sister," 
Said slie trembling: I kiss'd her. 

What a charming young sister is— charming Bignetla. 

He ceased ; and although 

" the Ferrarese 

To choicer music chimed his gay guitar 
In Esie's halls," 

or Casti himself, or rather Mr. Rose, choicely ring.q> 
yet still his song served its purpose, for it raided a 
smile. 

" I wrote that for Madame Sapiepha. at the con 
gress of Verona," said Count FrilL " It has been 
thought amusing." 

" Madame Sapiepha !" exclaimed the Bird of 
Paradise. " What ! that pretty httle woman who 
has such pretty caps !" 

" The same ! Ah ! what caps ! 3Ion Dieuf 
what taste ! what taste !" 

" You like caps, then 1" asked the Bird of Para, 
dise, with a sparkling eye. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



303 



" O ! if there be any thing more than other that ] 
I know most, it is the cap. Here, void!" said he, 
rather oddly unbuttoning his waistcoat, " you see 
what lace I have got. Void! void!" \ 

" Ah ! me ! what lace ! what lace !" exclaimed 
the Bird, in rapture. " St. James, look at his lace. 
Come here, come here, sit next me. Let me look 
at that lace." She examined it with great atten- 
tion, then turned up her beautiful eyes with a fas- 
cinating smile. " Ah ! c'est jolie, n'est-ce pas ? 
But you like caps. I tell you what, you shall see 
my caps. Spiridion, go, mon cher, and tell 
Ma'amselle to bring my caps — all my caps — one of 
each set." 

In due time entered the Swiss, with the caps — 
all the caps — one of each set. As she handed them 
in turn to her mistress, the Bird chirped a panegyric 
upon each. 

" That is pretty, is it not — and this also ? but 
this is my favourite. What do you think of this 
border ! c'est belle, cetie garniture ? et ce jabot, 
c'est tres seduisant, ?i'est-ce pas ? Mais void, the 
cap of Princess Lichtenstein. C'est superb, c'est 
mon favori. But I also love very much this of the 
Duchcsse de Berri. She gave me the pattern her- 
self. And, after all, tliis corvette a petite sante of 
Lady Blaze is a dear little thing; then, again, this 
coiffe a dentelle of Lady Macaroni is quite a 
pet." 

" Pass them down," said Lord Squib ; " we want 
to look at them." Accordingly they were passed 
down. Lord Squib put one on. 

" Do I look superb, sentimental, or only pretty!" 
asked his lordship. The example was contagious, 
and most of die caps were appropriated. No one 
laughed more than their mistress, who, not having 
the slightest idea of the value of money, would 
have given theih all away on the spot ; not from 
any good-natured feeling, but from the remembrance 
that to-morrow she might amuse half an hour in 
buying others. 

While some were stealing, and she remon- 
strating, the duke clapped his hands like a caliph. 
The curtain at the end of the apartment was 
immediately withdrawn, and the ball-room stood 
revealed. 

It was the same size as the banqueting-hall. 
lis walls exhibited a long perspective of gilt pilas- 
ters, the frequent piers of which were entirely of 
plate-looking glass, save where, occasionally, a pic- 
ture had been, as it were inlaid in its rich frame. 
Here was the Titian Venus of the Tribune, de- 
hciously copied by a French artist; there, the 
Roman Fornariana, with her delicate grace, beamed 
like the personification of Raflaelle's genius. Here, 
Zuleikah, living in the light and shade of that 
magician Guercino in vain summoned the passions 
of the blooming Hebrew ; and there, Cleopatra, 
preparing for her last immortal hour, proved by 
what we saw that Guido had been a lover. 

The ceiling of this apartment was richly painted 
and richly gilt; from it were suspended three 
lustres of golden cords, which threw a softened 
light upon the floor of polished and curiously inlaid 
woods. At the end of the apartment was an 
orchestra, and here the pages, under the direction 
of Carlstein, offered a very efficient domestic band. 

Round the room waltzed the elegant revellers. 
Softly and slowly, led by their host, they glided 
along like spirits of air ; but each time that the 
duke passed the musicians, the music became 



livelier, and the motion more brisk, till at length 
you might have mistaken them for a college of 
spinning dervishes. One by one, an exhausted 
couple slunk away. Some threw themselves on a 
sofa, some monopolized an easy chair ; but in 
twenty minutes all the dancers had disappeared. 
At length Peacock Piggott gave a groan, which 
denoted returning energy, and raised a stretching 
leg in air, bringing up, though most unwittingly, 
upon his foot, one of the Bird's sublime and beau- 
tiful caps. 

" Halloo ! Piggott, armed cap au pied, I see," 
said Lord Squib. This joke was a signal for 
general resuscitation. 

The Alhambra formed a quadrangle ; all the 
chambers were on the basement story. In the 
middle of the court of the quadrangle was a most 
beautiful fountain ; and the court was formed by a 
conservatory, which was built along each side of 
the interior square, and served, like a cloister or 
covered way, for a communication between th« 
different parts of the building. To this conserva- 
tory they now repaired. It was very broad, full of 
the rarest and most delicious plants and flowers, 
and briUiantly illuminated. Busts and statues were 
intermingled with the fairy grove ; and a rich, warm 
hue, by the skilful arrangement of a coloured lamp, 
was thrown over many a nymph and fair divinity, 
— many a blooming hero and beardless god. Here 
they lounged in dilferent parties, talking on such 
subjects as idlers ever fall upon ; now and then 
plucking a flower, — now and then listening to the 
fountain, — now and then lingering over the distant 
music, — now and then strolling through a small 
apartment which opened to their walks, and which 
bore the title of the Temple of Gnidus. Here, 
Canova's Venus breathed an atmosphere of per- 
fume and of light — that wonderful statue whose 
full-charged eye is not very classical, to be sure — 
but then how true ! 

While thus they were whiling away their time, 
Lord Squib proposed a visit to the theatre, which 
he had orderetl to be lit up. To the theatre they 
repaired. They rambled over every part of the 
house, amused themselves, to the horror of Mr. An- 
nesly, with a visit to the gallery, and then collected 
behind the scenes. They vvere excessively amused 
with the properties ; and Lord Squib proposed they 
should dress themselves. Enough Champagne had 
been quaffed to render any proposition palatable, 
and in a few minutes they were all in costume. A 
crowd of queens and chambermaids, Jews and 
chimney-sweepers, lawyers and charleys, Spanish 
Dons, and Irish officers, rushed upon the stage. 
The little Spaniard was Almaviva, and fell into 
magnificent attitudes, with her sword and plume. 
Lord Squib was the old woman of Brentford, — 
and very funny. Sir Lucius Grafton, Harlequin ; 
and Darrell, Grimaldi. The prince and the count, 
without knowing it figured as watchmen. Squib 
whispered Annesley, that Sir Lucius O'Trigger 
might appear in character, but was prudent enough 
to suppress the joke. 

The band was summoned, and they danced 
quadrilles with infinite spirit, and finished the 
night, at the suggestion of Lord Squib, by break- 
fasting on the stage. By the time this meal waa 
despatched, the purple light of mom had broker 
into the building, and the ladies proposed an im- 
mediate departure. Mrs. Moiitfort and her sister 
were sent home in one of the duke's carriages ; anu 



304 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



the foreign guests were requested by him to be 
their escort. The respective parties drove off. 
Two cabriolets Ungered to the last, and finally car- 
ried away the French actress and the Spanish 
dancer, Lord Barrel!, and Peacock Piggott ; but 
whether the two gentlemen went in one and the 
two ladies in the other, I cannot aver. I hope 
not. 

There was at length a dead silence, and the 
young duke was left to solitude and the signora ! 



BOOK THE FOURTH. 



CHAPTER L 

Thb arrival of the two distinguished foreigners 
reanimated the dying season. All vied in testifying 
their consideration, and the Duke of St. James ex- 
ceeded all. He took them to see the alterations at 
Hauteville House, which no one had yet witnessed ; 
and he asked their opinion of his furniture, which 
no one had yet decided upon. Two fifes in the 
same week established, as well as maintained, his 
character as the archduke of fashion. Remember- 
ing, however, the agreeable month which he had 
spent in the kingdom of John the Twenty-fourth, 
he was reminded with annoyance, that his confu- 
sion at Hauteville prevented him from receiving 
his fiiends en grand seigneur in his hereditary 
castle. Metropolitan magnificence, which, if the 
parvenu could not equal, he at least could imitate, 
seemed a poor return for the feudal splendour and 
imperial festivity of a Hungarian magnate. "While 
he was brooding over these reminiscences, it sud- 
denly occurred to him that he had never made a 
progress into his western territories. Pen Bronnock 
Palace was the boast of Cornwall, though its lord 
had never paid it a visit The Duke of St. James 
sent for Sir Carte Blanche. 

Besides entertaining the foreign nobles, the 
young duke could no longer keep olTthe constantly 
recurring idea, that something must be done to 
entertain himself. He shuddered to think where 
and what he should have been, had not these gen- 
tlemen so providentially arrived. As for again 
repeating the farce of last year, he felt that it would 
no longer raise a smile, Yorkshire he shunned. 
Doncaster made him tremble, A week with the 
Duke of Burlington at Marringworth ; a fortnight 
with the Fitz-pompeys at Malthrope ; a month with 
the Graftons at Cleve ; and so on — he shuddered 
at the very idea. Who can see a pantomime more 
than once 1 Who could survive a pantomime the 
twentieth time? All the shifting scenes, and 
flitting splendour — all the motley crowds of spark- 
ling characters — all the quick changes, and full 
variety, are, once, enchantment. But when the 
splendour is discovered to be monotony ; the 
cJiange, order; and the caprice, a system ; when the 
characters play ever the same part, and the variety 
never varies ; how dull, how weary, how infinitely 
flat, is such a world to that man who requires from 
ts converse, not occasional relaxation, but constant 
excitement ! 

Pen Bronnock was a new object. At this mo- 
ment in his life novelty was indeed a treasure. If 



he could cater for a month, no expnse should be 
grudged ; as for the future, he thrust it from his 
mind. By taking up his residence, too, at Pen 
Bronnock, he escaped from all invitations, — and so, 
in a word, the worthy knight received orders 
to make all preparations at the palace for the recep- 
tion of a large party in the course of three weeks. 
Sir Carte, as usual, did wonders. There was, 
fortunately for his employer, no time to build or 
paint, but some dingy rooms were hung with scar 
let cloth : cart-loads of new furniture were sent 
down ; the theatre was reburnished ; the stables 
put in good order ; and, what was of infinitely more 
importance in the estimation of all Englishmen, the 
neglected pile was " well aired." 



CHAPTER n, 

I THINK — at least, I think I think , for I have 
been too often wrong to be ever sure, and never 
back my opinion with a bet, the only test; — but I 
do think, that we have had some very agreeable 
villeggiaturas in these immortal \olumes. For 
how do I know that they are not immortal "] Famo 
is half an accident. I always hope the best ; and 
if I he wrong, why, then, I must put up instead 
with three months' praise and some slight profit. 
Our reunions too have, I trust, been various in 
their character as well as in their number, I 
never take the reader into the country merely for 
change of air ; but because at different houses one 
sometimes catches a dift'erent trait. The politician, 
and the sportsman, and the fashionist, have all 
their caste ; and although in the blending of so- 
ciety these characters often meet, still at their man- 
sions, and particularly in the provinces, the ruling 
passion will predominate. Men pass their autumns, 
some in slaughtering birds, — some in retailing the 
faded graces of the faded spring, — some in antici- 
pating the coming struggles of the approaching 
Houses. And such i* life ! What is 1 Heaven 
knows, not I ! Philosophers have preached, and 
▼owed that human life is the simplest compound, 
except clear wate^, that e'er was offered for the 
draught of man ; but I must say, who always 
speak the truth when I can get clear of lies, which 
is difficult, for in this world they are like the air 
we breathe, — without tc.<.-n, we should die ; I say, 
that I have been very desu\yus of discovering the 
mysteries of our beings and our wills, — and what 
have I gained 1 A clouded genius, and an aching 
head. 

For life, I am clear, is no simple cate, mild in its 
flavour, easy of digestion ; but a made dish — some- 
times perhaps a calf 's-head surprised. Its ardent 
sauces and its fragrant spices ; its skin and bone, 
its richness and its leanness, are all so many dif- 
ferent tastes and morsels, which are, unhappily, 
unfairly served. And so one vows the dinner is 
right good, while others execrate the bungling cook ; 
but for my part, although I don't complain, I care 
but little for this early course, and if not served ex- 
actly as I wish, console myself for the unsavoury 
fare, by the anticipation of the dessert. 

We are in the country, and such a country, that 
even in Italy I think of thee, native Hesperia ! 
Here myrtles grow, and fear no blasting north, oi 



THE YOUNG DUKE, 



305 



blighting east. Here the south wind blows with 
that soil breath which brings the bloom to flesh. 
Here the land breaks in gentle undulations; and 
here blue waters kiss a verdant shore. Hail I to 
thy thousand bays and deep-red earth, thy marble 
quarries and thy silver veins ! Hail ! to thy far 
extending landscape, whose sparkling villages and 
streaky fields no clime cqn match ! 

Some gales I owe to thee of balmy breath, some 
gentle hours when life had fewest charms. And I 
am grateful for all this — to say nothing of your 
cider and your junkets. 

The duke arrived just as the setting sun crowned 
the proud palace with his glcamy rays. It was a 
pile which the immortal Inigo had raised in sym- 
pathy with the taste of a noble employer, who had 
passed his earliest years in Lombardy. Of stone, 
and sometimes even of marble, with pediments and 
balustrades, and ornamented windows, and richly 
chased keystones, and flights of steps, and here 
and there a statue, the structure was quite Palla- 
dian, though a little dingy, and, on the whole, very 
imposing. 

There were suites of rooms which had no end, 
and staircases which had no beginning. In this 
vast pile nothing was more natural than to lose 
3'our way — an agreeable ■ amusement on a rainy 
morning. There was a collection of pictures, very 
various, — by which phrase we understand not se- 
lect. Yet they were amusing ; and the Canalettis 
were unrivalled. There was a regular ball-room, 
and a theatre ; so resources were at hand. The 
scenes, though dusty, were numerous ; and the 
duke had provided new dresses. Tlw park was 
not a park ; by which I mean, that it was rather a 
chase than the highly-finished enclosure which we 
associate with the first title. In fact, Pen Bron- 
nock Cha^e was the right name of the settlement ; 
but some monarch travelling, having been seized 
with a spasm, recruited his strength under the 
roof of his loyal subject, then the chief seat of the 
house of Hauteville, and having in his urgency 
been obliged to hold a privy council there, the su- 
preme title of palace was assumed by right. 

The domain was bounded on one side by the 
sea ; and here a yacht and some slight craft rode at 
anchor in a small green bay, and offered an oppor- 
tunity for the adventurous, and a refuge for the 
wearied. When you have been bored for an hour 
or two on earth, it sometimes is a change to be 
bored for an hour or two on water. 

The house was soon full, and soon gay. The 
guests, and the means of amusing them, were 
equally numerous. But this was no common vil- 
leggiatura, — no visit to a family with their regular 
pursuits and matured avocations. The host was as 
much a guest as any other. The young duke ap- 
pointed Lord Squib master of the ceremonies, and 
gave orders for nothing but constant excitement. 
Constant excitement his lordship managed to 
maintain, for he was experienced, clever, careles 
and gay, and, for once in his life, had the comir 
of unoounded resources. He ordered, he inv 
he prepared, and he expended. They ac' 
danced, they hunted, they sailed, they fe 
masqueraded ; and when they he^' 
wearied of themselves, and ♦' 
diversion gradually vanish 
was given twice a-week 
west of England invi*' ' 
ideas; new f^- 



were delighted with the young duke, — and flattery 
from novel quarters will for a moment whet even 
the appetite of the satiated. Simplicity, too, can 
interest. There were some Misses Gayweather 
who got unearthed, who never had been at Lon- 
don, though nature had given them sparkling eyes 
and springing persons. This tyranny was too bad. 
Papa was quizzed, mamma flattered, and the 
daughters' simplicity amused these young lord- 
lings. Rebellion was whispered in the small ears 
of the Gayweathers. The little heads too of the 
Gayweathers were turned. They were the con- 
stant butt and the constant resource of every 
lounging dandy. 

The Bird of Paradise also arranged her profes- 
sional engagements, so as to account with all pos- 
sible propriety for her professional visit at Pen 
Bronnock. The musical meeting at Exeter over, 
she made her appearance, and some concerts were 
given, which electrified all Cornwall. Count Frill 
was very strong here ; though, to be sure, he also 
danced, and acted, in all varieties. He was the 
soul, too, of a masked ball ; but when compli- 
mented on his accomfilishments, and thanked for 
his exertions, he modestly deprecated his worth, 
and panegyrized the dancing-dogs. 

As for the prince, on the whole, he maintained 
his silence ; but it was at length discovered by the 
fair sex that lie was not stupid, but sentimental. 
When this was made known he rather lost ground 
with the brown sex, who, before thinking him 
thick, had vowed that he was a devilish good fel- 
low ; but now, being really envious, had their tale 
and hint, their sneer and sly joke. M. de Whis- 
kerburg had one active accomplishment — this 
was his dancing. His gallopade was declared to 
be divine : he absolutely sailed in the air. His 
waltz, at his will, either melted his partner into a 
dream, or whirled her into a frenzy ! Dangerous 
M. do Whiskerburg! 



CHAPTER in. 

It is said that the conduct of refined society, in 
a literary point of view, is, on the whole, produc- 
tive but of slight interest ; that all we can aspire 
to is, to trace a brilliant picture of brilliant man- 
ners; and that when the dance and the festival 
have been duly inspired by the repartee and the 
sarcasm, and the gem, the robe and the plume 
adroitly lighted up by the lamp and the lustre, our 
cunning is exhausted. And so your novelist 
generally twists this golden thread with some sub- 
stantial silken cord, for use, and works up, with 
the light dance, and with the heavy dinner, some 
secret marriage, or some shrouded murder. And 
thus, by EngHsh plots and German mysteries, the 
'- on. or jolts, till, in the end, justice will 
' the two •' ' —■' com- 



306 



D ' I S R A E L r S NOVELS. 



and manners. Bodies of men who pursue the 
same object must ever resemble each other : the 
life of the majority mus^t ever be imitation. Thought 
is a labour to which few are competent; and truth 
requires for its deveiopcmerit as much courage as 
acuteness. So conduct becomes conventional, and 
opinion is a legend ; and thus all men act and 
think alike. 

But this is not peculiar to what is called fashion- 
able life — it is peculiar to civilization, which gives 
the passions less to work upon. Mankind are not 
more heartless because they are clothed in ermine ; 
it is, that their costume attracts us to their charac- 
ters, and we stare because we find the prince or 
the peeress neither a conqueror nor a heroine. 
The great majority of human beings, in a country 
like England, glide through existence in perfect 
ignorance of their natures, so coniplicatcil and so 
controlling is the machinery of our social life ! 
Few can break the bonds that tie them down, and 
struggle for self-knowledge; fewer, when the talis- 
man is gained, can direct their illuminated ener- 
gies to the j'urposes with which they sympathize. 

A mode of life which encloses in its circle all 
the dark and deep results of unbounded indulgence, 
however it may appear to some who glance over 
tlie sparkling surface, does not exactly seem to me 
one cither insipid or uninteresting to the moral 
specidator; and, indeed, I have long been induced 
to spspect, that the seeds of true sublimity lurk in 
a life which, like this book, is half fashion and 
half passion. 

Not that they will germinate here, for the seed, 
to rise, requires the burning sunbeam and the 
moistening shower; and passions, to be put in 
action, demand a more blazing brain and bubliling 
pulse than heat my toqiid soul. In the mean time, 
I drop the hint fir others, and proceed to sketch a 
feehng or to catch a trait. 

I know not how it was, but about this time an 
unaccountable, almost an imperceptible coolness 
seemed to spring up between our hero and Ladv 
Aphrodite. If I were to puzzle my brains for ever, 
I could not give you the reason. Nothing hap- 
pened — nothing had been said or done, which 
could indicate its origin. Perhaps this luas the 
origin ; perhaps the duke's conduct had become, 
though unexceptionable, too negative. But here I 
only throw up a straw. Perhaps, — if I must go 
on suggesting, anxiety ends in callousness. 

His grace had thought so much of her feelings, 
that he had quite forgotten his own, or worn them 
out. Her ladyship, too, was perhaps a little disap- 
pointed at the unexpected reconciliation. When 
we have screwed our courage up to the sticking 
point, we like not to be balked. Both too, per- 
haps, — I go on perlirrpsins; — both, too, I repeat, 
perhaps, could not help mutually viewing each 
other as the cause of nuich mutual care and mu- 
tual anxiousnpss. Both, too, perhaps, were a little 
tired — but without knowing it. The most curious 
thing, and which would have augured worse to a 
calm judge, was, that they silently seemed to agree I 
not to v ' hat any altera*' 

taken. ' ' im, wh' 

■" tl -'s f ■ 



much, and those explanations entered iipon which 
explain so little. 

After all, I may be mistaken, and they may be 
on the very best terms. Time alone can show, 
which can do all things, even write this book, 
which, whether it ever be written or not, is doubt- 
ful, and also not of the slightest importance. Yet, 
'tis agreeable to find this certain existence, in all 
other respects, one great uncertainty. Where w» 
may be to-morrow, or what do, is just a mystery 
For aught we know, the world may end. Now 
think one moment on that single line. Methinks 
I hear the restless brooding of the panting waters. 
What a catastrophe ! 

And should not this, my friends, teach us well 
not to think over-much of coming days, and more, 
much more, of ourselves 1 From ourselves all 
those feelings spring, and in ourselves all centre, 
which are our happiness. There is that within us 
duly competent, whatever be our lot in life, to fulfil 
its divine and beautiful ordination, and each man 
might be, if he chose, without a care. But we 
will not listen to the monitor, — we fly from the 
Delphi of our breasts, and we aspire after all 
science, but that knowledge which alone can be 
perfect. 

Alas! alas! for fallen man! Would — would 
that I could raise him ! And sometimes, as I pace 
my lonely hall, I will not quite despair, but dare to 
muse o'er things I will not whisper. But soon 
the glow flies from my faded cheek, and soon my 
fluttering pulse subsides again to languor. The 
drooping pen falls from my powerless hand, and I 
feel — I keenly feel myself what indeed I am — far 
the most prostrate of a fallen race ! 

Could I recall the power, when, like a conqueror 
from a mountain height, I gazed upon a new and 
opening world, I would dare the trial. Ah! if our 
energy and our experience were bom but twins, 
we should be gods ! As it is, we are, at the best, 
but Titans, and so get crushed, as is but just. 

There is no characteristic of this age of steel to 
me more fearful than its total neglect of moral 
philosophy. And here I would dilate on greater 
things than some imagine; but, unfortunately, I 
am engaged. For Newmarket calls fcSir Lucius 
and his friends. We will not join them, having 
lost enough. His grace half promised to be one 
of the party ; but when the day came, just ronem- 
bered the Shropshires were expected, and was very 
sorry, — and the rest. Lady Aphrodite and himself 
parted with a warmth which remarkably contrasted 
with their late intercourse, and which neither of 
them could decide whether it were reviving aiiec- 
tion, or factitious elfort. 

M. de Whiskerburg and Count Frill departed 
with Sir Lucius, being extremely desirous to be 
initiated in the mysteries of the turf, and, above 
all, to see a real English jockey. 



CHAPTER IV. 

wspapers continued to announce the de- 

the ^" ■" visiters to the Duke of St 

'**' " ' upon the protracted and 

■1 Bronnock. But while 

his lot, and hundreds 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



aspirinpr to share it, what indeed was the condition 
ol' our hero ! 

A month or two had rolled on, and if he had 
not absolutely tasted enjoyment, at least he had 
thrust off reflection ; but as the autumn wore 
away, and as each day he derived less diversion 
or distraction from the repetition of the same 
routine, carried on by difierent actors, he could no 
longer control feelings which would be predomi- 
nant, and those feelings ware not such as, perhaps, 
might have been expected from one who was re- 
ceiving the homage of an admiring world. In a 
word, the Duke of St. James was the most misera- 
ble wretch that ever treated. 

" Where is this to end ?" he asked himself. " Is 
this year to close, to bring only a repetition of the 
past 1 Well ! I have had it all — and what is it ? 
My restless feelings are, at last, laid — my indefinite 
appetites are, at length, exhausted. I have known 
this mighty world ; and where am I ? Once all 
prospects, all reflections merged in the agitating, 
the tremulous, and panting lust with which' I 
sighed for it. Have I been deceived 1 Have I 
been disappointed 1 Is it different from what I ex- 
pected ] Has it fallen short of my fancy 1 Has 
tlie devterity of my musings deserted me 1 Have 
I under-acted the hero of my reveries 1 Have I, 
in short, mismanaged my debut ? Have I blun- 
dered \ No, no, no ! Far — far has it gone beyond 
even my imagination, and my life has, if no other, 
realized its ideas ! 

" Who laughs at mc ] Who does not bum in- 
cense before my shrine ! What appetite have I 
not gratified 1 What gratification has proved bit- 
ter] My vanity! Has it been, for an instant, 
mortified ] Am I not acknowledged the most bril- 
liant hero of the most brilhanl society in Europe] 
Intense as is my self-love, has it not been gorged ] 
Luxury and splendour were my youthful dreams, 
and have I not realized the very romance of indul- 
gence and magnificence ] My career has been one 
long triumph. My palaces, and my gardens, a 
my jewels, my dress, my furniture, my equip 
my horses, and my festivals — these used to ( 
my meditations, when I could only medita' 
have my determinations proved a delusion 
the admiring world ! 

"And now for the great point to which v^ 
was to tend, which all this was to fascinf' 
subdue, to adorn, to embellish, to delight, to i 
— Woman ! O ! when I first dared, amoj 
fields of Eton, to dwell upon the soft yet ag 
fancy, that some day my existence might p 
be rendered more intense, by the admiral 
these maddening but then mysterious crea* 
could — could I have dreamed of what h; 
pened 1 Is not this the very point in wli 
caieer has most out-topped my lofty hopes 
" I have read, and sometimes heard, of s 
It must then be satiety f^*"' ' 
more like a door^- ' 
of blood an'' 
What tb 
Satiety 
ness! 



as bitter results, perhaps as bitter a fate — f 
heavens ! I am half tempted at this moment f 
myself from off the cliff — and so end all. 

" Why should I live % For virtue and f 
— to compensate for all my folly, and to 
some slight good end with my abused anf 
leled means. Ay ! it is all vastly rati 
vastly sublime, — but it is too late. I fer 
tion is above me. I am a lost man, 

" We cannot work without a pur 
aim. I had mine, although it was a f 
I succeeded. Had I one now, I i 
again — but my heart is a dull void. 
— that gentle girl will not give mf 
and to offer her but half a heart 
and I would not bruise that delic 
my dukedom. Those sad, sil' 
have already done mischief f 
see DarrcU, and will at least 
him, and will make him nr 
God ! God I why am I not 
her, and all will change. I 
which could put all right. / 
could give the power. 

" Now see what a fare 
Heaven knor's how ! T 



like me soon 
to I dread to 
in my tempei 
myself than ; 
facility which, 
guarantee of ■ 
others are, at ■ 
tainly render i 
hear the busy 
my demon. N 
I shall die like 
and '' 
H 



"m and 



feel 
tai 

01 

b 



308 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



CHAPTER V. 

BoTJTHUT, that virtuous man, whom wisdom calls 

own, somewhere thanks God that he was not 

to a great estate. I quite agree with the seer 

iswick : it is a bore. Provided a man can 

every personal luxury, what profits it that 

ig waves on castles you never visit, and that 

mt rents which you never receive ? And 

? are some things which your miserable, 

incomes cannot command, and which one 

' to have — for instance, a band. 

'ete, a consummate band, in uniforms of 

^ velvet, with a highly-wrought gold 

tipped with a single pink topaz, seems 

'.■xKov. When I die, " band" will be 

=!d upon my heart, like " frigate" on 

^n. The negroes should have their 

-11 as their cars, and hung with 

^he kettledrums should be of sil- 

a great estate, no doubt it 

to get free of them, the estate 

d then it is even worse. Elec- 

L your members are thrown 

'ected influence. Agricultu- 

' all your '" -ms are thrown 

^d ' Harassed by 

1 mines, you are 

)rn out by these 

ing it somewhat 

undred thousand 

r enjoyment, you 

0- manages every 

1 his energy, his 

inated by your in- 

, disappearance of 

">duce him 

lent; 

'lis 



much ; but when, as you well know, my only ob- 
ject has been to keep things square, it is most an- 
noying. One thing may console us, — I cannot live 
cheaper. 

There is Antonio : you know Antonio well ! 
He is quite a treasure, and really costs me nothing. 
Those Italians are most invaluable, and live on air. 
Then there is Luigi : I could not do without Luigi, 
since you have taken away my Enghsh groom. 
He is quite my right-hand. I am sure Luigi is just 
the servant that you'd quite approve. Then there's 
my Greek : he is plump, to be sure, and lazy ; but 
eiitre nous, such a favourite with the sex, that his 
perquisites are so great, I mean to cut him down, 
I doubt whether my table costs me a sequin a 
week. 

" Sn, on my honour, sir, as I'm a sinner, 
I ralher gain than lose by every dinner." 

Then there are my horses. As you desired it, I 
have cut down one ; though, to be sure, as I have 
bought two more, there is no great saving yet upon 
that head. But I mean to breed. I find the fellows 
here will give a long figure for an English horse. 
I have got a mare from an officer at Malta ; so we 
may consider this as part of our plan of retrench- 
ment, and quite another account Therefore, per- 
haps, you will permit me to draw for this alone. 

I give only five-and-twenty pounds a year for 
my palace, and let out lodgings to an English fami- 
ly. I could not live in London in a garret for that 
price : therefore, you see, I am saving desperately. 
I fear, however, I must turn out ray tenants. Their 
maids corrupt the morals of my men ; and when I 
am scribbUng something very fine, the little Tom- 
Idnses play at battledore. 

I buy no pictures, cameos, or mosaics, and never 
patronise the belle arti. They think me here quit3 
an ultra-montane, sir. Lady Albania Silky vows 
she never saw one so barbarous who was so clever. 
I hope, therefore, you will take into considera- 
tion the various topics I presume to hint. I flatter 
myself, that, upon reflection, you'll thank your 
stars the matter is no worse. Our friends, I hope, 
re well: my compliments to all. When next you 
by the post, send me some news, and keep 
•owing for the envoy's bag. 
where is our hero 1 Is he forgotten 1 Never ! 
the dumps, blue devils, and so on. A little 
, it may be, and dull. He scarcely would 
you at this moment. So I come fonvard 
a graceful bow — the jack-pudding of our doc- 
vho is behind. 

short, that is to say, in long, — for what is the 

f this atfected brevity ? When this tale is done, 

. have you got 1 So let us make it last. I 

! repent of having intimated so much : in fu- 

it is my intention to develope more, and to de- 

and to delineate, and to define, and, in short, 

ire. You know the model of this kind of 

— Richardson, whom I shall revive. In lu- 

hall. as a novelist, take Clarendon's Rebel- 

■> mv hero's notes, or 

■r or a broken 



• a duke, 

nseen 

His 

lis eye 

be- 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



309 



h was the cireary end of dull November, and the 
fest company were breaking otf. The Bird of Pa- 
radise, according to her desire, had gone to Brigh- 
ton, where his grace had presented her with a tene- 
ment, neat, Ught, and finished ; and though situat- 
ed amid the wilds of Kemptown, no more than one 
hyena on a niglit ventured to come down from the 
adjacent mountains. He had half promised to join 
her, because he thought he might as well be there 
as here, and consequently he had not invited a fresh 
supply of visiters from town, or rather from the 
country. As he was hesitating about what he 
should do, he received a letter from his bankers 
which made him stare. He sent for the groom of the 
chambers, and was informed the house was clear, 
save that some single men yet lingered, as is their 
wont. They never take a hint. His grace ordered 
his carriage ; and, more alive than he had been for 
tlie last two months, dashed off to town. 



CHAPTER VI. 

The letter from his bankers informed the Duke 
of St. James that not only was the half-million ex- 
hausted, but, in pursuance of their powers, they had 
sold out all his stock, and, in reliance on his credit, 
had advanced even beyond it. They were ready to 
accommodate him in every possible way, and to 
advance as much more as he could desire — at five 
per cent. Sweet five per cent. ! ! magical five 
per cent. ! Lucky the rogue now who gets three. 
Nevertheless, they thought it but proper to call his 
grace's attention to the circumstance, and to put him 
in possession of the facts. I always know some- 
thing unpleasant is coming when men are anxious 
to tell the truth. 

The Duke of St. James had never affected to be 
a man of business ; still he had taken it for granted, 
that pecuniary embarrassment was not ever to be 
counted among his annoyances. He wanted some- 
thing to do, and determined to look into his affairs, 
merely to amuse himself. 

The bankers were most pohte. They brought 
their books, also several packets of papers most neat- 
ly tied up, and were ready to give e\ery informa- 
tion. The duke asked for results. He found that 
the turf, the Alhambra, the expenses of his outfit in 
purchasing the lease and furniture of his mansion, 
liveries, carriages, and the rest, had, with his ex- 
penditure, exhausted his first year's income ; but he 
reconciled himself to this, because he chose to con- 
sider them extraordinary expenses. Then the fes- 
tivities of Pen Bronnock counterbalanced the eco- 
nomy of his more scrambling life the preceding 
year; yet he had not exceeded his income — much. 
Then he came to Sir Carte's account. He began to 
get a little frightened. Two hundred and fifty thou- 
sand had been swallowed by Hauteville Castle ; 
one hundred and twenty thousand by Hauteville 
House. Ninety-six thousand had been paid for 
furniture. There were also some awkward mis- 
cellanies which, in ad.htion, exceeded the half 
million. 

This was smashing work ; but castles and pa- 
laces, particularly of the correctest style of architect- 
ure, are not to be had for nothing. The duke had 
always devoted the half-million to this object; but 
he had intended that simi to be suflacient. What 



puzzled and what annoyed him was a queer suspi- 
cion, that his resources had been exhausted without 
his result being obtained. He sent for Sir Carte, 
who gave every information, and assured him, that 
had he had the least idea that a limit was an object, 
he would have made his arrangements accordingly. 
As it was, he assured the young duke that he would 
be the lord of the most sumptuous and accurate 
castle, and of the most gorgeous and tasteful palace 
in Europe. He was proceeding with a cloud of 
words, when his employer cut him short by a pe- 
remptory demand of the exact sum requisite for the 
completion of his plans. Sir Carte was confused, 
and requested time. The estimates should be sent 
in as quickly as possible. The clerks should sit up 
all night, and even his own rest should not be an 
object, any more than the duke's purse. So they 
parted. 

The duke determined to run down to Brighton 
for change of scene. He promised his bankers to 
examine every thing on his return ; in the mean 
time, they were to make all necessary advances, 
and honour his 'drafts to any amount. 

He found the city of chaUc and shingles not quite 
so agreeable as last year. He discovered that it 
had no trees. There was there, also, just every- 
body that he did not wish to see. It was one great 
St. James's street, and seemed only an anticipation 
of that very season which he dreaded. He was 
half inclined to go somewhere else, but could not 
fix upon any spot. London might be agreeable, 
as it was empty — but then those confounded ac- 
counts awaited him. The Bird of Paradise was a 
sad bore. He really began to suspect that she was 
httle better than an idiot: then, she ate so much, 
— and he hated your eating women. He gladly 
shuttled her off on that fool, Count Frill, who daily 
brought his guitar to Kemptown. They just suited 
each other. What a madman he had been to have 
embarrassed himself with this creature ! It would 
cost him a pretty ransom now, before he could 
obtain his freedom. How we change ! Already 
the Duke of St. James began to think of pounds, 
shillings, and pence. A year ago, as long as he 
could extricate himself from a scrape by force of 
cash, he thought himself a lucky fellow. 

The Graftons had not arrived, but were daily 
expected. He really could not stand them. As 
for Lady Afy, he execrated the green-hornism which 
had made him feign a passion, and then get caught 
where he meant to capture. As for Sir Lucius, he 
wished to Heaven he would just take it into his 
head to repay him the fifteen thousand he had lent 
him at that confounded election, — to say nothing 
of any thing else. 

Then, there was Burlington, with his old loves 
and his new dances. He wondered how the dense 
that fellow could be amused with such frivolity, 
and always look so serene and calm. Then, there 
was Squib, — that man never knew when to leave 
off joking; and Annesley, with his false refinement; 
and Darrell, with his petty ambition. He felt quite 
sick, and took a solitary ride: but he flew from 
Scylla to Chary bdis. Mrs. Montfort could not for- 
get their many delightful canters last season to 
Rottindean — and, lo ! she was at his side : — he 
wished her down the cliff. 

In this fit of the spleen, he vrent to the theatre : 
there were eleven people in the boxes. He listened 
to " The School for Scandal." Never was slander 
more harmless. He sat it all out, and was sorry 



310 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



^hen it was over, but was consoled by the devils of 
Der Freischutz. How sincerely, how ardently did 
he long to sell himself to the demon ! It was eleven 
o'clock, and he dreaded the play to be over, as if he 
were a child. What to do with himself, or where 
to go, he was equally at a loss. The door of the 
box opened, and entered Lord Bagshot. If it must 
be an acquaintance, this cub was better than any 
of his retJned and lately cherished companions. 
" Well, Bag, what are you doing with yourself?" 
"Oil don't know : just looking in for a lark. 
Any game !" 

" On my honour, I can't say." 
" What's that girl ] O ! I see ; that's little 
Wilkins. There's Moll Otway, Nothing new. I 
shall go and rattle the bones ahttle — eh! my boy?" 
" Rattle the bones ! what is that ?" 
"Don't you know?" and here this promising 
young peer manually explained his meaning. 
" What do you play at ?" asked the duke. 
" Hazard, for my money ; but what you like." 
"Where?" 

" We meet at De Berghem's. There is a jolly 
set of us. All crack men. When my governor is 
here, I never go. He is so jealous. I suppose 
there must he only one gamester in the family, eh ! 
— my covey !" Lord Bagshot, excited by the un- 
usual aflabihly of the young duke, grew quite 
familiar. 

" I have half a mind to look in with you," said 
his grace, with a careless air. 

" O ! come along, by allmeans. They'll be devil- 
ish glad to see you. De Berghem was saying, the 
other day, what a nice fellow you were, and how 
lie should like to know you. You don't know De 
Berghem, do you ?" 

" I have seen him. I know enough of him." 
The two young noblemen quitted the theatre to- 
gether, and under the guidance of Lord Bagshot, 
stopped at a door in Brunswick Terrace. There 
they found collected a numerous party, but all 
persons of consideration. The baron, who had 
once been a member of the diplomatic corps, and 
now lived in England, by choice, on his pension 
and private fortune, received them with the most 
marked courtesy. Proud of his companion. Lord 
Bagshot's hoarse, coarse, idiot voice seemed ever 
liraying. His frequent introductions of the Duke 
of St. Jameii were excruciating, and it required all 
the freezing of a finished manner to pass through 
this fiery ordeal. His grace was acquainted with 
most of the guests by sight, and to 6on)e he even 
bowed. They were chiefly men of a certain age, 
with the exception of two or three young peers like 
himself. 

Tiiere was the Earl of Castlcfort, plump and 
luxurious, with a youthful wig, who, though a sex- 
agenarian, liked no companion better than a mirror. 
His lordship was the most amiable man in the 
world, and the most lucky ; but the first was his 
merit, the second was not his fault. There was 
the juvenile Lord Dice, who boasted of having done 
Cis brothers out of their miserable .5000/. jjatrimony, 
and all in one night. But the wrinkle that had 
already rufiled his once clear brow, his sunken eye, 
and bis convulsive lip had been thrown, I suppose, 
into the bargain, and. in my opinion, made it a dear 
one. There was Temple Grace, who had run 
through four fortunes, and ruined four sisters. 
Withered, though only thirty, one thing alone 
remained to be lost — what he called his honour, 



which was already on the scent to play booty. 
There was Cogit, who, when he was drunk, swore 
that he had had a father ; but this was deemed ihe 
only exception to in vino veriluc. Who he was, 
the goddess of chance could alone decide ; and I 
have often thought that he might bear the same 
relation to her, as vEneas to the goddess of beauty. 
His age was as great a mystery as any thing else. 
He dressed still like a boy, — yet son)e vowed he 
was eighty. He must have been Salalhiel. Pro- 
perty he never had, — and yet he contrived to live ; 
connexion he was not born with, — yet he was up- 
held by a set. He never played, yet he was the 
most skilful dealer going. He did the honours of 
a rvtige et nuir table to a miracle ; and looking, as 
he thought, most genteel in a crimson waistcoat 
and a gold chain, raked up the spoils, or compla- 
cently announced aprcs. Lord Custleforl had few 
secrets from him ; he was the jackal to these prowl- 
ing beasts of prey ; looked out for pigeons, — got up 
little parties to Richmond or Brighton, — ^sang a 
song when the rest were too anxious to make a 
noise, and yet desired a little life, and yet perhaps 
could cog a die, arrange a looking-glass, or mix a 
tumbler. 

Unless the loss of an occasional Napoleon at a 
German watering-place is to be so stigmatized, 
gaming had never formed one of the numerous 
follies of the Duke of St. James. Rich, and gifted 
with a generous, sanguine, and luxurious dispo- 
sition, he had never been tempted by the desire of 
gain, or, as some may perhaps maintain, by the 
desire of excitement, to seek assistance or enjoyment 
in a mode of lil'e which stultifies all our fine iancies, 
deadens all our noble emotions, and mortifies all 
our beautiful aspirations. 

I know that I am broaching a doctrine which 
many will start at, and which some will protest 
against, when I declare my belief, that no person, 
whatever be his rank, or apparent wealth, ever yet 
gamed, except from the prospect of immediate gain. 
We hear much of want of excitement, of tnnui, of 
satiety ; and then the gaming-table is announced 
as a sort of substitute for opium, wine, or any other 
mode of obtaining a more intense vitality at the 
cost of reason. Gaming is too active, too anxious, 
too complicated, too troublesome, — in a word, toD 
sensible an affair for such spirits, who fly only to a 
sort of dreamy and indefinite distraction. 'I'he fact 
is, gaming is a matter of business. Its object is 
tangible, clear, and evident. There is nothing high, 
or inflammatory, or exciting ; no false magnificence, 
no visionary elevation, in the afliur at all. It is the 
very antipodes to enthusiasm of any kind. It pre- 
supposes in its votary a mind essentially mercantile. 
All the feelings that are in its train are the most 
mean, the most commonplace, and the most annoy- 
ing of daily life ; and nothing would tempt the 
gamester to experience them, except the great ob- 
ject which, as a matter of calculation, he is willing i 
to aim at on such terms. No man flies to the 
gaming-table in a paroxysm. The first visit re- 
quires the courage of a forlorn hope. The first 
stake will make the lightest mind anxious, the 
firmest hand tremble, and the stoutest heart falter. 
After the first stake, it is all a matter of calculation 
and management, even in games of chance. Night 
after night will men play at rouge et iioir, uj)on 
what they call a system, and for hours their atten- 
tion never ceases, any more than it would if they 
were in the shop, or on the wharf. No manual 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



311 



Jabour is more fatiguing, and more degrading to the 
labourer, than gaming. Every gamester (I speak 
not of the irreclaimable) feels ashamed. And this 
vice, this worst vice, from whose embrace moralists 
daily inform us man can never escape, is just the 
one from which the majority of men most com- 
pletely and most often emancipate themselves. 
Infinite are the men who have lost thousands in 
their youth, and never dream of chance again. It 
is this pursuit which, oftener than any other, leads 
man to self-knowledge. Appalled by the absolute 
destruction on the verge of which he finds his early 
youth just stepping — aghast at the shadowy crimes 
which, under the influence of this life, seem, as it 
•were, to rise upon his soul, — often he hurries to 
emancipate himself from this fatal thraldom, and 
with a ruined fortune and marred prospects, yet 
thanks his Creator that his soul is still white, his 
conscience clear, and that, once more, he breathes 
the sweet air of heaven. 

And our young duke, I must confess, gamed, as 
all othtr men have gamed — for money. His satie- 
ty had fled the moment that his affairs were embar- 
rassed. The thought suddenly came into his head, 
while Bagshot was speaking. He determined to 
make an effort to recover : and so completely was 
it a matter of business with him, that he reasoned, 
that in the present state of his affairs, a few thousands 
more would not signify, — that these few thousands 
might lead to vast results, and that, if they did, he 
would bid adieu to the gaming-table with the same 
coolness with which he had saluted it. 

Yet he felt a little odd, when he first rattled the 
bones ; and his affected nonchalance made him con- 
strained. He fancied every one was watching 
him ; while on the contrary, all were too much 
interested in their own different parties. This 
feeling, however, wore off. 

According to every novelist, and the moralists 
" our betters," the Duke of St. James should have 
been fortunate at least to-night. You always win, 
at first, you know. If so, I advice said children of 
fancy and of fact to pocket their gains, and not 
play again. The young duke had not the oppor- 
tunity of thus acting. He lost fifteen hundred 
pounds, and at half past five he quitted the baron's. 

Hot, billious, with a confounded twang in his 
mouth, and a cracking pain in his head, he stood 
one moment and snuffed in the salt sea-breeze. 
The moon was unfortunately on the waters, and 
her cool, beneficent light reminded him, with dis- 
gust, of the hot, burning glare of the baron's saloon. 

He thought of May Dacre, but clenched, his fist, 
and drove her image from his mind. 



CHAPTER VII. 

He rose late, and as he was lounging over his 
breakfast, entered Lord Bagshot and the baron. 
Already the young duke began to experience one 
of the gamester's curses, — the intrusive society of 
those of whom you are ashamed. Eight-and-forty 
hours ago, Lord Bagshot would no more have 
dared to call upon the Duke of St. James than to 
call at the Pavilion ; and now, with that wreck- 
less want of tact which marks the innately vulgar, 
he seemed to triumph in their unhallowed intimacy, 
and lounging into his grace's apartmcYit with that 
half-shulfling, half-swaggering air indicative of the 



" cove," hat cocked, and thumbs in his great- 
coat pockets, cast his complacent eye around, and 
praised his grace's '"rooms." Lord Bagshot, who 
for the occasional notice of the Duke of St. James 
had been so long a ready and patient butt, now 
appeared to assume a higher character, and address- 
ed his friend in a tone and manner which were 
authorized by the equality of their rank and th 
sympathy of their tastes. If this change had taken 
place in the conduct of the viscount, it was not a 
singular one. The duke, also, to his surprise, 
found himself addressing his former butt ni a very 
different style to that which he had assumed in tlie 
ball-room of Doncaster. In vain he tried to 
rally, — in vain he tried to snub. It was indeed in 
vain. He no longer possessed any right to ex 
press his contempt of his companion. That con- 
tempt, indeed, he still felt. He despised Lord 
Bagshot still, but he also despised himself. 

The soft and silly baron was a very different 
sort of personage; but there was something sinister 
in all his elaborate courtesy and highly artificial man- 
ner, which did not touch the feelings of the duke, 
whose courtesy was but the expression of his noble 
feelings, and whose grace was only the impulse or 
his rich and costly blood. Baron dc Berghem was 
too attentive and too deferential. He smiled aiul 
bowed too much. He made no allusion to the last 
night's scene, nor did his tutored companion, but 
spoke of very different aijd lighter subjects, in a 
manner which at once proved his experience ot 
society, the Hveliness of his talents, and the cul- 
tivation of his taste. He told many stories, all very 
short and poignant, and always about princes or 
princesses. Whatever was broached, he always had 
his apropos of Vienna, and altogether seemed an 
experienced, mild, tolerant man of the world, not 
bigoted to any particular opinions upon any subject, 
but of a truly liberal and philosophic mind. 

When they had sat chattering for half an hour, 
the baron developed the object of his visit, which 
was to endeavour to obtain the pleasure of his 
grace's company at dinner ; to taste some wild-boar, 
and try some tokay. The duke, who longed again 
for action, accepted the invitation, and then they 
parted. 

Our hero was quite surprised at the feverish 
anxiety with which he awaited the hour of union. 
He thought that seven o'clock would never come. 
He had no appetite for breakfast, and after that he 
rode, but luncheon was a blank. In the midsi of 
the operation he found himself in a brown study, 
calculating chances. All day long his imagination 
had been playing hazard, or rouge ct nnir. Once 
he thought he had discovered an infallible way o. 
winning at the latter. On the long run he was 
convinced it must answer, and he panted to prove 
it. 

Seven o'clock at last arrived, and he departed to 
Brunswick Terrace. There was a brilliant party 
to meet him : the same set as last night, but select. 

He was faint, and did justice to the cuisine of 
his host, which was indeed remarkable. When we 
are drinking a man's good wine it is difficult to 
dislike him. Prejudice decreases with every 
draught. His grace began to think the baron as 
good-hearted as agreeable. He was grateful for 
the continued attentions of old Castlefort, who he 
now found out, had been very well acquainted with 
his father, and once even made a trip to Spa w'ith 
him. Lord Dice he could not manage lo endure. 



312 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



though that worthy was, for him, remarkably cour- 
teous, and grinned with his parchment-tace, like a 
good humoured ghoul. Temple. Grace and the 
duke became almost intimate. There was an ami- 
able candour in that gentleman's address, a softness 
in his tones, and an unstudied and extremely in- 
teresting delicacy in his manner, which in this so- 
ciety was remarkable. Tom Cogit never presumed 
tJ co'.ne near the yoang duke, but paid hina 
constant attention. He sat at the bottom of the 
table, and was ever sending a servant with some 
choice wine, or recommending him, through some 
third person, some choice dish. It is pleasant to 
be " made much of," as Shakespeare says, even 
by scoundrels. To he king of your company is a 
poor ambition, — yet homage is homage, and smoke 
is smoke — whether it comes out of the chimney of 
a palace or of a workhouse. 

The banquet was not hurried. Though all wished 
it finished, no one liked to appear urgent. It 
was over at last, and they walked up-stairs, where 
the tables were arranged for all parties and all play. 
Tom Cogit went up a few minutes before them, 
like the lady of the mansion, to review the lights 
and arrange the cards. Feminine Tom Cogit ! 

The events of to-night were much the same as 
of the preceding one. The duke was a loser, but 
his losses were not considerable. He retired about 
the same hour, with a head not so hot or heavy ; 
and he never looked at the moon, or thought of 
May Dacre. The only wish that reigned in his 
soul was a longing for another opportunit}', and he 
had agreed to dine with the baron before he left 
Brunswick Terrace. 

Thus passed a week — one night the Duke of St. 
James redeeming himself another falling back to 
his old position, now pushing on to Madrid, now 
recrossing the Tagus. On the whole, he had lost 
four or live thousand pounds, a mere trifle to what, 
as he had heard, had been lost and gained by many 
of his companions during only the present season. 
On the whole, he was one of the most moderate of 
these speculators, generally played at the large 
table, and never joined any of those private cote- 
ries, some of which he had observed, and some of 
which he had heard. Yet this was from no pru- 
dential resolve or temperate resolution. The young 
duke was heartily tired of the slight results of all 
his anxiety, hopes, and plans, and ardently wished 
for some opportunity of coming to closer and more 
decided action. The baron also had resolved that 
an end should be put to this skirmishing, — but he 
was a calm head, and never hunied any thing. 

"I hope your grace has been lucky to-night 1" 
said the baron, one evening, strolling up to the 
duke : " as for myself, really, if Dice goes on play- 
ing, I shall give up banking. That fellow must 
have a tahsman. I think he has broken more banks 
than any man living. The best thing he did of that 
kmd was the roulette story at Paris. You have 
heard of that 1" 

"Was that Lord Dice?" 

O, yes ! he does every thing. He must have 
cleared his hundred thousand last year. I have 
suflered a E;ood deal since I have been in England, 
(^astlcfort has pulled in a great deal of my money. 
1 wonder to whom he will leave his property !" 

" You think him rich ]" 

"0 ! he will cut up very large!" said the baron, 
elevating his eyebrows. " A pleasant man too ! I 
do not know any man that I would sooner play 



with than Castlefort — no one who loses his monej 
with better tem;»e^." 

" Or wins it," said his grace. 

" That we all do," said the baron faintly laugh- 
ing. " Your grace has lost, and you do not seem 
particularly dull. You will have your revenge. 
Those who lose at first are always the children of 
fortune. I always dread a man who loses at first. 
All I beg is, that you will not break my bank." 

" Why ! you see I am not playing now." 

'' I am not surprised. There is too much heat 
and noise here," said he. " We will have a quiet 
dinner some day, and play at our ease. Come to- 
morrow, and I will ask Castlefort and Dice. I 
should uncommonly like, entre nous, to win some 
of their money. I will take care that nobody shall 
be here whom you would not like to meet. By- 
the-by, whom were you riding with this morning 1 
Fine woman !" 



CHAPTER VIII. 

The young duke had accepted the invitation of 
the Baron de Berghem for to-morrow, and accord- 
ingly, himself. Lords Castlefort and Dice, and 
Temple Grace, assembled in Brunswick Terrace at 
the usual hovir. The dinner was studiously plain, 
and very little wine was drunk ; yet every thing 
was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve, in his 
usual silent manner. He always came in and went 
out of a room without any one observing him. He 
winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcely 
presumed to bow to the duke. He was very busy 
about the wine, and dressed the wild fowl in a man- 
ner quite unparalleled. Tom Cogit was the man 
for a sauce for a brown bird. What a mystery he 
made of it ! Cayenne, and Burgundy, and limes 
were ingredients ; but there was a magic in the 
incantation, with which he alone was acquainted. 
He took particular care to send a most perfect por- 
tion to the young duke, and he did this, as he paid 
all attentions to infiucntial strangers, with the most 
marked consciousness of the sufferance which per- 
mitted his presence ; never addressing his grace, 
but audibly whispering to the servant, " Take this 
to the duke;" or asking the attendant, ''whether 
his grace would try the hermitage 1" 

After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who 
was busied in compounding some wonderful liquid 
for the future refreshment, they sat down to ccurfr. 
Without having exchanged a word upon the sulv 
ject, there seemed a general understanding among 
all the parlies, that to-night was to be a pitched battle, 
and they began at once, very briskly. Yet, in spite 
of their universal determination, midnight arrived 
without any thing very decisive. Another hour 
passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching 
the baron's elbow, and whispering in a voice that 
every body could understand. All this meant that 
su])per was ready. It was brought into the room. 

Gaming has one advantage — it gives you an ap- 
petite ; that is to say, as long as you have a chance 
remaining. The duke had thousands, — for at 
l)resent his resources were unimpaired, and he was 
exhausted by the constant attention and anxiety of 
five hours. He passed over the delicacies, and went 
to the side-t<ib'e, and began cutting himself some 
cold roast-beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his grac**, 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



313 



but to the baron, to announce the shocking fact, 
that the Duke of St. James was endimng great 
trouble ; and then the baron asked his grace to 
permit Mr. Cogit to serve him. Our hero devoured 
— I use the word advisedly, as fools say in the 
House of Commons — he devoured the roast-beef, 
and rejecting the hermitage vpith disgust, asked for 
porter. 

They sat to again, fresh as eagles. At six o'clock, 
accounts were so complicated, that they stopped to 
make up their books. Each played with his me- 
morandums and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal 
had yet happened. The duke owed Lord Dice 
about five thousand pounds, and Temple Grace 
owed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also 
was his debtor to the tune of seven hundred and 
fifty, and the baron was in his books, but slightly. 
Every half hour they hatl a new pack of cards, and 
threw the used one on the floor. All this time Tom 
Cogit did nothing but snulf the candles, stir the 
fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally made 
a tumbler for them. 

At eight o'clock, the duke's situation was 
worsened. The run was greatly against him, and 
perhaps his losses were doubled. He pulled up 
again the next hour or two ; but nevertheless, at 
ten o'clock, owed every one something. No one 
offered to give over; and every one perhaps felt 
that his object was not obtained. They made their 
toilets, and went down stairs to breakfast. In the 
mean time, the shutters were opened, the room 
aired, — and in less than an hour they were at it 
again. 

They played till dinner-time without intemiis- 
pion ; and though the duke made some desperate 
efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were, 
nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent din- 
ner, and was not at all depressed : because the more 
he lost, the more his courage and his resources 
seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself 
to ten thousand ; after breakfast, it was to have 
Deen twenty thousand ; then thirty thousand was 
the ultimatum : and now he dismissed all thoughts 
of limits from his mind, and was determined to 
risk or gain every thing. 

At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand 
pounds. Affairs now began to be serious. His 
supper was not so hearty. While the rest were 
eating, he walked about the room, and began to 
limit his ambition to recovery, and not to gain. 
When you play to win back, the fun is over ; tliere 
is nothing to recompense you for your bodily tor- 
tures and your degraded feelings; and the very 
best result tliat can happen, while it has no charms, 
seems to 3'our cowed mind impossible. 

On they played, and the duke lost more. His 
mind was jaded. He floundered — he made despe- 
rate efforts, but plunged deeper in the slough. 
Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must 
tell, he acted on each as if it must win, and the 
consequences of this insanity (for a gamester, at 
such a crisis, is really insane) were, that his losses 
were prodigious. 

Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle 
deep in cards. No attempt at breakfast now — no 
affectation of making a toilet, or airing the room. 
The a'mosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well 
))ecame such a hell. There they sat, in total, in 
positive forgetfulncss of every thing but the hot 
game tliey were hunting down. There was not a 
man in the room, except Tom Cogit, who could 
40 



have told you the name of the town in which they 
were living. There they sat. almost breathless, 
watching every turn with the fell look in their can- 
nibal eyes which showed their total inability to 
sympathize with their fellow-beings. All forms of 
society had been long forgotten. There was no 
snuff-box handed about now, for courtesy, admira- 
tion, or a pinch ; no affectation of occasionally 
making a remark upon any other topic but the all- 
engrossing one. Lord Castlefort rested with his 
arms on the table ; — a false tooth had got unhinged. 
His lordship, who at any other time would have 
been most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His 
cheeks had fallen, and he looked twenty years 
older. Lord Dice had torn off' his cravat, and his 
hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks, 
straight as silk. Temple Grace looked as if he 
were blighted by lightning ; and his deep blue eyes 
gleamed like a hyena. The baron was least changed. 
Tom Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, 
was as quiet as a bribed rat. 

On they played till six o'clock in the evening, 
and then they agreed to desist till after dinner. 
Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. Lord Castlefort 
breathed with difliculty. The rest walked about. 
While they were resting on their oars, the young 
duke roughly made up his accounts. He found 
that he was minus about one hundred thousand 
pounds. 

Immense as this loss was, he was more struck — 
more appalled, let me say — at the strangeness of 
the surrounding scene, than even by his own ruin. 
As he looked upon his fellow-gamesters, he seemed, 
for the first time in his life, to gaze upon some of 
those hideous demons of whom he had read. He 
looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed 
to have fallen over his beauty, and his presence 
seemed accursed. He had pursued a dissipated — 
even more than a dissipated career. Many were 
the nights that had been spent by him not on his 
couch ; great had been the exhaustion that he had 
often experienced ; haggard had sometimes even 
been the lustre of his youth. But when had been 
marked upon his brow this harrowing care I when 
had his features before been stamped with this 
anxiety, this anguish, this bafilcd desire, this 
strange, unearthly scowl, which made him even 
tremble 1 What ! was it possible ] — it could not 
be — that in time he was to be like those awful, 
those unearthly, those unhallowed things that were 
around him. He felt a.s if he had fallen from his 
state, — as if he had dishonoured his ancestry, — as 
as if he had betrayed his trust. He felt a criminal. 
In the darkness of his meditations, a flash burst 
from his lurid mind, — a celestial light appeared to 
dissipate this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as 
it were bathed with the softening radiancy. He 
thought of May Dacre, he thought of every thing 
that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, and lumi- 
nous, and calm. It was the innate virtue of the 
man that made this appeal to his corrupted nature. 
His losses seemed nothing; his dukedom would be 
too slight a ransom for freedom from these ghouls, 
and for the breath of the sweet air. 

He advanced to the baron, and expressed his 
desire to play no more. There was an immediate 
stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done. 
Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her 
reign. They begged him to have his revenge, — 
were quite annoyed at the result, — had no doubt 
he would recover if he proceeded. Without no- 
2 D 



314 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



ticing tneir remarks, he seated himself at the table, 
and wrote rhecks for their respective amounts, Tom 
Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. 
Lord Castlefort, in the most allectionate manner, 
pocketed the draft; at the same time recommend- 
ing the duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it 
when he was cool. Lord Dice received his with a 
bow. Temple Cirace with a sigh — the baron, with 
an avowal of his readiness always to give him his 
revenge. 

The duke, though sick at heart, would not leave 
the room Vv-ith any evidence of a broken spirit ; and 
■when Lord Castlefort again repeated, " Pay us 
when we meet again," he said, " I think it very im- 
])robable that we shall meet again, my lord. I wished 
to know what gaming was. I had heard a great 
deal about it. It is not so very disgusting ; but I 
am a young man, and cannot play tricks with my 
complexion." 

He reached his house. The Bird was out. He 
gave orders for himself not to be disturbed, and he 
went to bed ; but in vain he tried to sleep. What 
rack exceeds the torture of an excited brain and an 
exhausted body ! His hands and feet were like ice, 
iiis brow like fire ; his ears rung with supernatural 
roaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death 
he would have welcomed. In vain, in vain he 
courted repose ; in vain, in vain he had recourse to 
every expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each 
minute he started from his pillow with some phrase 
which reminded him of his late fearful society. 
Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace ; 
each hour he heard strike, and each hour seemed 
an age. Each hour was only a signal to cast off 
some covering, or shift his position. It was at length 
morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if 
te remained any longer in bed, he rose and jjaced 
nis chamber. The air refreshed him. He threw 
nimself on the floor ; the cold crept over his senses, 
and he slept. 



CHAPTER IX. 

! TE immortal gods ! — ye are still immortal, 
although no longer ye hover o'er Olympus. The 
crescent glitters on your mountain's base, and 
crosses spring from out its toppling crags. But in 
vain the mufti, and the patriarch, and- the pope 
flout at your past traditions. They are married to 
man's memory by the sweetest chain that ever fancy 
wove for love. The poet is a priest, who does not 
doubt the inspiration of his oracles; and your 
shrines are still served by a faithful band, who love 
the beautiful, and adore the glorious ! In vain, in 
vain, they tell us your divinity is a dream. From 
the cradle to the grave, our thoughts and feelings 
take their colour from you. O ! ^giochus, the 
birch has often proved thou art still athunderer; 
and, although thy twanging bow murmur no 
longer tiirough the avenging air, many an apple 
twig still indicates thy outraged dignity, pulcher 
Apollo! 

O ! ye immortal gods ! nothing so difficult as to 
begin a chapter, and therefore have I llown to you. 
In literature, as in life, it is the first step — you 
know the re.-^t. After a paragraph or so, our blood 
is up, and even my jaded hackneys scud along, and 
warm up into friskiness. 

The duke awoke ; another day of his eventful 



life is now to run its course. He found that the 
Bird of Paradise had not returned from an excur- 
sion to a neighbouring park ; he left a note for her, 
apprizing her of his departure to London, and he 
despatched a very allectionate letter to Lady Aphro- 
dite, which was the least that he could do, consider- 
ing that he perhaps quitted Brighton the day of her 
arrival. And having done all this, he ordered hi* 
horses, and before noon he was on his first stage. 

It was his birthday. He had completed his 
twenty-third year. This was sufhcicnt, even if he 
had no other inducement, to make him indulge in 
some slight reflection. These annual summings up 
are awkward things, even to the prosperous and the 
happy ; but to those who are the reverse, who are 
discontented with themselves, and find that youth 
melting away which they believe can alone achieve 
any thing, I think a birthday is about the most 
gloomy four-and-twenty hours that ever flap their 
damp, dull wings over melancholy man. 

Yet the Duke of St. James was rather thoughtful 
than melancholy. His life had been too active of 
late to allow him to indulge much in that passive 
mood. " I may never know what liappiness is," 
thought his grace, as he leaned back in his whirling 
britchska ; " but I think I know what happiness is 
not. It is not the career which I have hitherto 
pursued. All this excitement which they talk of so 
much, wears out the mind, and, I begin to believe, 
even the body, for certainly my energies seem de- 
serting me. But two years, two miserable years, 
four-and-twenty months, eight-and-forty times the 
hours, the few hours, that I have been worse than 
wasting here, and I am shipwrecked — fliirly bulged. 
Yet I have done every thing, tried eveiy thing, and 
my career has been an eminent career. Wo to the 
wretch who trusts to his pampered senses for felici- 
ty ! Wo to the wretch who flies from the bright 
goddes-s sympathy, to sacrifice before the dark idol 
self-love ! Ah ! I see too late, we were made for 
each other. Too late I discover the beautiful results 
of this great principle of creation. O ! the blunders 
of an unformed character ! O ! the torture of an 
ill-regulated mind ! 

" Give me a life with no fierce alternations of 
rapture and anguish, — no impossible hopes, — no 
mad depression. Free me from the delusions which 
succeed each other like scentless roses that are ever 
blooming. Save me from the excitement which 
brings exhaustion, and from the passion that pro- 
creates remorse. Give me the luminous mind, 
where recognised and paramount duty dispels the 
harassing, ascertains the doubtful, confirms the 
wavering, sweetens the bitter. Give me content ! 
! give me love ! 

" H®w is it to end ? What is to become of me ? 
Can nothing rescue me ? Is there no mode of 
relief, no place of succour, no quarter of refuge, no 
hope of salvation 1 I cannot right myself, and there 
is an end of it. Society, society, society ! I owe 
thee much ; and perhaps in working in thy service, 
those feelings might be developed which I am now 
convinced are the only source of happiness — but I 
am plunged too deep in the quag, I have no im- 
pulse, no call. I know not how it is, but my 
energies, good and evil, seem alike vanishing. There 
stares that follow at my carriage ! God ! willingly 
would I break the stones upon the road for a year, 
to clear my mind of all the past !" 

A carriage dashed by, and a lady bowed. It was 
Mrs, Dalliiigtou Verc. 



IHE YOUNG DUKE. 



315 



The duke had appointed his banker to dine with 
t)im, as not a moment must be lost in preparing for 
Ihe reception of liis Brighton drafts. He was also 
to receive, this evening, a complete report of all his 
all'airs. The first thing that struck his eye on his 
table was a packet from Sir Carte Blanche. He 
opened it eagerly, stared, started, and nearly 
shrieked. It fell from his hands. He wasAfortu- 
nately alone, 'i'he estimates for the completion of 
his works, and the [lurchase of the rest of the 
furniture, exactly equalled the sum already expend- 
ed. Sir Carte added, that the works might of course 
be stopped, but that there was no possible way of 
reducing them, with any deference to the original 
design, scale, and style; that he had already given 
instructions not to proceed with the furniture 
until further notice, hut regretted to observe, 
that the orders were so advanced that he feared it 
was too late to make any sensible reduction. It 
liiight, in some degree, reconcile his grace to this 
report, when he concluded by observing, that the 
advanced s'tate of the works could permit him to 
guaranty that the present estimates would not be 
exceeded. 

The duke had sufirciently recovered before the 
arrival of his confidential agent not to appear agi- 
tated, only serious. The awful catastrophe at 
Brighton was announced, and his report of ali'airs 
was received. It was a very gloomy one. Great 
agricultural distress prevailed, and the rents could 
not be got in. Five-and-twcnty per cent, was the 
Ica.it that must be taken olf his income, and with 
no prospect of being speedily added o)i. There 
was a projected rail-road which would entirely 
knocl lip his canal, and, even if crushed, must be 
expensively opposed. Coals were falling also, and 
the duties in town increasing. There was sad confu- 
sion in the Irish estates. The missionaries, who 
were patronised on the neighbouring lands of one 
of the city companies, had been exciting fatal confu- 
sion. — Chapels were burnt, crops destroyed, stock 
butchered, and rents all in arrear. Mr. Daere had 
contrived with great prudence to repress the eflbrts 
of the new reformation, and had succeeded in pre- 
venting any great mischief. His plans for the 
pursual of his ideas and feelings upon this subject 
had been communicated to his late ward in an urgent 
and important paper, which his grace had never 
seen, hut one day, unread, pushed into acertain black 
cabinet, which perhaps the reader may remember. 
His grace's miscellaneous debts had also been called 
in, and amounted to a greater sum than they had 
anticipated, which debts always do. One hundred 
and forty thousand pounds had crumbled away in 
the most iinperceptible manner. A very gi'eat slice 
of this was the portion of the jeweller. His shield 
and his vases would at least be evidence to his 
posterit}' of the splendour and the taste of their 
imprudent ancestor; but he observed the other 
items with less satisfaction. He discovered, that 
in tlie course of two years he had given away one 
hundred and thirty-seven necklaces and chains ; 
and as for rings they must be counted hy the 
luishel. The result of this gloomy intei-view was, 
that the duke had not only managed to get rid of 
the immortal half-million, but had incurred debts or 
engagements to tlic amount of nearly eight hun- 
dred thousand pounds, encumbrances which were 
to be borne by a decreased, and perhaps decreasing 
income. 

His grace was once more alone. 



" Well ! my brain is not turned ; — and yet, I 
think, it has been pretty well worked these last few 
days. It cannot be true ; — it must all be a dream. 
He never coukl have dined here, and said all this. 
Have I, indeed, been at Brighton ] No, no, no, — 
I have been sleepiing after dinner. I have a good 
mind to ring, and ask whether he really was here. 
It must he one great delusion. But no ! — there 
are those cursed accounts. Well ! what does it 
signify 1 I was miserable before, and now I am 
only contemptible in addition. How the world will 
laugh ! They were made, forsooth, for my diversion. 

idiot ! you will be the butt of every one ! Talk 
of Bagshot, indeed ! — why he will scarcely speak 
to me ! 

" Away with this ! Let me turn these things in 
my mind. Take it at one huiHred and fifty thou- 
sand. It is more — it must be mere : but we will 
take it at that. Now, suppose one hundred thou- 
sand is allotted every year to meet my debts ; — I 
suppose in nine or ten years I shall be free. Not 
that freedom will be worth much the- ; but still I 
am thinking of the glory of the house I have be- 
trayed. Well then, there is fifty thousand a-year 
left. Let me see; t^venty thousand have always 
been spent in Ireland, and ten at Pen Bronnock — 
and they must not he cut down. The only thing 

1 can do now is, not to spare myself. I am the 
cause, and let me meet the consequences. Well, 
then, perhaps twenty thousand a-year remain to 
keep Hauteville Castle and Hauteville House ; to 
maintain the splendour of the Duke of St. James. 
Why, my hereditary charities alone amount to a 
quarter of my income, to say nothing of incidental 
charges : — I, too, who should, and who would wish 
to rebuild at my own cost every bridge that is 
swept away, and every steeple that is burnt in my 
county. 

" And now for the great point. Shall I proceed 
with my buildings'! My own personal convenience 
whispers — no ! But I have a strong conviction that 
the advice is treasonable. What! the young duke's 
folly, for every gazer in town and country to sneer 
at ! O ! my fathers, am I indeed your child, or am 
I a bastard 1 Never — never shall your shield be 
sullied while I bear it ! Never shall your proud 
banner vail while I am chieftain ! They shall be 
finished — certainly, they shall be finished, if I die 
an exile ! There can be no doubt about this ; I 
feel the deep propriety. 

" This girl, too — something must be done for hei 
I must get Squib to run down to Brighton for me 
and Afy, — poor dear Afy, — I think she will be 
sorry when she hears it all ! 

" My head is weak ; I want a counsellor. This 
man cannot enter into my feelings. Then there is 
my family lawyer. If I ask him for advice, he will 
ask me for instructions. Besides, this is not a mat- 
ter of pounds, shillings, and pence; it is an alliilr 
as much of sentiment as economy ; it involves the 
honour of my family — and I want one to unburthen 
myself to, who can sympathise with the tortured 
feelings of a noble — of a. duke without a dukedom 
— for it has come to that. But I will leave sneers 
to the world. 

" There is Annesley, He is clever, but so cold- 
blooded. He has no heart. There is Squib. He 
is a good fellow, and has heart enough ; and I sup- 
pose, if I wanted to pension oil" a mistress, or com- 
pound with a few rascally tradesmen, he would 
manage the afiair to a miracle. There is Darrell ; 



316 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



but he will be so fussy, and confidential, and offi- 
cial. Every meeting will be a privy council, every 
discussion a debate, every memorandum a state 
paper. There is Burlington ; he is experienced, 
and clever, and kind-hearted, and I really think 
likes me ; — but — no, no, it is too ridiculous. We 
who have only met for enjoyment, whose counte- 
nance was a smile, and whose conversation was 
badinage ; we to meet, and meditate on my broken 
fortunes ! Impossible ! Besides, what right have 
I to compel a man, the study of whose life is to 
banish care, to take all my anxieties on his back or 
refuse the duty at the cost of my acquaintance, and 
the trouble of his conscience. Ah ! I once had a 
friend, the best, the wisest — but no more of that. 
What is even the loss of fortune and of considera- 
tion to the loss of his — his tlaughter's love !" 

His voice faltered, yet it was long before he 
retired ; and he rose on the morrow only to meditate 
over his harassing embarrassments. As if the cup 
of his misery were not o'erflowing. a nevv incident 
occurred about this time, which rendered his sense 
of them even keener. But this is important enough 
to commence a new chapter. 



CHAPTER X. 

William Hen ut. Marquis of Marylcbone, com- 
pleted his twenty-first year — an event which created 
a greater sensation among the aristocracy of Eng- 
land, than even the majority of George Augustus 
Frederick, Duke of St. James. The rent-roll of 
his grace was great ; but that of his lordship was 
incalculable. He had not indeed so many castles 
as our hero ; but then, in the metropolis, a whole 
parish owned him as lord ; and it was whispered, 
that when a few miles of leases fell in, the very 
Civil List must give him the wall. Even in the dura- 
tion of his minority he had the superiority over the 
young duke, for the marquis was a posthumous son. 

Lord Marylebone was a short, thick, swarthy, 
young gentleman, with wiry black hair, a nose 
somewhat flat, sharp eyes, and tusky mouth — alto- 
gether not very unlike a terrier. His tastes were 
unknown : he had not travelled, nor done any thing 
very particular, except with a few congenial spirits 
beat the Guards in a rowing match, — a pretty diver- 
eion, and almost as conducive to a small white hand 
fts almond-paste. 

But his lordship was now of age, and might be 
leen every day at a certain hour rattling up Bond- 
etrect with a long red van, in which he drove four 
or five particular friends who lived at Stephen's 
hotel ; and therefore, I suppose, were the partners 
of his glory in his victory over his majesty's house- 
hold troops. Lord Marylebone was the universal 
subject of conversation. Pursuits which would 
have devoted a shabby earl of twelve or fifteen 
thousand a year to universal reprobation, — or, what 
is much worse, to universal sneers, — assumed quite 
a ditferent character when they constituted the 
course of life of this fortunate youth. He was a 
delightful young man. So unaffected ! No super- 
refinement, no false delicacy. Every one, every 
sex, every thing, extended his, her, or its hand to 
this cub ; who, quite puzzled, but too brutal to be 
confused, kept driving on the red van. and each day 
perpetrating some new act of profligacy, some new 



instance of coarse profusion, tasteless extravagance, 
and inelegant eccentricity. 

But, nevertheless, he was the hero of the town. 
He was the great point of interest in " The Uni- 
verse," and " The New World" favoured the old 
one with weekly articles o1i his character and con- 
duct. The young duke was quite forgotten, if 
really young he could be longer called. Lord Mary- 
lebone was in the mouth of every tradesman, who 
authenticated his own vile inventions by foisting 
them on his lordship. The most grotesque fashions 
suddenly inundated the metropolis; and when the 
Duke of St. James ventured to express his disap- 
probation, he found his empire was over. " They 
were sori-y that it did not meet his grace's taste ; 
but really what his grace had suggested was quite 
gone by. This was the only hat, or cane, or coat 
which any civilized being could be seen with. 
Lord Marylebone wore, or bore, no other.'' 

In higher circles it was much the same. Although 
the dandies would not bate an inch, and certainly 
would not elect the young marquis for their leader, 
they found, to their dismay, that the empire which 
they were meditating to defend, had already slipped 
away from their grasp. A new race of adventurous 
youths appeared upon the stage. Beards, and great- 
coats even rougher, bull-dogs instead of poodles, 
clubs instead of canes, cigars instead of perfumes, 
were the order of the day. There was no end to 
boat-racing; Crockford's sneered at White's; and 
there was even a talk of reviving the ring. Even the 
women patronised the young marquis, and those 
who could not be blind to his real character, were 
sure that, if well managed, he would not turn out ill. 

Assuredly, our hero, though shelved, did not 
envy his successful rival. Had he been, instead of 
one for whom he felt a sovereign contempt, a being 
even more accomplished than himself, pity, and not 
envy, would have been the sentiment he would 
have yielded to his ascendant star. But, neverthe- 
less, he could not be insensible to the results of this 
incident ; and the advent of the young marquis 
seemed like the sting in the epigram of bis life. 
After all his ruinous magnificence, — after all the 
profuse indulgence of his fantastic tastes, — he had 
sometimes consoled himself, even in the bitterness 
of satiety, by reminding himself, that he, at least, 
commanded the admiration of his fellow-creatures, 
although it had been purchased at a costly price. 
Not insensible to the power of his wealth, the 
magic of his station, he had, however, ventured to 
indulge in the sweet belief, that these qualities were 
less concerned in the triumphs of bis career, than 
his splendid person, his accomplished mind, his 
amiable disposition, and his finished manner ; his 
beauty, his wit, his goodness, and his grace. Even 
from this delusion, too, was he to waken, and, for 
the first time in his life, he gauged the depth and 
strength of that popularity which had been so dear 
to him, and which he now found to be so shallow 
and so weak. 

" What will they think of me when they know 
all ! What they will : I care not. I would sooner 
live in a cottage with May Dacre, and work for 
our daily bread, than be worshipped by all die 
beauty of this Babylon." 

Gloomy, yet sedate, he returned home. His 
letters announced two extraordinary events. M. de 
Whiskerburg had galloped off with Lady Aphro- 
dite, and Count Frill had flown- away with the 
Biid of Paradise. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



317 



CHAPTER XI. 

The last piece of information was a relief; but 
the announcement of the elopement cost him a 
pang. Both surprised, and the first shocked him. 
We are unreasonable in love, and do not like to be 
anticipated even in neglect. An hour ago, Lady 
Aphrodite Grafton was to him only an object of 
anxiety and a cause of embarrassment. She was 
now a being to whom he was indebted for some 
of the most pleasing hours of his existence, and 
who could no longer contribute to his felicity. 
Everybody appeared deserting him. 

He had neglected her, to be sure ; and they must 
have parted, it was certain. Yet although the pre- 
sent event saved him from the most harrowing of 
scenes, he could not refrain from shedding a tear. 
So good ! and so beautiful I — and was this her end ] 
He, who knew all, knew how bitter had been the 
lot of her life. 

It is certain, that when one of your very virtuous 
won?en ventures to be a little indiscreet, I say it is 
certain, though I regret it, that sooner or later there 
is an explosion. And the reason is this, that they 
are always in a hurry to make up for lost time, and 
so love with them becomes a business instead of 
being a pleasure. Nature had intended Lady 
Aphrodite Grafton for a Psyche, so spiritual was 
her soul, so pure her blood ! .^rt, that is, educa- 
tion, which at least should be an art, though it is 
not, — art had exquisitely sculptured the precious 
gem that nature had developed, and all that was 
wanting was love to stamp an impression. Lady 
Aphrodite Grafton might have been as perfect a 
character as was ever the heroine of a novel : — and 
to whose account shall we place her blighted fame 
and sullied lustre 1 To that animal who seems 
formed only to betray woman. Her husband was a 
traitor in disguise. She found herself betrayed ; 
but like a noble chieftain, when her capital was 
lost, maintained herself among the ruins of her hap- 
piness, in the citadel of her virtue. She surren- 
dered, she thought, on terms, and in yielding her 
heart to the young duke, though never for a moment 
blind to her conduct, yet memory whispered ex- 
tenuation, and love added — all that was necessary. 

Our hero (I am for none of your perfect heroes) 
did not behave much better than her husband. The 
diflercnce between them was. Sir Lucius Grafton's 
character was formed, and formed for evil ; while 
the Duke of St. James, when he became acquainted 
with Lady Aphrodite, possessed none. Gallantry 
was a habit in which he had been brought up. To 
protest to women what he did not believe, and to 
feign what he did not feel, were, as he supposed, 
parts in the character of an accomplished gentle- 
man ; and as hitherto he had not found his career 
productive of any misery, we may perhaps view his 
conduct with less severity. But at length he ap- 
proaches — not a mere woman of the world, who 
tries to delude him into the idea that he is the first 
hero of a romance that has been a hundred times 
repeated. He trembles at the responsibility which 
he has incurred by engaging the feelings of another. 
In the conflict of his emotions, some rays of moral 
light break upon his darkened soul. Profligacy 
brings its own punishment, and he feels keenly 
that man is the subject of sympathy, and not the 
slave of self-love. 

This remorse protracts a connexion which each 



day is productive of more painful feelings; but the 
heart cannot be overstrung, and anxiety ends in 
callousness. Then come neglect, remonstrance, 
explanations, protestations, EUid, sooner or later, a 
catastrophe. 

But love is a dangerous habit, and when once 
indulged, is not easily thrown oflT, unless you become 
devout, which is, in a manner, giving the passion a 
new direction. In Catholic countries, it is surpris- 
ing how many adventures end in a convent. A 
dame, in her desperation, flies to the grate, which 
never re-opens : but in Protestant regions, she has 
time to cool, and that's the deuse ; so, instead of 
taking the veil, she takes — a new lover. 

Lady Aphrodite had worked up her mind, and 
the young duke, to a step, the very mention of 
which, a year before, would have made her shudder. 
What an enchanter is passion ! INo wonder Ovid, 
who was a judge, made love so much connected 
with his metamorphoses. With infinite difficulty 
had she dared to admit the idea of flying with his 
grace; but when the idea was once admitted, — 
when she really had, once or twice, constantly 
dwelt on the idea of at length being free from her 
tyrant, and perhaps about to indulge in those beauti- 
ful affections for which she was formed, and of 
which she had been rifled, — when, I say, all this 
occurred, and her hero diplomatized, and, in short, 
kept back — why, she had advanced one step, without 
knowing it, to running away with another man. 

It was unlucky that De Whi.«kcrburg stepped 
in. An Englishman would not have done. She 
knew them well, and despised them all ; but he 
was new, (dangerous novelty,) with a cast of feel- 
ings which, because they were strange, she believed 
to be unhackneyed, and he was impassioned. — I 
need not go on. 

So this star has dropped from out the heaven ; so 
this precious pearl no longer gleams among the 
jewels of society, and there she breathes in a foreign 
land, among strange faces, and stranger customs ; 
and when she thinks of what is past, laughs at some 
present emptiness, and tries to persuade her wither- 
ing heart that the mind is independent of country, 
and blood, and opinion. And her father's face no 
longer shines with its proud love, and her mother's 
voice no longer whispers to her with sweet anxiet}'. 
Clouded is the brow of her bold brother, and dim- 
med is the radiancy of her budding sister's bloom. 

Poor creature ! that is to say, wicked woman ! — 
for I am not one of those who set myself against 
the verdict of society, or ever omit to expedite, by 
a gentle kick, a falling friend. And yet, when I 
just remember beauty is beauty, and grace is grace, 
and kindness is kindness, although the beautiful, 
the graceful, and the amiable do get in a scrape, I 
don't know how it is, I confess it is a weakness, but 
under these circumstances I do not feel quite in- 
clined to sneer. But this is wrong. We should 
not pity or pardon those who have yielded to great 
temptation, or perchance great provocation. Be- 
sides, it is right that our sympathy should be kept 
for the injured. 

To stand amid the cold ashes of your desolate 
hearth, with all your penates shivered at your feet; 
to find no smiling face meet your return, no brow 
look gloomy when you leave your door, to eat and 
sleep alone, to be bored with grumbling servants 
and with weekly bills; to have your children ask- 
ing after mamma ; and no one to nurse your gout, 
or cure the influenza that rages in your household 
2d3 



318 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



— all this is JoubVlcss liHrtl to digest, and would tell 
in a novel, parlicvilarly it written by my friends Mr. 
Ward or Mr. Bnlwer. 

But is it trnei I hope not. I. who am the lone- 
liest of the sons of Adam, on whom no female ever 
will drop in, just for a quiet chat, except the muse, 
who will not quite desert me, I have some idea of 
trying^ the comforts and the consolations of the 
blessed state ; and, I confess, though of a mild and 
tolerant disposition — one, in fact, who can bear any 
thing— I say, I should not exactly like — you un- 
derstand me. 

Theref:)re, I beg it to be most explicitly under- 
stood, that if any damsel, instead of going out to 
India, choose to come out to me on speculation, (I 
promise to give her a fair trial,) I beg it, I say, to be 
most distinctly understood, that she must behave 
herself. 

For Doctors' Commons are a common bore, or 
sewer, the clnrica maxima of society, and, no doubt, 
tend greatly to the purity of our morals. But then, 
in England, you have to pay for virtue, as well as 
every thing else; and I cannot ensure the purity of 
my posterity at the cost of the purse of the present 
generation. 

And so, ma'am'selle, this is an understood condi- 
tion. For the rest of your qualifications, fortune 
is no object ; by which I mean to be understood 
that if grace and beauty will not come, backed hy 
those sweet acres and consols, why, I must take the 
picture without a frame, and wear the gem without 
its burnished bed. Love and economy will doubt- 
less do wonders. For your style of loveliness, al- 
though, like all others, I may have my penchant ; 
nevertheless, blonde or brunette, I shall be satislied. 
I only insist upon an exquisite taste in costume. I 
hate an ill-dressed woman. Li this accomplished 
age, it is unnecessary to say any thing of accom- 
plishments ; and provided you do not copy prints, 
and will favour me with more of the piano than of 
your guitar, we shall not quarrel. You must not 
be at all fantastic, but a most obedient and quiet 
wife. You must condescend occasionally to turn 
a leafof Jarrin or of Dolby; hut, on the other hand, 
you may eat as httle as you like. Of myself, I say 
nothing, because egotism is not my forte ; but if 
you wish to make inquiries, I am ready with the 
most respectable references, requiring, as I do, the 
fame, and also, that all letters be post-paid. 



CHAPTER XII. 

The duke had passed a stormy morning with his 
solicitor, who wished him to sell the Pen Bronnock 
property, which, being parliamentary, woul-d com- 
mand a price infinitely greater than rriight l)e ex- 
pected from its relative income. The very idea of 
Hlripping his coronet of this brightest jewel, and 
thus sacrificing for wealth the ends of riches, greatly 
disordered him, and he more and more felt the want 
of a coutiscllor who could sympathize with his feel- 
ings, as well as arrange his fortunes. In this mood, 
he suddenly seized a pen, and wrote the tallowing 
letter. 

" Home, Feb. 5, 182- 

" Mr nsAR Mn. Dacre, — I keenly feel that you 
ore the last person to whom I should apply for the 
counsels or the consolation of friendship. I have 



long ago forfeited all claims to your regard, and 
your esteem I never possessed. Yet, if only 
because my career ought to end by my being a.^ 
unsuccessful suppliant to the individual whom both 
virtue and nature pointed out to me as my best 
friend, and whose proffered and parental support I 
have so wantonly, however thoughtlessly, rejected, 
I do not regret that this is written. No feeling of 
false delicacy can prevent me from applying to one 
to whom I have long ago incurred incalculable obli- 
gations, and no feeling of fjilse delicacy will, I hope, 
for a moment, prevent you from refusing the appli- 
cation of one who has acknowledged tnose obliga- 
tions only by incalculable ingratitude. 

" In a word, my affairs are, I fear, inextricably 
involved. I will not dwell upon the madness of 
my life ; sulrice that its consequences appal me. 
I have really endeavoured to examine into all de- 
tails, and am prepared to meet the evil as becomes 
me ; but, indeed, my head turns with the compli- 
cated interests which solicit my consideration ; and 
I tremble lest, in the distraction of my mind, I may 
adopt measures which may baf!le the very results I 
would attain. For myself, I am very ready to pay 
the penalty of my silly profligacy; and if exile, or 
any other personal infliction, can redeem the for- 
tunes of the house that I have betrayed, I shall 
cheerfully submit to my destiny. My career has 
been productive of too little happiness to make me 
regret its termination. 

" But I want advice : I want the counsel of one 
who can sympathize with my distracted feeUngs — 
who will look as much, or rather more, to the ho- 
nour of my family than to the convenience of myself. 
I cannot obtain this from what are called iiien 
of business — and, with a blush, I confess I h.tve no 
friend. In this situation, my thoughts recur tc one 
on whom, believe me, they have often dwelt; and 
although I have no right to appeal to your heart, 
for my fother's sake you will perhaps pardon this 
address. Whatever you may resolve, my dearest 
sir, rest assured that you and your family will al- 
ways command the liveliest gratitude of one whu 
regrets he may not subscribe himself 

" Your obliged and devoted friend, 

" St. James. 

" I beg that you will not answer this if your de- 
termination be what I anticipate and what I de- 
serve." 

" Dacre Dacre, Esq." &c. &c. &c. 

It was signed, sealed and sent. He repented its 
transmission when it was gone. He almost resolved 
to send a courier to stop the post. He continuetl 
walking up and down his room for the rest of the 
day : he could not eat, or read, or talk. He was 
plunged in a nervous revery. He passed the next 
day in the same state. Unable to leave his house, 
and unseen by visiters, he retired to his bed, feverish 
and disjtirited. The morning c;nne, and he woke 
from his hot and broken sleep at an early hour ; yet 
he had not energy to rise. At last the post arrived, 
and his letters were brought up to him. With a 
trembling hand and a sinking breath he read these 
lines : 

" Castle Dacre, February 6, 1 82-. 

"Mr DEAR TouxG FRIEND, — Not Only for 
your fether's sake, but your own, are my service* 
ever at your command. I have long been sensible 
of your amiable disposition, and there are circuia 
stances which will ever make me your debtor. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



319 



•* The announcement of the embarrassed state 
of your ati'airs fills me with sorrow and anxiety — 
yet I will hope the best. Young men, uncon- 
sciously, exaggerate adversity as well as prosperity. 
If you arc not an habitual gamester, and I hope you 
have not been even an occasional one, unbounded 
extravagance could scarcely, in two years, have 
permanently injured your resources. However, 
bring down with you all papers, and be careful to 
make no arrangement, even of the slightest nature, 
until we meet. 

" We expect you hourly. May desires her 
kindest regards, and begs me to express the great 
pleasure which she will feel at again finding you 
our guest. It is unnecessary for me to repeat how 
very sincerely I am your friend. 

" Dacre Dacre." 

He read the letter three times, to be sure he did 
not mistake the delightful import. Then he rang 
the bell with a vivacity which had not characterized 
him for many a month. 

" Luigi! prepare to leave town to-morrow morn- 
ing for an indefinite period. I shall only take you. 
I must dress immediately, and order breakfast and 
my horses." 

The Duke of St. James had communicated the 
state of his affairs to Lord Fitz-pompcy, who was 
very shocked, offered his best services, and also 
asked him to dinner, to meet the Marquis of Mary- 
lebone. The young duke had also announced to 
his relatives, and to some of his particular friends, 
that he intended to travel for some time, and he well 
knew that their charitable experience would under- 
stand the rest. They understood every thing. The 
marquis's party daily increased, and " The Uni- 
verse" and " The New World" anno.unced that 
the young duke was " done up." 

There was one person to whom our hero would 
pay a farewell visit before he left London. This 
was Lady Caroline St. Maurice. He had called at 
Fitz-pompey House one or two mornings in the 
hope of finding her alone, and to-day he determined 
to be more successful. As he stopped his horse 
for the last time before his uncle's mansion, he 
could not help calling to mind the first visit which 
he had paid after his arrival. But the door opens, 
— he enters, — he is announced, — and finds Lady 
Caroline alone. 

Ten minutes passed away, as if the morning 
ride or evening ball were again to bring them to- 
gether. The young duke was still gay, and still 
amusing. At last he said with a smile — 

" Do you know, Caroline, this is a farewell visit, 
and to you?" 

She did not speak, but bent her head, as if she 
were intent upon some work, and so seated herself 
that her countenance was almost hid. 

"You have heard from my uncle," continued 
he, laughing, " and if you have not heard from 
him, you have heard from somebody else, of my 
little scrape. A fool and his money, you know, 
Caroline, and a short reign and a mefry one. 
When we get prudent, we are wondrous fond of 
proverbs. My reign has certainly been brief 
enough : with regard to the merriment, that is not 
quite so certain. I have little to regret except your 
society, sweet coz !" 

'• Dear George, how can you talk so of such 
serious affairs I If you knew how unhappy, how 
iaiserable I am, when I hear the cold, callous world 



speak of such things with indifference., you would 
at least not imitate their heartlessness." 

"Dear Caroline!" said he, seating himself al 
her side. 

" I cannot help thinking," she continued, " tha 
j'ou have not sufficiently exerted yourself about 
these embarrassments. You are, of course, too 
harassed — too much annoyed — too little accus- 
tomed to the energy and the detail of business to 
interfere with any eifect; but surely, surely, a 
friend might. You will not speak to my father, 
and perhaps you have your reasons ; but is there 
no one CISC'! St. Maurice, I know, has no head. 
Ah ! George, I often feel that if your relations had 
been different people, your fate might have beeo 
diiTerent. We arc the fault." 

He kissed her hand. 

"Among all your intimates," she continued, "is 
there no one fit to be your counsellor — no one 
worthy of your confidence]" 

"None," said the duke bitterly, "none — none. 
I have no friend among those intimates : there is 
not a man of them who cares to serve, or is capa- 
ble of serving me." 

" You have well considered 1" asked Lady Ca- 
roline. 

" Well, dear, well. I know them all by rote, — 
head and heart. Ah ! my dear, dear Carry, if you 
were a man, what a nice little friend you would 
be." 

" You will always laugh, George. But I — I 
have no heart to laugh. This breaking up of your 
affairs, this exile, this losing you whom we all love 
— love so dearly, makes me quite miserable !" 

He kissed her hand again. 

" I dare say," she continued, "you have thought 
me as heartless as the rest, because I never spoke. 
But I knew — that is, I feared — or, rather, hoped, 
that a great part of what I heard was false ;and 
so I thought notice was unnecessary, and might be 
painful. Yet, Heaven knows, there are few sub- 
jects that have been oftener in my thoughts, or cost 
me more anxiety. Are you sure you have no 
friend 1" 

" I have you, Caroline. I did not say I had no 
friends : I said I had none among those intimates 
you talked of; that there was no man among them 
capable of the necessary interference, even if he 
were willing to undertake it. But I am not friend- 
less — not quite forlorn, love ! My fate has given 
me a friend, that I but little deserve ; one, whom 
if I had prized better, I should not perhaps been 
obliged to put his friendship to so severe a triaL 
To-morrow, Caroline, I depart for Castle Dacre ; 
there is my friend. Alas ! how little have I de- 
served such a boon !" 

" Dacre !" exclaimed Lady Caroline, " Mr. 
Dacre! O! you have made me so happy, George ! 
Mr. Dacre is the\ery, very person, — that is, the very 
best person you could possibly have applied to." 

" (rood-bye, Caroline," said his grace, rising. 

She burst into tears. 

Never, never had she looked so lovely : never, 
never had he loved her so entirely ! Tears ! — tears 
shed for him ! O ! what, what is giief, when a 
lovely woman remains to weep over our misfor- 
tunes ! Could he be miserable — could his career 
indeed be unfortunate, when this was reserved for 
him? He was on the point of pledging Iris affec- 
tion, — but to leave her under such circumstances 
was impossible : to neglect Mr. Dacre was equally 



320 



D ' I S R A E L I ' S NOVELS. 



60. He determined to arrange affairs wiih all 
possible promptitude, and then to hasten up, and 
entreat her to share his diminished fortunes. But 
he would not go without whispering hope — with- 
out leaving some soft thought to lighten her lonely 
hours. He caught her in his arms ; he covered 
her sweet small mouth with kisses, and wliispered, 
in the midst of their pure embrace — 

" Love ! — Love ! I shall soon return, and we 
will jet be happy." 



BOOK THE FIFTH. 



CHAPTER I 

Miss Daciik, although she was prepared to greet 
the Duke of St. James with cordiality, did not 
anticipate with equal pleasure the arrival of the 
pages and the jagcr. Infinite had been the dis- 
turbances they had occasioned during their first 
visit, and endless the complaints of the steward 
and the housekeeper. The men-servants were 
initiated in the mysteries of dominoes, and the 
maid-servants in the tactics of flirtation.. Carlstein 
was the hero of the under-butlers, and even the 
trustv guardian of the cellar himself was too often 
■on the point of obtaining the German's' opinion of 
his master's German wines. Gaming, and drunk- 
enness, and love, the most productive of all the 
teeming causes of human sorrow, had in a *veek 
sadly disordered the well-regulated household of 
Castle Dacre, and nothing but the impetuosity of 
our hero would have saved his host's establishment 
from utter perdition. Miss Dacre was therefore 
nofless pleased th^n suqirised when the hritehska 
of the Duke of St. James discharged on a fine 
afternoon, i*s nol)le master, attended only by the 
faithful Luigi, at the terrace of the castle. 

A few country cousins, fresh from Cumberland, 
who knew nothing of the Duke of St. James, 
except from a stray number of " The Universe," 
which occasionally stole down to corrupt the pure 
waters of their lakes, were the only guests. Mr. 
Dacre grasped our hero's hand with a warmth and 
expression which were unusual to him, but which 
conveyed, better than words, the depth of his 
friendship ; and his daughter, who looked more 
beautiful than ever, advanced with a beaming face 
and joyous tone, which quite reconciled the Duke 
of St. James to being a ruined man. 

The presence of strangers limited their conversa- 
tion to subjects of general interest. At dinner, the 
duke took care to be most agreeable : he talked in 
a very unaffected manner, and particularly to the 
cousins, who were all delighted with him, and 
found him " quite a different person to what they 
had fancied." The evening passed over, and even 
lightly, without the aid of ecarte, romances, or 
gallops. Mr. Dacre chatted with old Mr. Monting- 
ford, and old Mrs. Montingford sat still admiring 
her " girls." who stood still admiring May Dacre 
singing or talking, and occasionally reconciled us 
to their occasional silence, by a frequent and ex- 
tremely hearty laugh — that Cumberland laugh, 
which never outUves a single season in London. 

And the Duke of St. James — what did he do 1 
It must be confessed, that in some points he greatly 



resembled the Misses Montingford, for he wasi both 
silelit and admiring — but he. never laughed^ Yet 
he was not dull, and was careful not to show that 
he had cares, which is vulgar. If a man be 
gloomy, let him keep to himself. No one has a 
right to go croaking about society, or, what is 
worse, looking as if he stifled grief. These fellows 
should be put in the ])ound. I like a good broken 
heart or so, now and then ; but then we should 
retire to tlie Sierra Morena mountains, and live 
upon locusts and wild honey, not " dine out" with 
our cracked cores, and while we are meditating 
suicide, the Gazette, or the Chiltern Hundreds, 
damn a vintage, or eulogize an entree. 

And as for cares — what are cares when a man is 
in love '! Once more they had met, — once more 
he gazed upon that sunny and sparkling face, once 
more he listened to that sweet and thrilling voice 
which sounded like a birdlike burst of music upon 
a summer morning. She moved, and each atti- 
tude was fascination. She vtas still ; and he re- 
gretted that she moved. Now her neck, now her 
hair, now her round arm, now her tapering waist, 
ravished his attention ; now he is in ecstacies with 
her twiid<ling foot; now he is dazzled with her 
glancing hand. 

Once more he was at .Dacre ! How different 
was this meeting to their first ! . Then, she was 
cold, almost cutting; then she was disregardful, 
almost contemptuous ; but then he had hoped, — 
ah ! madman, he had more than hoped. Now 
she was Warm, almost affectionate; now she Hstened 
ta him with readiness, ay ! almost courted his con- 
versation. And now he could only despair. Aa 
he stood alone before the fire, chewing tliis bilYer 
cud, she approached him. 

"How good you were to come directly !" she 
said, with a smile which melted his heart. " I 
fear, however, you will not find us as merry as 
before. But you can make any thing amusing. 
Come, then, and sing to these damsels. Do you 
know they are half afraid of you! and I cannot 
persuade them that a terrible magician lias not 
assumed, for the nonce, the air and appearance of 
a young gentleman of distinction." 

He smiled, but could not speak. Repartee sadly 
deserts the lover ; yet smiles, under those circum- 
stances, are very eloquent ; and the eye, after all, 
speaks much more to the purpose than the tongue. 
Forgetting every thing, except the person who 
addressed him, he offered her his hand, and ad- 
vanced to the group which surrounded the piano. 



CHAPTER n. 

The next morning was passed by the Duke of 
St. James in giving Mr. Dacre his report of the 
state of his affairs. His banker's accounts, his 
architect's estimates, his solicitor's statements, were 
all brought forward and discussed. A ride, gene- 
rally with Miss Dacre and one of her young friends, 
dinner, and a short evening, and eleven o'clock, 
sent them all to repose. 'I'hus glided on a fort- 
night. The mornings continued to be passed in 
business. Affairs were more complicated than his 
grace had imagined, who had no idea of detail. He 
gave all the information that he could, and made 
his friend master of his particular feelings. For 
the rest, Mr. Dacre was soon involved in much 



THE Y UN G DUKE. 



521 



correspondence ; and although the young duke 
could no longer assist him, he recommended, and 
earnestly begged, that he would remain at Dacre; 
for he could perceive, better than his grace, that 
our hero was labouring under a great deal of ex- 
citement, and that his health was impaired. A 
regular course of life was therefore as necessaiy 
for his constitution, as it was desirable for all other 
reasons. 

Behold, then, our hero domesticated at Dacre — 
rising at nine, joining a family breakfast, taking a 
quiet ride or moderate stroll, sometimes looking 
into a book — but he was no great reader ; some- 
times fortunate enough in achieving a stray game 
at billiards, usually with a Miss Montingfoi-d, and 
retiring to rest about the time that in London his 
most active existence generally began. Was he 
dull 1 was he wearied ] He was never lighter- 
hearted or more contented in his life. Happy he 
could not allow himself to be styled, because the 
very cause which breathed this calm over his exist- 
ence seemed to portend a storm which could not be 
avoided. It was the thought, the presence, the 
smile, the voice of May Dacre, that imparted this 
new interest to existence; that being who never 
could be his. He shuddered to think that all this 
must end ; but, although he never indulged again 
in the great hope, his sanguine temper allowed 
him to thrust away the future, and to participate 
in all the joys of the flowing hour. 

At the end of February, the Montingfords de- 
5)arted, and now the duke was the only guest at 
Dacre ; nor did he hear that any others were ex- 
pected. He was alone with her again — often was 
tie alone with her, and never without a strange 
feeling coming over his frame, which made him 
tremble. Mr. Dacre, a man of active talents, al- 
ways found occupation in the various interests of 
a large estate, and usually requested, or rather re- 
quired, the Duke of St. James to be his companion. 
He was desirous that the duke should not be 
alone, and ponder too much over the past ; nor did 
he conceal liis wishes from his daughter, who, on 
all occasions, as the duke observed with gratifica- 
tion, seconded the benevolent intentions of her 
parent. Nor did our hero indeed wish to be 
alone, or to ponder over the past. He was quite 
contented with the present ; but he did not want 
to ride with papa, and took every opportunity to 
shirk; all which Mr. Dacre set down to the indo- 
lence of exhaustion, and the inertness of a mind 
without an object. 

" I am going to ride over to Doncaster, George," 
said Mr. Dacre, one morning, at breakfast. '' I 
think you had better order your horse too. A 
good ride will rouse you, and you should show 
yourself there." 

" O ! very well, sir ; but — but, I think that — " 
"But whatl" asked Mr. Dacre, smiling. 
The duke looked to May Dacre, who seemed to 
take pity on his idleness. 

" You make him ride too much, papa. Leave 
him at home with me. I have a long round to- 
day, and want an escort. I will take him instead 
of my friend Tom Carter. You must carry a bas- 
ket, though," said she, turning to the duke, " and 
run lor the doctor if he be wanted, and, in short, 
do any odd message that turns up." 

So Mr. Dacre departed alone, and shortly after 
his daughter and the Duke of St. James set out on 
their mornmg ramble. Many were the cottages at 
41 



which they called — many the old dan.cs afler 
whose rheumatisms, and many the young <lamsels 
after whose fortunes they inquired. Old Dame 
Rawdon was worse or better — worse last night, but 
better this morning. She was always better when 
miss called. Miss's face always did her good. 
And Fanny was very comfortable at Squire Went- 
worth's, and the housekeeper was veiy kind to 
her, thanks to miss's saying a word, to the great 
lady. And old John Selby was quite about again. 
Miss's stuff' had done him a world of good, to say 
nothing of Mr. Dacre's generous old wine. 

" And is this your second son, Dame Eish- 
worth ]" 

"No; that bees our fourth," said the good wo- 
man, maternally arranging the urchin's thin, white, 
flat, straight, unmanageable hair. " We are think- 
ing what to do with him, miss. He wants to go 
out to service. Since Jim Eustace got on so, I 
don't know what the matter is with the lads ; but 
I think we shall have none of them in the fields 
soon. He can clean knives and shoes very well, 
miss. Mr. Bradford, at the castle, was saying, 
t'other day, that perhaps he might want a young 
hand. You haven't heard any thing, I suppose, 
miss ]" 

"And what is your name, sirl" asked Miss 
Dacre. 

" Bobby Rishworth, miss !" 
" Well, Bobby, I must consult Mr. Bradford." 
" We be in great trouble, miss," said the next 
cottager. " We be in great trouble. Tom, poo- 
Tom, was out last night, and the keepers will give 
him up. The good man has done all he can — we 
have all done all we can, miss, and you see how it 
ends. He is the first of the family that ever went 
out. I hope that will be considered, miss. Seventy 
years, our fathers before us, have we been on the 'state, 
and nothing ever sworn agin us. I hope that will 
be considered, miss. I am sure if Tom had been 
an under-keeper, as Mr. Roberts once talked of, 
this would have never happened. I hope that it 
will be considered, miss. We are in great trouble 
sure/y. Tom, you see, was our first, miss." 

" I never interfere about poaching, you know, 
Mr. Jones. Mr. Dacre is the best judge of such 
matters. But you can go to him and say that I 
sent you. I am afraid, however, that he has heard 
of Tom before." 

" Only that night at Millwood, miss, and then, 
you see, he had been drinkijig with Squire Ridge's 
people. I hope that will be considered, miss." 
" Well, well, go up to the castle." 
" Pray be seated, miss," said a very neat-looking 
mistress of a very neat little farm-house. " Pray 
be seated, sir. Let me dust it first. Dust will get 
everywhere, do what we can. And how's pa, 
miss ] He has not given me a look-in for many a 
day — not since he was a-hunting : bless me, if it 
a'n't a fortnight. This day fortnight he tasted our 
ale, sure enough. Will you take a glass, sir ]" 

" You are very good. No, I thank you ; not to- 
day." 

"Yes, give him a glass, nurse. He is very un- 
well, and it will do him good." 

She brought the sparkling amber fluid, and the 
duke did justice by his draught. 

" I shall have fine honey for you, miss, this 
year," said the old nurse. " Are you fond of honey, 
sir ? Our honey is well known about. I don't 
know how it is, but we do always contrive to 



323 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



manage the bees. How fond some people are of 
lioney, good Lord ! Now, when you were a Httle 
girl, (I knew this young lady, sir, before you did,) 
you always used to be fond of honey. I remember 
one day — let me see — it must be ! ay ! truly, that 
it is — eighteen years ago next Martinmas. I was 
a-going down the nursery stairs, just to my poor 
mistress's room, and I had you in my arms (for I 
knew this young lady, sir, before you did)— well ! 
I was a-going down the stairs, as I just said, to my 
poor dear mistress's room, with you, who was then 
a little un indeed (bless your smiling face ! you 
cost me many a weary hour when you were 
weaned, miss. That you did ! Some thought 
you would never get through it ; but I always said, 
while there is life there is hope ; and so, you see, I 
were right) — but, as I was saying, I was a-going 
down the stairs to my poor dear mistress, and I 
had a gallipot in my hand, a covered gallipot, with 
some leeches. And just as I got to the bottom of 
the stairs, and was a-going into my poor dear mis- 
tress's room, said you (I never shall forget it) — 
said you, ' Honey, honey, nurse.* She thought it 
was honey, sir. So, you see, she were always 
fond of honey, (for I knew this young lady long 
before you did, sir.)" 

" Are you quite sure of that, nurse?" said Miss 
Dacre ; " I think this is an older friend than you 
imagine. You remember the little duke — do not 
you ] This is the little duke. Do you think he 
has grown 1" 

" Now ! bless my life ! is it so, indeed ? Well, 
be sure, he has grown. I always thought he would 
turn out well, miss, though Dr. Prettyman were al- 
ways at preaching and talking his prophecycations. 
I always thought he would turn out well at last. 
Bless me ! how he has grown, indeed ! Perhaps 
he grows too fast, and that makes him weak. 
Nothing better than a glass of ale for weak people. 
I remember when Dr. Prettyman ordered it for my 
poor dear mistress. ' Give her ale,' said the doctor, 
' as strong as it can be brewed ;' and, sure enough, 
my poor dear master had it brewed I Have you 
done growing, sir ? You was ever a troublesome 
child. Often and oflen have I called ' George ! 
George ! Georgy I Georgy Porgy !' and he never 
would come near me, though he heard all the time 
as plainly as he does now. Bless me! he has 
grown, indeed !" 

" But I have turned out well at last, nurse, ehl" 
asked the duke. 

" Ay ! sure enough ; I always said so. Often 
and often have I said, he will turn out well at last. 
You be going, miss ? I thank you for looking in. 
My duty to my master. I was thinking of bring- 
ing up one of those cheeses he likes so." 

" Ay ! do nurse. He can eat no cheese but 
yours." 

As they wandered home, they talked of Lady 
Caroline, to whom the duke mentioned that he 
must write. He had onee intended distinctly to 
have explained his feelings to her in a letter from 
Dacre ; but each day he postponed the close of his 
destiny, although without hope. He lingered, and 
he lingered round May Dacre, as a bird flutters 
round the fruit which is already grasped by a boy. 
Circumstances, which we shall relate, had already 
occurred, which confirmed the suspicion he had 
long entertained, that Arundel Dacre was his fa- 
voured rival. Impressed with the folly of again 
encouraging hope, yet unable to harden his heart 



against her continual fascination, the softness of 
his manner indicated his passion, and his calm 
and somewhat languid carriage also told her 
it was hopeless. Perhaps, after all, there is no 
demeanour more calculated to melt obdurate wo- 
man. The gratification he received from her 
society was evident, yet he never indulged in that 
gallantry of which he was once so proud. When 
she approached him, a mild smile lit up his pensivo 
countenance ; he adopted her suggestions, but 
made none ; he listened to her remarks with inte- 
rest, but no longer bandied repartee. Delicately 
he impressed her with the absolute power which 
she might exercise over his mind. 

" I write myself to Caroline to-morrow," said 
Miss Dacre. 

" Ah ! then I need not write. I talked of going 
up sooner. Have the kindness to explain why I 
do not : — peremptory orders from Mr. Dacre — 
fresh air, and — " 

"Arithmetic; I understand you get on admi 
rably." 

" My follies," said the duke, with a serious air 
" have at least been productive of one good end — 
they have amused you." 

" Nay ! I have done too many foolish things 
myself, any more to laugh at my neighbours. As 
for yourself, you have only committed those which 
were inseparable from your situation ; and few like 
the Duke of St. James, would so soon have opened 
their eyes to the truth of their conduct." 

" A compliment from you repays me for all." 

" Self-approbation does, which is much better 
than compliments from any one. See ! there is 
papa — and Arundel too ; let us run up !" 



CHAPTER III. 

The Duke of St. James had, on his arrival al 
Dacre, soon observed that a very constant corres 
pondence was maintained between Miss Dacre and 
her cousin. There was no attempt to conceal the 
fact from any of the guests, and as that young 
gentleman was now engaged in an affair interesting 
to all his friends, every letter generally contained 
some paragraph almost as interesting to the Mont- 
ingfords as herself, and which was accordingly read 
aloud. Mr. Arundel Dacre was candidate tor the 
vacant representation of a town in a distant coimty. 
He had been disappointed in his views on the 
borough, about which he had returned to England, 
but had been nevertheless persuaded by his cousin 
to remain in his native country. During this period 
he had been a great deal at Castle Dacre, and had 
become much more intimate and unreserved with 
his uncle, who observed with the greatest satisfac- 
tion this change in his character, and lost no 
opportunity of deserving and increasing the con- 
fidence for which he had so long uuavailLngly 
yearned and which was now so unexpectedly 
proffered. 

The borough for which Arundel Dacre was 
about to stand was in Sussex, a county in which 
his family had no property, and very slight con- 
nexion. Yet at the place the Catholic interest was 
strong, and on that and the usual whig influence 
he ventured. His desire to be a member of the 
legislature, at all and from early times extreme, 



THE YUUING DUKE. 



323 



was now greatly heightened by the prospect of 
being present at the impending Catholic debate. 
After an absence of three weeks, he had hurried to 
Yorkshire for four-and-twenty hours, to give a 
report of the state of his canvass, and the proba- 
bility of his success. In that success all were 
greatly interested, but none more so than May Da- 
cre, whose thoughts indeed seemed to dwell on no 
other subject, and who expressed herself with a 
warmth which betrayed her secret feehngs. Had 
the place only been in Yorkshire, she was sure he 
must have succeeded. She was the best canvasser 
in the world, and everybody agreed that Harry 
Greystock owed his election merely to her insinuat- 
ing tongue and unrivalled powers of scampering, 
by which she had completely baffled the tactics of 

(Lady Amarantha Germain, who thought that a 
canvass was only a long morning call, and might 
be achieved in a cachemere and a britchska. 
The young duke, who had seen very little of his 
eecond since the eventful day, greeted him with 
warmth, and was welcomed with a frankness which 
he had never before experienced from his friend. 
Excited by rapid travel and his present course of 
life, and not damped by the unexpected presence 
of any strangers, Arundel Dacre seemed quite a 
changed man, and talked immensely. 

" Come, May, I must have a kiss ! I have been 
kissing as pretty girls as you. There, now ! you 
all said I never should be a popular candidate. I 
get regularly huzzaed every day, — so they have 
been obliged to hire a band of butchers boys to 
]X"lt me. Whereupon I compare myself to 
Ctesar set upon in the senate house, and get im- 
mense cheering in 'The County Chronicle,' which 
I have bribed. If you knew the butts of wine, the 
Heidelburg tuns of ale, that I have diunk during 
the last fortnight, you would stare indeed. As 
much as the lake ; but then I have to talk so much, 
that the ardour of my eloquence, like the hot flan- 
nels of the Humane Society, saves me from the in- 
jurious eftects of all this liquid." 

" Bui will you get in — but will you get inl" 
exclaimed his cousin. 

" 'Tis not in mortals to command success ; 
but—" 

" Pooh ! pooh ! you must command it !" 
" Well, then, I have an excellent chance ; and 
the only thing against me is, that my committee 
are quite sure. But really I thuik, that if the Pro- 
testant overseers, whom, by-the-by. May, I cannot 
persuade that I am a heretic (it is very hard that a 
man is not believed when he says he shall be 
damned) — if they do not empty the workhouse, we 
shall do. But let us go in, for I have travelled all 
night, and must be oft' to-morrow morning." 
I They entered the house, and the duke quitted 

I the family group. About an hour afterward he 
sauntered to the music-room. As he opened the 
door his eyes lighted upon May Dacre and her 
cousin. They were standmg before the fire, with 
their backs to the door. His arm was wound 
carelessly round her waist, and with his other hand 
he supported, with her, a miniature, at which she 
was looking. The duke could not catch her coun- 
tenance, which was completely hid ; but her com- 
panion was not gazing on the picture ; his head, a 
little turned, indicated that there was a living coun- 
tenance more interesting to him than all the skill 
of the most cunning artist. Part of his cheek was 
alone perceptible, and that was burning red. 



All this was the work of a moment. The duke 
stared, turned pale, closed the door without a 
sound, and retired unperceived. When he was 
sure that he could no longer be observed, he gasped 
for breath, a cold dew covered his frame, his joints 
loosened, and his sinking heart gave him that sick- 
cning sensation when life appears utterly worthless, 
and ourselves utterly contemptible. Yet what had 
he witnessed 1 A confirmation of what he had 
never doubted. W'hat was this woman to him 1 
Alas! how supreme was the power with which 
she ruled his spirit ! And this Dacre — this Arundel 
Dacre, — how he hated him ! O ! that they were 
hand to hand, and sword to sword, in some fair 
field, and there decide it ! He must conquer; ho 
felt that. Already his weapon pierced that craven 
heart, and ripped open that breast which was to be 
the pillow of — Hell! hell! He rushed to his 
room, and began a letter to Caroline St. Maurice ; 
but he could not write : and after scribbling over 
a quire of paper, he threw the sheets to the flames, 
and determined to ride up to town to-morrow. 

The dinner-bell sounded. Could he meet them 1 
Ay ! meet them I Defy them ! Insult them ! He 
descended to the dining-room. He heard her mu- 
sical and liquid voice ; the scowl upon his brow 
melted away ; but, gloomy and silent, he took his 
seat, and gloomy and silent he remained. Little 
he spoke, and that little was scarcely courteous. 
But Arundel had enough to say. He was the hero 
of the party. Well he might be. Story after 
story of old maids and young widows, sturdy 
butchers, and corrupt coal-merchants, sparkled 
away ; but a faint smile was all the tribute of the 
duke, and a tribute that was seldom paid. 

" You are not well !" said Miss Dacre to him in 
a low voice. 

" I believe I am," answered he, shortly. 

" You do not seem quite so," she replied, with 
an air of surprise. 

" I believe I have got a headach," he retorted, 
with very little more cordiality. She did not again 
speak, but she was evidently annoyed. 



CHAPTER IV. 

There certainly is a dark delight in being mis- 
erable — a sort of strange satisfaction in being 
savage, which is uncommonly fascinating. One 
of the greatest pests of my philosophy is, that I 
(*n no longer be sullen, and most smcerely do I 
regret it. To brood over misery — to flatter yourself 
that there is not a single being who cares for your 
existence, and not a single circumstance to make 
that existence desirable ;— ! there is wild witchery 
in it, which I doubt whether opium can reach, and 
I am sure that wine cannot. 

And the duke ! He soon left the uncle and 
nephew to their miserable speculations about the 
state of the poll, and took his sullen way, with the 
air of Ajax, to the terrace. Here he stalked along 
in a fierce revery ; asked why he had been born ; 
why he did not die ; why he should hve, and so on. 
His wounded pride, which had borne so much, 
fairly got the mastery, and revenged for all insults 
on love, whom it ejected most scurvily. He blushed 
to think how he had humiliated himself before her 



334 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



She was the cause of that humiliation, and of 
every disagreeable sensation that he was experi- 
encing ; he began, therefore, to imprecate vengeance, 
walked himself into a fair, cold-lieaned, malicious 
passion, and avowed most distinctly that he hated 
her.* As for him, most ardently he hoped that, 
some day or other, they might again meet at six 
o'clock in the morning in Kensington Gardens, but 
in a different relation to each other. 

It was dark when he entered the castle. He 
was about ascending to his own room, when he 
determined not to be cowed, and resolved to show 
himself the regardless witness of their mutual loves ; 
so he repaired to the drawing-room. At one end 
of this very spacious apartment Mr. Dacre and 
Arundel were walldng in deep converse ; at the 
other sat Miss Dacre at a table, reading. The 
duke seized a chair without looking at her, dragged 
it along to the fireplace, and there seating himself, 
with his arms folded, his feet on the fender, and 
his chair tilting, he appeared to be lost in the ab- 
stracting contemplation of the consuming fuel. 

Some minutes had passed, when a slight sound 
like a fluttering bird made him look up ; — Miss Da- 
cre was standing at his side. 

" Is your head better ?" she asked him, in a soft 
voice. 

" Tliank you, it is quite well," he replied, in a 
sullen tone. 

There was a moment's pause, and then she 
again spoke. 

" I am sure you are not well." 

" Perfectly, thank you." 

" Something has happened, then," she said, 
rather imploringly. 

" What should have happened 1" he rejoined, 
very pettishly, 

" You are very strange ; very unlike what you 
always are." 

" What I always am is of no consequence to my- 
self, or to any one else ; and as for what I am 
now, I cannot always command my feelings, 
though I shall take care that they are not again ob- 
servi'd." 

" I have offended you !" 

" Then you have shown your discretion, for you 
should always offend the forlorn." 

" I did not think before, that you were bitter." 

" That has made me bitter which has made all 
others so." 

« What ?" 

" Disappointment." 

Another pause ; yet she did not go. 

" I will not quarrel, and so you need not try. 
You are consigned to mv care, and I am to amuse 
you. What shall we dcT?" 

" Do what you like, Miss Dacre ; but spare, ! 
spare me, your pity !" 

" My lord ! you do indeed surprise me. Pity ! 
I was not thinking of pity ! But you are indeed 
serious, and I leave you." 

He turned ; — he seized her hand. 

" Nay ! do not go. Forgive me," he said, — 
" forgive me, for I am most miserable." 

" Why, why are you ]" 

" ! do not ask, j^ou agonize me." 

" Shall I sing? shall I charm the evil spirit ;" 

" Any thmg." 

She tripped to the piano, and an air, bursting 
like the spring, and gay as a village feast, filled the 
room with its delight. He listened, and each in- 



stant the chilly weight loosened fronj tils heart. 
Her balmy voice now came upon his ear, breathing 
joy and cheerfulness, content and love. Could love 
be the savage passion which lately subjugated his 
soul ] He rose from his seat ; he walked about 
the room ; each minute his heart was lighter, his 
brow more smooth. A thousand thoughts, beauti- 
fid and quivering like the twilight, glanced o'er his 
mind, in indistinct but exquisite tumults — and hope, 
like tlie voice of an angel in a storm, was heard 
above all. He lifted a chair gently from the ground, 
and stealing to the enchantress, seated himself at 
her side. So softly he reached her, that for a mo- 
ment he was unperceived. She turned her head, 
and her eyes met his. Even the ineffable incident 
was forgotten, as he marked the strange gush of 
lovely light, that seemed to say — what to think of, 
was after all, madness. 



CHAPTER V. 

The storm was past. He vowed that a dark 
thought should not again cross his mind. It was 
fotcd that she should not be his ; but it was some 
miserable satisfaction, that he was only rejected in 
favour of an attachment which had grown with her 
years, and had strengthened with her stature, and 
in deference to an engagement hallowed by time as 
well as by affection. It was deadly indeed to 
remember, that fate seemed to have destined him 
for that happy position, and that his folly 'had re- 
jected the proffered draught of bliss. He blasphemed 
against the Fitz-pompeys. However, he did not 
leave Dacre at the same time as Arundel, but lin- 
gered on. His affairs were far from being arranged. 
The Irish business gave gi-eat trouble, and he de- 
termined therefore to remain. 

It was ridiculous to talk of feeding a passion 
which was not susceptible of increase. Her society 
was heaven ; and he resolved to enjoy it, although 
he was to be expelled. As for his loss of fortune, 
it gave him not a moment's care. Without her, 
he felt he could not live in England, and, even 
ruined, he would be a match for an Italian prince. 

So he continued her companion, each day rising 
with purer feelings and a more benevolent heart ; 
each day more convinced of the falseness of his past 
existence, and of the possibility of happiness to u 
well-regulated mind ; eanli day more conscious that 
duty is nothing more than self-knowledge, and the 
performance of it consequently the developement of 
feelings which are the only true source of self- 
gratification. He mourned over the opportunities 
which he had forfeited of conducing to the happi 
ness of others and hixiself. Sometimes he half 
resolved to remain in England and devote himself 
to his tenantry ; but passion blinded him, and he 
felt that he had eiTed too far ever to regain thu 
right road. 

The election for which Arundel Dacre was a 
candidate came on. Each day the state of the poll 
arrived. It was nearly equal to the last. Their 
agitation was terrible, but forgotten in the deep 
mortification which they experienced at the an- 
nouncement of his defeat. He talked to the puolic 
very boldly of petitioning, and his certainty of ulti- 
mate success ; but he let them know privately, that 
he had no intention of the first, and no chance of 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



325 



the second. Even Mr. Dacre could not conceal 
his deep disappointment ; but May was quite in 
despair. Even if her father could find means of 
securincf him a seat another time, the present great 
opportunity was lost. 

" Surely we can make some arrangement for next 
session," said the duke, whispering hope to her. 

" ! no, no, no, so much depended upon this. 
It is not merely his taking a part in the debate, but 
— but — Arundel is so odd, and every thing was 
staked upon this. I cannot tell you what depended 
upon it. He will leave England directly." 

She did not attempt to conceal her agitation. 
The duke rose, and paced the room in a state 
scarcely less moved. A thought had suddenly 
flashed upon him. Their marriage doubtless 
depended on this success. He knew something of 
Arundel Dacre, and had heard more. He was 
convinced of the truth of his suspicion. Either 
the nephew would not claim her hand until he had 
carved out his own fortunes, or perhaps the uncle 
matle his distinction the condition of his consent. 
Yet this was odd. It was all odd. A thousand 
things had occurred which equally puzzled him. 
Yet he had seen enough to weigh against a thou- 
sand thoughts. 



CHAPTER VI. 

AxoTHER fortnight glided away, and he was 
still at the castle, still the constant and almost sole 
companion of May Dacre. 

It is breakfast; the servant is delivering the 
letter-bag to Mr. Dacre. Interesting moment I when 
you extend your hand for the billet of a mistress, 
and receive your tailor's bill ! How provokingly 
slow are most domestic chieftains in this anxious 
operation! They turn the letters over and over, 
and upside and down ; arrange, confuse, mistake, 
and sort; pretend, like Champollion, to decipher 
illegible franks, and deliver, with a slight remark, 
which is intended as a friendly admonition, the 
documents of the unlucky wight' who encourages 
unprivileged correspondents. 

A letter was delivered to Miss Dacre. She 
started, exclaimed, blushed, and tore it open. 

" Only you, only you," she said, extending her 
hand to the young duke, " only you were capable 
of this !" 

It was a letter from Arundel Dacre, not only 
written but franked by him. 

It explained every thing that the Duke of St. 
James might have told them before ; but he pre- 
ferred hearing all himself, from the delighted and 
dehghttVil lips of Miss Dacre, who read to her father 
her cousin's letter. 

The Duke of St. James had returned him for 
one of his Cornish boroughs. It appeared that 
Lord St. Maurice was the previous member, who 
had accepted the Chilterns in his favour. 

" You were determined to surprise as well as 
delight us," said Mr. Dacre. 

" I am no admirer of mysteries," said the duke ; 
" but the fact is, in the present case it was not in 
my povs-er to give you any positive information, 
and t had no desire to provide you, after your late 
disappointment, with new sources of anxiety. The 
only per."on I could take the liberty with, at so 



short a notice, was St. Mauri :e. He, you know, 
is a young liberal ; but he cannot forget that he is 
the son of a tory, and has no very gi-eat ambition 
to take any active part in affairs at present. I an- 
ticipated less difficulty with him than with his 
father. St. Maurice can command me again when 
it suits him ; but, I confess to you, I have been 
surprised at my uncle's kindness in this aflair. T 
really have not done justice to his character before, 
and regret it. He has behaved in the most kind- 
hearted and the most liberal maimer, and put me 
under obligations which I never shall forget. Ho 
seems as desirous of serving my friend as myself; 
and I assure you, sir, it would give you pleasure 
to know in what terms of respect he speaks of your 
family, and particularly of Arundel," 

" Arundel says he shall take his seat the morning 
of the debate. How very near ! how admirably 
managed ! ! I shall never recover my surprise 
and delight ! How good you are !" 

" He takes his seat then to-morrow," said Mr. 
Dacre, in a musing tone. " My letters give a 
rather nervous account of affairs. We are to win 
it, they hope, but by two only. As for the Lords, , 
the majority against us will, it is said, be somewhat 
smaller than usual. We shall never triumph, 
George, till May is M. P. for the county. Cannot 
you return her for Pen Bronnock too 1" 

They talked, as you may suppose, of nothing 
else. At last Mr. Dacre remembered an appoint- 
ment with his bailiff, and proposed to the duke to 
join him, who acceded. 

" And I to be left alone this morning, then !" said 
Miss Dacre. " I am sure, as they say of children, 
I can set to nothing." 

" Come and ride with us, then !" 

" An excellent idea ! Let us scamper over to 
Hauteville ! I am just in the humour for a gallop 
up the avenue, and feel half-emancipated already 
vtith a Dacre in the House. O ! to-morrow, how 
nervous I shall be '" 

" I will despatch Bamngton, then," said Mr. 
Dacre, " and join you in ten muiutes." 

" How good you are I" said Miss Dacre to the 
duke. " Hov/ can we tliank you enough ! What 
can we do for you !" 

" You have thanked me enough. What have I 
done, after all 1 My opportunity to serve my friends 
is brief. Is it wonderful that I seize the oppor- 
tunity 1" 

"Brief! brief! Why do you always say so! 
Why do you talk so of leaving us 1" 

" My visit to you has been already too long. It 
must soon end, and I remaia not in England when 
it ceases." 

" Come and live at Hauteville, and be near us V 

He faintly smiled as he said, " No, no ; my doom 
is fixed. Hauteville is the last place that I should 
choose for my residence, even if I 1-emained in 
England. But I hear the horses." 

The important night at length arrived, or rather 
the important messenger, who brought down, ex- 
press, a report of its proceedings to Castle Dacre. 

Nothmg is more singular than the various suc- 
cess of men in the House of Commons. Fellows 
who have been the oracles of coteries from theii 
birth, — who have gone through the regular process 
of gold medals, senior -wranglerships, and double 
foists, — who have nightly sat down amid tumult- 
uous cheering in debating societies, and can ha- 
rangue with an unruffled forehead and an unfalter 
3E 



326 



D'lSUAELI'S NOVELS. 



ing voice, from one end of a dinner-table to the 
other, who — on all occasions have something to 
say, and can speak with fluency on what they know 
nothing about — no sooner lisc in the House, than 
their spells desert them. All their effrontery va- 
nishes. Commonplace ideas are rendered even more 
uninteresting by monotonous delivery ; and keenly 
alive, as even boobies are in those sacred walls to 
the ridiculous, no one appears more thoroughly 
aware of his unexpected and astounding deficien- 
cies than the orator himself. He regains his seat, 
hot and hard, sultry and stiff, with a burning 
cheek and an icy hand, repressing his breath lest it 
should give evidence of an existence of which he is 
ashamed, and clenching his fist, that the pressure 
may secretly convince him that he has not as com- 
pletely annihilated his stupid body as his false repu- 
tation. 

On the other hand, persons whom the women 
have long deplored, and the men long pitied as 
having no " manner," who blush when you speak 
to them, and blunder when they speak to you, 
suddenly jump up in the House with a self-confi- 
dence, which is only equalled by their consummate 
ability. And so it was with Arundel Dacre. He 
rose the first night that he took his scat, a great 
disadvantage, of which no one was more sensible 
than himself, and for two hours and a-half he 
harangued the fullest House that had ever been 
assembled, with the self-possession of an habitual 
debater. His clenching argument, and his lumi- 
nous detail, might have been expected from one 
who had the reputation of having been a student. 
\\ hat was more wonderful was, the vs'ithering sar- 
casm that blasted like the simoom, the brilliant 
sallies of wit that flashed like a sabre, the gushing 
eddies of humour that drowned all opposition and 
overwhelmed those ponderous and unwieldly ar- 
guments which the producers announced as rocks, 
but which he proved to be porpoises. Never was 
there such a triumphant debut ; and a peroration 
of genuine eloquence, because of genuine feeling, 
concluded amid the long and renewed cheers of all 
parties. 

The truth is, Eloquence is the child of Know- 
ledge. When a mind is full, like a wholesome 
river, it is also clear. Confusion and obscurity are 
much oftener the results of ignorance than of ineffi- 
ciency. Few are the men who cannot express 
their meaning when the occasion demands the en- 
orgy ; as the lowest will defend their Uves with 
acutcncss, and sometimes even with eloquence. 
They are masters of their subject. Knowledge 
must be gained by ourselves. Mankind may sup- 
ply us with facts; but the results, even if they 
agree with previous ones, must be the work of our 
own mind. To make others feel, we must feel 
ourselves ; and to feel ourselves, we must be natu- 
ral. This we can never be when we are vomiting 
forth the dogmas of the schools. Knowledge is 
not a mere collection of words ; and it is a delusion 
to suppose that thought can be obtained by the aid 
of any other intellect than our own. What is 
repetition, by a curious mystery, ceases to be truth, 
even if it were truth when it was first heard ; as 
the shadow in a mirror, though it move and mimic 
all the actions of vitality, is not life. When a man 
is not speaking, or writing, from his own mind, he 
IS as insipid company as a looking-glass. 

Before a man can address a papular assembly 
ith command he must know something of man- 



kind, and he can know nothing of mankind with 
out he knows something of himself. Self-know- 
ledge is the property of that man whose passions 
have their play, but who ponders over their results. 
Such a man sympathizes by inspiration with his 
kind. He has a key to every heart. He can 
divine, in the flash of a single thought, all that they 
require, all that they wish. Such a man speaks 
to their very core. All feel that a masterly hand 
tears off the veil of cant, with which, from necessity, 
they have enveloped their souls ; for cant is nothing 
more than the sophistry which results from at- 
tempting to account for what is unintelligible, or 
to defend what is improper. 

Perhaps, although we use the term, we never 
have had oratory in England. There is an essen- 
tial difference between oratory and debating. Ora- 
tory seems an accomplishment confined to the an- 
cients, unless the French preachers may put in 
their claim, and some of the Irish lawyers. Mr. 
Shiel's speech in Kent was a fine oration ; and the 
boobies who taunted him for having got it by rote 
were not aware that in doing so he only wisely 
followed the examples of Pericles, Demosthenes, 
Lysias, Isocrates, Hortensius, Cicero, Ca3sar, and 
every great orator of antiquity. Oratory is essen- 
tially the accomplishment of antiquity : it was 
their most efficient mode of communicating thought ; 
it was their substitute for printing. 

I like a good debate; and, when a stripling, 
used often to be stilled in the gallery, or enjoy the 
easier privileges of a member's son, I like, I say, 
a good debate, and have no objection to a due mix- 
ture of bores, which are a relief. I remember none 
of the giants of former days : but I have heard " 
Canning. He was a consummate rhetorician ; but 
there seemed to me a dash of commonplace in all 
that he said, and frequent indications of the ab- 
sence of an original mind. To the last he never 
got clear of " good God, sir !" and all the other 
hackneyed ejaculations of his youthful debating 
clubs. The most commanding speaker that I ever 
listened to is, I think, Sir Francis Burdett. I 
never heard him in the House, — but at an election. 
He was full of music, grace, and dignity, even 
amid all the vulgar tumult; and, unlike all mob 
orators, raised the taste of the populace to him, in- 
stead of lowering his own to theirs. His colleague, 
Mr. Hobhouse, seemed to me ill qualified for a de- 
magogue, though he spoke with power. He is 
rather too elaborate, and a little heavy, but fluent, 
and never weak. His thoughtful and highly cul- 
tivated mind maintains him under all circumstances ; 
and his breeding never deserts him. Sound sense 
comes reconmiended from his lips by the lan- 
guage of a scholar and the urbanity of a gentle- 
man. 

Mr. Brougham, at present, reigns paramount in 
the House of Commons. I think the lawyer has 
spoiled the statesman. He is said to have very 
great powers of sarcasm. From what I have ob- 
served there, I should think very little ones would 
be quite sufficient. Many a sneer withers in those 
walls which would scarcely, I thinli, blight a cur- 
rant-bush out of them ; and I have seen the House 
convulsed with raillery which, in other society, 
would infallibly settle the railler to be a bore be- 
yond all tolerance. Even an idiot can raise a 
smile. They are so good-natured, or find it so 
dull. Mr. Canning's badinage was the most suc- 
cessful, though I confess I have ]i^.>f:neA to few 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



327 



things more calculated l.o make a man gloomy. 
But the House always ran riot, taking every thing 
for granted, and cracked their universal sides be- 
fore he opened his mouth. The fault of Mr. 
Brougham is, that he holds no intellect at present 
in great dread, and, consequently, allows himself 
on all occasions to run wikl. Few men hazard 
more unj)hilosophical observations ; but he is safe 
because there is no one to notice them. On all 
great occasions Mr. Brougham has come up to the 
mark, — an infallible test of a man of genius. 

I hear that Mr. Babington Macauley is to be re- 
turned. If he speaks half as well as he writes, the 
House will be in fashion again. I fear that he is 
one of those who, like the individual whom he has 
most studied, " will give up to party what was 
meant for mankind." 

At any rate, he must get rid of his rabidit}'. 
He writes now on all subjects, as if he certiiinlj' in- 
tended to be a renegade, and was determined to 
make the contrast complete. 

Mr. Peel is a model of a minister, and improves 
as a speaker ; though, like most of the rest, he is 
fluent without the least style. He should not get 
so often in a passion, either, or, if he do, slioidd not 
get out of one so easily. His sweet apologies are 
cloying. His candour — ^he will do well to get rid 
of that He can make a present of it to Mr. Hus- 
kisson. 

Mr. Huskisson is a memorable instance of the 
value of knov^'ledge, which maintains a man under 
all circumstances and all disadvantages, and will. 
I am not sure now, if I were king, — which, thank 
God ! I am not, because I should then be prevented 
from being the most dutiful of subjects, which, thank 
God! I am, — I am not sure, I say, if I were his 
most gracious majesty, and the present cabinet 
could not go on, I am not sure that I should not 
send for Mr. Huskisson. 

"Huskisson!"' I should say, " the duke can 
whip it on no longer. If you liJce to try, you may. 
But, hark ye ! no more coalitions, and no more ex- 
planations. I have no idea of the first estate of 
the realm having again to do the duty of the two 
others. If you have a party strong enough, you 
shall have a fair trial. You need not speak at pre- 
sent. Luncheon is in the next room. When you 
have taken a bottle of hock, we shall get a little 
truth out of you." 

In the Lords I admire The Duke. The readiness 
with which he has adopted the air of a debater 
shows the man of genius. There is a gruff, husky 
sort of a downright Montaignish naivete about him, 
which is quaint, unusual, and tolls. You plainly 
perceive that he is detennined to be a civilian ; 
and he is as offended if you drop a hint that he 
occasionally wears a uniform, as a servant on a 
holyday if you mention the word livery. 

Lord Grey speaks with feeling, and is better to 
hear than to read, though ever strong and impres- 
sive. Lord Holland's speeches are like a refucci- 
mento of all the suppressed passages in Clarendon, 
and the notes in the new edition of Bishop Bur- 
net's Memoirs : but taste throws a delicate hue 
over the curious medley, and the candour of a phi- 
losophic mind shows, that in the library of Hol- 
land House he can sometimes cease to be a parti- 
san. 

Lord Goderich speaks too often, and not suffi- 
ciently to the purpose; but he is a man of talents. 
These Canningites sadly want a leader, and are 



scattered about in a very loose style, indeed. I 
think I must come over. It would take a month 
though, I should think, to knock up the present 
administration, provided it were February, and not 
leap-year. But then I must be consistent, and not 
compromise my principles, which will never do in 
England — more than once a-ycar. Let me see: 
what are they ? Am I a whig or a tory I I forget. 
As for the tories, I admire antiquity, particularly a 
ruin ; even the relics of the temple of intolerance 
have a charm. I think I am a tory. But then the 
whigs give such good dinners, and are the most 
amusing. I think I am a whig; but then the tories 
are so moral, and morality is my forte : I must be 
a tory. But the whigs dress so much better ; and 
an ill-dressed party, like an ill-dressed man, must 
be wrong. Yes ! I am a decided whig. And yet 
— I feel like Gariick between tragedy and comedy. 
I think I will be a whig and tory alternate nights, 
and then both will be pleased ; or I have no ob- 
jection, according to the fashion of the day, to take 
a place under a tory minister, provided I may vote 
against them. 

One thing is quite clear, — that a man may speak 
very well in the House of Commons, and fail very 
completely in the House of Lords. There are two 
distinct styles requisite; I intend, in the course of 
my career, if I have time, to give a specimen of 
both. In the lower House, Don Juan may perhaps 
be our model ; in the upper House, Paradise Lost. 



CHAPTER VIL 

Nothing was talked of in Yorkshire but Mr. 
Arundel Dacre's speech. All the world flocked to 
Castle Dacrc, to compliment and to congratulate ; 
and a universal hope was expressed that he might 
come in for the county, if indeed the success of his 
eloquence did not enable his uncle to preoccupy 
that honour. Even the cahn Mr. Dacre shared 
the general elation, and told the Duke of St. James 
regularly every day that it was all owing to him. 
May Dacrc was enthusiastic; but her gratitude to 
him was synonymous with her love for Arundel, 
and valued accordingly. The duke, however, felt 
that he had acted at once magnanimously, gene- 
rously, and wisely. The consciousness of a noble 
action is itself ennoblmg. His spirit expanded 
with the exciting eflects which his conduct had 
produced ; and he felt consolation under all his 
misery, from the conviction that he had now claims 
to be remembered, and perhaps regarded, when he 
was no more among them. 

The bill went swimmingly through the Com- 
mons, the majority of two gradually swelling into 
eleven ; and the important night in the Lords was 
at hand. 

" Lord Faulconcourt writes," said Mr. Dacre, 
" that they expect only thirty-eight against us." 

" Ah ! that terrible PIousc of Lords !"' said May 
Dacre. " Let us see : when does it come on — the 
day after to-morrow ] Scarcely forty-eight hours 
and all will be over, and we shall be just where we 
were. — You and your friends manage very badly 
in your House," she added, addressing herself to 
the duke. 

" I do all I can," said his grace, smiling : " B ji 
lington has my proxy." 

" That is exactly what I complain of. On such 



328 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



an occasion therp shoiilJ be no proxies. Personal 
attendance would indicate a keener interest in the 
result. Ah ! if I were the Duke of St. James for 
one night!" 

"Ah! thnt you would be the Dutchess of St. 
James !" thought the duke ; but a despairing lover 
has no heart for jokes, and so he did not give utter- 
ance to the wish. He felt a little agitated, and 
caught May Dacre's eye. She smiled and sHghtly 
blushed, as if she felt the awkwardness of her re- 
mark, though too late. 

The duke retired early, but not to sleep. His 
mind was busied on a great deed. It was past 
midnight before he could compose his agitated feel- 
ings to repose, and by five o'clock he was again up. 
He dressed himself, and then put on a rough tra- 
velling coat, which, with a shawl, effectually dis- 
guised his person ; and putting in one pocket a 
shirt, and in the other a few articles from his dress- 
ing-case, the Duke of St. James stole out of Castle 
Dacre, leaving a note for his host accounting for 
his sudden departure by urgent business at Haute- 
ville, and promising a return in a day or two. 

The fresh morn had fully broke. He took his 
hurried way through the long dewy grass, and, 
crossing the park, gained the road, which however 
was not the high one. He had yet another hour's 
rapid walk before he could reach his point of desti- 
nation ; and when that was accomplished, he found 
himself at a small public-house, bearing for a sign 
his own arms, and situated in the high road oppo- 
site his ovvn park. He was confident that his per- 
son was unknown to the host, or to any of the early 
idlers who were lingering about the mail, then break- 



" Any room, guard, to London V 

" Room inside, sir, — just going off." 

The door was opened, and the Duke of St. James 
took his scat in the Edinburgh and York Mail. He 
had two compatiions : the first, because apparently 
the most important, was a hard-featured, gray- 
headed gentleman, with a somewhat supercilious 
look, and a mingled air of acutoness and conceit; 
the other was an humble-looking widow in her 
weeds, middle-aged, and sad. These persons had 
recently roused themselves from their nocturnal 
slumbers, and now, after their welcome meal and 
hurried toilet, looked as fresh as birds. 

" Well ! now we are off," said the gentleman. 
" Very neat, cleanly little house this, ma'am," con- 
tinued he to his companion. " What is the sign V 
— " The Hauteville arms." — " ! Hauteville — that 
is — that is — let me see ! — the St. James family. 
Ah I a pretty fool that young man has made him- 
self, by all accounts — eh! sirl" 

" I have reason to believe so," said the duke. 

"I suppose this is his park — eh 1 Hem ! going 
to London, sirl" 

" I am." 

" Ah ! hem ! Hauteville Park, I suppose, this. 
Fine ground wasted. What the use of parks is, I 
can't say." 

" The place seems well kept up," said the widow. 

" So much the worse — I wish it were in ruins." 

'' Well, for my part," continued the widsw, in a 
low voice, " I think a park the most beautiful thing 
we have. Foreigners, you know, sir — " 

" Ah ! 1 know what you are going to say," ob- 
served the gentleman, in a curt, grufhsh voice. " It 
•s all nonsense. Foreigners are fools. Don't talk 
to me of beauty — a mere word. What is the use 



of all this I It produces about as much benefit t« 
society as its owner does." 

" And do you think his existence, then, perfectly 
useless?" asked the duke. 

" To be sure, I do. So the world will, some day 
or other. We are opening our eyes fast. Men 
begin to ask themselves what the use o( an aristo- 
cracy is 1 That is the test, sir." 

" I think it not very difficult to demonstrate the 
use of an aristocracy," mildly observed the duke. 

" Pooh ! nonsense, sir ! I know what you arc 
going to say ; but we have got beyond all that 
Have you read this, sirl This article on the aris- 
tocracy in ' The Screw and Lever Review V " 

" I have not, sir." 

" Then I advise you to make yourself master of 
it, and you will talk no more of the aristocracy. A 
few more articles like this, and a few more noble- 
men like the man who has got this park, and peo- 
ple will open their eyes at last." 

" I should think," said his grace, " that the follies 
of the man who has got this park have been pro- 
ductive of evil only to himself. In fact, sir, according 
to your own system, a prodigal noble seems to be a 
very desirable member of the commonwealth, and 
a complete leveller.'' 

" We shall get rid of them all soon, sir," saiiJ 
his companion, with a malignant smile. 

" I have heard that he is very young, sir," re- 
marked the widow. 

" What is that to you or mel" 

" Ah ! youth is a very trying time. Let us hope 
the best ! He may turn out well yet, poor soul !" 

" I hope not. Don't talk to me of poor souls. 
There is a poor soul," said the utilitarian, pointing 
to an old man breaking stones on the highway. 
" That is vi'hat I call a poor soul, not a young pro- 
digal, whose life has been one long career of infa- 
mous debauchery." 

" You appear to have heard much of this young 
nobleman," said the duke; " but it does not follow, 
sir, that you have heard truth." 

" Very true, sir," said the widow. " The world 
is very foul-mouthed. Let us hope he is not so 
very bad." 

" I tell you what, my friends ; you know nothing 
about what you are talking. I don't speak without 
foundation. You have not the least idea, sir, how 
this fellow has lived. Now what I am going to tell 
you is a fact : I know it to be a fact. A very inti- 
mate friend of mine, who is an intimate friend of a 
friend who knows a person who is a very intimate 
friend of an intimate friend of a person who knows 
the Duke of St. James, told me himself, that one 
night they had flir supper — what do you thinlc, 
ma'am ! — Venison cutlets, each served up in a hun- 
dred pound note, and sovereign sauce." 

" Mercy !" exclaimed the widow. 

"And do you believe if!" asked the duke. 

" Believe it ! I know it !" 

" He is very young," said the widow. " Youth 
is a very trying time." 

" Nothing to do with his youth. It's the system 
— the infernal system. If that man had to work 
for his bread, like everybody else, do you think he 
would dine oil' bank-notes'! No! to be sure he 
wouldn't ! It's the system." 

" Young people are very wild !" said the widovc. 

" Pooh I ma'am, nonsense ! Don't talk cant. If 
a man be properly educated, he is as capable at 
one-and-twcnty of managing any thing as at ani; 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



329 



time in his life : more capable. Look at the men 
who write ' The Screw and Lever' — the first men 
in the country. Look at them. Not one of age. 
Look at the man who wrote this article on the aristo- 
cracy — young Duncan Macmorrogh. Look at him, 
I say — the first man in the country by far." 

" I never heard his name before," calmly observed 
the duke. 

"Not heard his name? — not heard of young 
Duncan Macmorrogii — first man of the day, by far, 
— not heard of him ! Go and ask the Marquis of 
Sheepshead what he thinks of him. Go and ask 
Lord Two and Two what he thinks of him. Dun- 
can dines with Lord Two and Two every week." 

The duke smiled, and his companion proceeded. 

" Well, again, look at his friends. There is 
young First Principles. What a head that fellow 
has got ! Here, this article on India is by him. 
He'll knock up their charter. He is a clerk in 
the India House. Up to the detail, you see. Let 
me read you this passage on monopolies. Then 
there is young Tribonian Quirk. By G — , what a 
mind that fellow has got ! By G — , nothing but 
first principles will go down with these fellows ! 
They laugh at any thing else. By G — , sir, they 
look upon the administration of the present day as 
a parcel of sucking babes ! When I was last in 
town Quirk told me that he would not give that for 
all the public men that ever existed ! He is keep- 
ing his temis at, Gray's Inn. This article on a new 
code is by him. Shows as plain as light that by 
sticking close to first principles the laws of the coun- 
try might be carried in every man's waistcoat pocket." 

The coach stopped, and a colloquy ensued. 

" Any room to Selby ?" 

" Outside or in ?" 

•* Out, to be sure." 

" Room inside only." 

" Well ! in then." 

The door opened, and a singularly quaint-look- 
ing personage presented himself. He was very 
stiff and prim in his appearance ; dressed in a blue 
coat, and scarlet waistcoat, with a rich bandanna 
handkerchief tied very neatly round his neck, and 
a very new hat, to which his head seemed little 
habituated. 

" Sorry to disturb you, ladies and gentlemen ; 
not exactly the proper place for me. Don't be 
alarmed. I'm always respectful wherever I am. 
My rule through Ufe is to be respectful." 

" Well, now, in with you," said the guard. 

" Be respectful, my friend, and don't talk so to an 
old soldier who has served his king and his countiy." 

Off I hey went. 

"Majesty's se^^'ice?'' asked the stranger of the 
duke. 

" I have not that honour." 

" Hum ! Lawyer, perhaps 1" 

" Not a lawyer." 

" Hum ! A gentleman, I suppose 1" 

The duke was silent ; and so the stranger ad- 
dressed himself to the anti-aristocrat, who seemed 
vastly annoyed by the intrusion of so low a per- 
sonage. 

" Going to London, sirl" 

" I tell you what, my friend, at once. I never 
answer impertinent questions." 

" No offence, I hope, sir ! Sorry to offend. I'm al- 
ways respectful. Madam ! I hope I don't inconveni- 
enceyou ; I should be sorry to do that. We sailors,you 
know, are always ready to accommodate the ladies." 
42 



" Sailor !" exclaimed the acute utilitarian, hii 
curiosity stifling his hauteur. " Why ! just now I 
thought you were a soldier." 

" Well ! so I am." 

" Well, my friend, you are a conjurer, then." 

" No, I a'n't ; I'm a marine." 

" A very useless person, then." 

" What do you mean 1" 

" I mean to say, that if the sailors were properly 
educated, such an amphibious corps would never 
have been formed, and some of the most atrocious 
sinecures ever tolerated would consequently not 
have existed." 

" Sinecures ! I never heard of him. I served 
under Lord Combermere. Maybe you've heard of 
him, ma'am 1 A nice man, — a beautiful man. I 
have seen him stand in a field like that, with the 
shot falling about him like hail, and caring no more 
for them than peas." 

" If that were for bravado," said the utilitarian, 
" I think it a very silly thing." 

" Bravado ! I never heard of him. It was for 
his king and country." 

" Was it in India?" asked the widow. 

" In a manner, ma'am," said the marine, very 
courteously. " At Bhurtpore, up by Pershy, and 
thereabouts — the lake of Cashmere, where all the 
shawls come from. Maybe you have heard of 
Cashmere, ma'am 1" 

" M''ho has not heard of the lake of Cashmere 1" 
hummed the duke to himself 

"Ah! I thought so," said the marine; "all 
people know much the same ; for some have seen, 
and some have read. I can't read, but I have 
served my king and country for five-and-twenty 
years, and have used my eyes." 

" Better than reading," said the duke, humour- 
ing the character. 

" I'll tell you what," said the marine, with a 
knowing look. " I suspect there is a d — d lot of 
lies in your books. I landed in England last 7th 
of June, and went to see St. Paul's. ' This is the 
greatest building in the world,' says the man. 
Thinks I, ' You lie.' I did not tell him so, because 
I am always respectful. I tell you what, sir; 
maybe you think St. Paul's the greatest building in 
the world, but I tell you what, it's a lie. I have 
seen one greater. Maybe, ma'am, you think I am 
telling you a lie too ; bvit I am not. Go and ask 
Captain Jones, of the 58ih : I went with him : I 
give you his name : go and ask Ca])tain Jones of 
the 58th, if I be telling you a lie. The building J 
mean is the palace of the Sultan Acber; for I have 
served my king and country five-and-twenty years 
last 7th of June, and have seen strange things — all 
built of precious stones, ma'am. What do you 
think of that? All built of precious stones: cor- 
nelian, of which you make your seals: as sure as 
I'm a sinner saved. If I a'n't speaking the truth, I 
am not going to Selhy. Maybe you'd like to know 
why I am going to Selby. FU tell you what. 
Five-and-twenty years have I served my king and 
country last 7th of June. Now I will begin with 
the beginning. I ran away from home, when I 
was eighteen, you see ; and after the siege of 
Bhurtpore, I was sitting on a bale of silk alone, 
and I said to myself, I'll go and sec my mother 
Sure as I am going to Selby, that's the whole. I 
landed in England last 7th of June, absent five-and- 
twenty years, serving my king and country. I sent 
them a letter last night. I put it in the pes* 
2e2 



330 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



myself. Maybe I shall be there before my letter 
now." 

" To be sure you will," said the utilitarian : 
" what made you do such a silly thing? Why, 
your letter is in this coach." 

" Well ! I shouldn't wonder. I shall be there 
before my letter now. All nonsense, letters : my 
wife wrote it at Falmouth." 

" You are married, then 1" said the widow. 
" A'n't I, though ] — the sweetest cretur, madam, 
tliough I say it hefore you, that ever lived." 

" Why did not you bring your wife with you 1" 
asked the widow. 

" And wouldn't I be very glad to 1 but she 
wouldn't come among strangers at once ; and so I 
have got a letter, which she wrote for me, to put in 
the post, in case they ai'e glad to see me, and then 
she will come on." 

" And you, I suppose, are not sorry to have a 
holyday ?" said the duke. 

" A'n't I, though 1 A'n't I as low about leaving 
her, as ever as I was in my life 1 and so is the poor 
cretur. She won't eat a bit of victuals till I come 
back, I'll be sworn, — not a hit, I'll be bound to say 
that — and I myself, although I am an old soldier, 
and served my king and country for fi\'e-and-twenty 
years, and so got knocked about, and used to any 
thing, as it were — I don't know how it is, but I 
always feel queer whenever I am away from her. I 
shan't make a hearty meal till I see her. Some- 
how or other, when I am away from her, every 
thing feels dry in the throat." 

" You are very fond of her, I see ?" said the 
duke. 

" And ought I not to be 1 Didn't I ask her three 
times before she said i/es? Those are the wives 
fpr wear, sir. None of the fruit that fall at a shak- 
ing for me ! Hasn't she stuck by me in every 
climate, and in every land I was in ] Not a fellow 
in the company had such a wife. W^ouldn't I 
throw myself off this coach this moment, to give 
her a moment's peace 1 That I would, though, — 
d — n me if I wouldn't." 

" Hush ! hush !" said the wido,w ; " never swear. 
— I am afraid you talk too much of your love," she 
added, with a faint smile. 

" Ah ! you don't know my wife, ma'am. — Are 
you married, sir?" 

" I have not that happiness," said the duke. 
" Well ! there is nothing like it ! Iiut don't take 
the fruit that falls at a shake. But this, I suppose, 
is Selby." 

The marine took his departure, having staved 
long enough to raise in tlie young duke's mind 
curious feelings. 

As he was plunged in revery, and as the widow 
was silent, conversation was not resumed until the 
coach stopped for dinner. 

" We stop here half an hour, gentlemen," said 
the guard. " Mrs. Burnet," he continued, to the 
widow, '' let me hand you out." 

They entered the parlour of the inn. The duke, 
who was ignorant of tlie etiquette of the road, did 
not proceed to the discharge of his duties, as the 
youngest guest, with all the promptness desired by 
his fellow-travellers. 

" Now, sir," said an outside, " I will thank you 
for a slice of that mutton, and will join you, if you 
have no objection, hi a bottle of sherry." 

•• What you please, sir. May I have the pleasure 
of lielping you, ma'am ?" 



After dinner, the duke took advantage of a vacanf 
outside place. 

Tom Rawlins was the model of a guard. Young, 
robust, and gay, he had a letter, a word, or a wink 
for all he met. All seasons were the same to him; 
night or day, he was ever awake, and ever alive to 
all the interest of the road : now jouiing m conversa- 
tion with a passenger, shrewd, sensible, and respect- 
ful ; now exchanging a little elegant badiniige with 
the coachman; now bowing to a pretty girl ; now 
quizzing a passer-by ; — he was on' and on his seat 
in an instant; and, hi the whilf of his cigar, would 
lock a wheel, or unlock a passenger. 

From him the young duke learned that his fellow- 
inside was Mr. Duncan Macmorrogh, senior, a writer 
at Edinburgh, and, of course, the father of the first 
man of the day. Tom Rawlins could not tell his 
grace as much about the principal writer in "The 
Screw and Lever Review" as we can ; for Tom was 
no patron of our periodical literature, further than a 
police report in the Publican's Journal. Young 
Duncan Macmorrogh was a limb of the law, who 
had just brought himself into notice by a series of 
articles in " The Screw and Lever," in which ha 
had subjected The Universe piecemeal to his critical 
analysis. Duncan Macmorrogh cut up the creation, 
and got a name. His attack upon mountains was 
most violent, and proved by its personality, that he 
had come from the Lowlands. He demonstrated 
the inutility of all elevation, and declared that the 
Andes were the aristocracy of the globe. Rivers he 
rather patronised; but flowers he quite pulled to 
pieces, and proved them to be the most useless of 
existences. Duncan Macmorrogh informed us,^hat 
we were quite wrong in supposing ourselves to be 
the miracle of the creation. On the contrary, he 
avowed that already there were various pieces of 
machinery of far more importance than man ; and 
he had no doubt, in time, that a superior race would 
arise, got by a steam-engine on a spinning-jenny. 

The other " inside" was the widow of a former 
curate of a Northumbrian village. Some friend had 
obtained for her only child a clerkship in a public 
office, and, for some time, this idol of her heart had 
gone on prospering; but, unfortunately, of late, 
Charles Bumet had got into a bad set, was now 
involved in a terrible scrape, and, as Tom Rawlins 
feared, must lose his situation and go to ruin. 

"She was half distracted when she heard it first, 
poor creature ! I have known her all my life, sir. 
Many the kind word and glass of ale I have had at 
her house, and that's what makes me feel for her, 
you see. I do what I can to make the journey easy 
to her ; for it is a pull at her years. God bless her ! 
there is not a better body in this world ; that I will 
say for her. When I was a boy, I used to be the 
playfellow in a manner with Charley Burnet, a gay 
lad, sir, as ever you would wish to see in a sum- 
mer's day, — and the devil among the girls always, 
and that's been the ruin of him ; and as open a 
hearted fellow as ever lived. Damn me! I'd walk 
to the land's end to save him, if it were only for his 
mother's sake, — to say nothuig of himself." 
"And can nothing be done?" asked the duke. 
" Why, you see, he is back in £ s. d. ; and, to 
make it up, the poor body must sell her all, aiid he 
won't let her do it, and wrote a letter like a prince 
— (No room, sir) — as fine a letter as ever you read 
— (Hilloa, there ! What! are you asleep?) — as 
ever you read on a summer's day. I didn't see it, 
but my mother told me it was as good as e'er a one 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



331 



of the old gentleman's sermons. 'Mother,' said 
ne, ' my sms be upon my own liead. I can bear 
disgrace,' — (How do, Mr. Wilkins?) — 'but I can- 
not bear to see you a beggar !' " 

"Poor fellow!" 

" Ah ! sir, as good a hearted fellow as ever you'd 
wish to meet !" 

"Is he involved to a great extent, think you 1" 
■ " O ! a long figure, sir — (I say, Betty, I've got a 
letter for you fr^ra your sweetheart) — a very long 
figure, sir — (Here, take it !) — I should be sorry — 
(Don't blush — no message !) — I should be sorry to 
take two hundred pounds to pay it. No, I wouldn't 
take two hundred pounds, that I wouldn't! — (I 
say, Jacob, stop at old Bag Smith's.") 

Night came on, and the duke resumed his inside 
place. Mr. Macmorrogh vi'ent to sleep over his son's 
article : and the duke feigned slumber, though he 
was only indulging in revery. He opened his eyes, 
and a light, which they passed, revealed the counte- 
nance of the widow. Tears were stealing down her 
face. 

" I have no mother — I have no one to weep for 
me," thought the duke ; " and yet, if I had been 
in this youth's station, my career probably would 
have been as fatal. Let me assist her. Alas ! how 
I have misused my power, when, even to do this 
slight deed, I am obUged to hesitate, and consider 
whether it be practicable." 

The coach again stopped for a quarter of an 
hour. The duke had, in consideration of the in- 
definite period of his visit, supplied himself amply 
with money on repairing to Dacre. Besides his 
purse, which was well stored for the road, he had 
somewhat more than three hundred pounds in his 
note-book. He took advantage of their tarrying to 
enclose it and its contents in a sheet of paper, with 
these lines — 

" An unknown friend requests Mrs. Burnet to 
accept this token of his sympathy with suffering 
virtue." 

Determined to find some means to put this in 
her possession before their parting, he resumed his 
place. The Scotchman now prepared for his night's 
repose. He produced a pillow for his back, a bag 
for his feet, and a cap for his head. These, and a 
glass of brandy and water, in time produced a due 
effect, and he was soon fast asleep. Even to the 
widow night brought some solace. The duke 
alone found no repose. Unused to travelling in 
public conveyances at night, and unprovided with 
any of the ingenious expedients of a mail-coach 
adventurer, he felt all the inconveniences of an in- 
experienced traveller. The seat was unendurablj' 
hard, his back ached, his head whirled, the con- 
founded sherry, slight as was his portion, had made 
him feverish, and he felt at once excited and ex- 
hausted. He was sad, too, very depressed. Alone, 
and no longer surrounded with that splendour which 
had hitherto made solitude precious, life seemed 
stripped of all its ennobling spirit. His energy 
vanished. He repented his rashness ; and the im- 
pulse ef the previous night, which had gathered 
tresh power from the dewy moon, vanished. He 
felt alone, and without a friend, and night passed 
without a moment's slumber, watching the driving 
clouds. 

The last fifteen miles seemed longer than the 
whole journey. At St. Alban's he got out, took a 
cup of coffee with 'I'om Kawhns, and although the 
morning was raw, again seated himself by his side. 



In the first gloomy little suburb Mrs. Burnet got 
out. The duke sent Rawlins after her with the par- 
cel, with peremptory instructions to leave it. He 
watched the widow protesting it was not hers, his 
faithful emissary appeahng to the direction, and, 
with delight, he observed it left in her hands. They 
rattled into London, stopped in Lombard-street, 
reached Holborn, entered an archway ; the coach- 
man threw the whip and reins from his now care- 
less hands. The duke bade farewell to Tom Raw- 
lins, and was shown to a bed. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

The return of morning had in some degree dissi- 
pated the gloom that had settled on the young duke 
during the night. Sound and light made him feel 
less forlorn, and for a moment his soul again re- 
sponded to his high purpose. But now he was to 
seek necessary repose. In vain. His heated frame 
and anxious mind were alike restless. He turned, 
he tossed in his bed, but he could not banish from 
his ear the whirling sound of his late conveyance, 
the snore of Mr. Macmorrogh. and the voice of 
Tom Rawlins. He kept dwelling on every petty 
incident of his journe}', and repeating in his mind 
every petty saying. His determination to slumber 
made him even less sleepy. Conscious that repose 
was absolutely necessary to the performance of his 
task, and dreading that the boon was now unat- 
tainable, he became each moment more feverish and 
more nervous ; a crowd of half-formed ideas and 
images flitted over his heated brain. Failure, mise- 
ry. May Dacre, Tom Rawlins, boiled beef; Mrs. 
Burnet, the aristocracy, mountams and tlie marine, 
and the tower of St. Alban's cathedral, hurried 
along in infinite confusion. But th^re is nothing 
Hke experience. In a state of distraction, he re- 
membered the hopeless but refreshing sleep he had 
gained after his fatal adventure at Brighton. He 
jumped out of bed, and threw himself on the floor, 
and in a few minutes, from the same cause, his ex- 
cited senses subsided into slumber. 

He awoke : the sun was shining through his 
rough shutter. It was noon. He jumped up, rang 
the bell, and asked for a bath. The chambermaid 
did not seem exactly to comprehend his meaning, 
but said she would speak to the waiter. He was 
the first gentleman who ever had asked for a bath 
at the Dragon with Two Tails. The waiter in- 
formed him that he might get a bath, he believed, 
at the Hummums. The duke dressed, and to the 
Hummums he then took his way. As he was leav- 
ing the yard, he was followed by an ostler, who, in 
a voice musically hoarse, thus addressed him. 

" Have you seen missis, sirl" • 

" Do you mean me 1 No, I have not seen your 
missis," and the duke proceeded. 

" Sir, sir," said the ostler, running after him, " I 
think you said you had not seen missis?" 

" You think right," said .the duke, astonished , 
and again he walked on. 

" Sir, sir," sard the pursuing ostler ; " I don't 
think you have got any luggage?" 

"Oil beg your pardon," said the duke ; " I see 
it. I am in your debt; but I meant to return." 

" No doubt on't, sir ; but when gemmen don't 
have no luggage, they sees missis before they go, sir '" 



332 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Well, what am I in your debt 1 I can pay you 
nere." 

" Five shillings, sir." 

"Here!" said the duke; "and tell me when a 
coach leaves this place to-morrow for Yorkshire." 

" Half-past six o'clock in the morning precisely," 
said the ostler, 

" Well, my good fellow, I depend upon your se- 
curing me a place ; and that is for yourself," ailded 
his grace, throwing him a sovereign. " Now, 
mind ; I depend upon you." 

The man stared, as if he had been suddenly 
taken into partnership with missis ; at length, he 
found his tongue. 

" Your honour may depend upon me. Where 
would you like to sit ? In or out 1 Bac"k to your 
horses, or the front 1 Get you the box, if you 
like. Where's your great-coat, sir ] I'll brush it 
for you." 

The bath and the breakfast brought our hero 
round a good deal, and at half-past two he stole to a 
solitary part of 8t. James' Park, to stretch his legs 
and collect his senses. We must now let our read- 
ers into a secret, which perhaps they have already 
unravelled. The duke had rushed up to London, 
with the determination not only of attending the de- 
tiate, but of participating in it. His grace was no 
politician ; but the question at issue was one sim- 
ple in its nature, and so domestic in its spirit, that 
few men could have arrived at his period of life 
without having heard its merits, both too often and 
too amply discussed. He was master of all the 
points of interest, and he had sufhcient confidence 
in himself to believe that he could do them justice. 
He walked up and down, conning over in his 
mind, not only the remarks which he intended to 
make, but the very language in which he meant to 
otler them. As he formed sentences, almost for the 
first time, his courage and his fancy alike warmed : 
his sanguine spirit sympathized with the nobility of 
the imaginary scene, and inspirited the intonations 
of his modulated voice. 

About four o'clock he repaired to the House. 
W alking up one of the passages, his progress was 
stopped by the back of an individual bowing with 
great servility to a patronising peer, and my-lording 
him with painful repetition. The nobleman was 
Lord Fitz-pompey ; the bowing gentleman Mr. 
Duncan Macmorrogh, the anti-aristocrat, and fa- 
ther of the lirst man of the day. 

" George ! is it possible!" exclaimed Lord-Fitz- 
pompcy. " I will speak to you in the House," said 
the duke, passing on, and bowing to Mr. Donald 
Macmorrogh. 

He recalled his proxy from the Duke of Builing- 
toti, and accounted for his presence to many as- 
tonished friends by being on his way to the Conti- 
nent : and, passing through London, thought he 
might as well be present, particularly as he was 
about to reside for some time in Catholic countries. 
It was the least compliment that he could pay his 
future hosts. " Give >ne a pinch of snulf." 

The debate began. Don't be alarmed. I shall 
not describe it. Five pr six peers had spoken, and 
one of the ministers had just sat down when the 
Duke of St. James rose. He was extremely ner- 
vous, but he repeated to himself the name of May 
Dacrc for the hundredth time, and proceeded. He 
was nearly commencing " May Dacre," instead of 
" My Lords," but he escaped this blunder. For the 



first five or ten minutes, he spoke in almost as cold 
and lifeless a style as when he echoed the king' 
speech ; but he was young, and seldom troubled 
them, and was listened to therefore with indulgence. 
The duke warmed, and a courteous " hear, hear," 
frequently sounded ; the duke became totally free 
from embarrassment, and spoke with equal elo- 
quence and energy. A cheer, a stranger in the 
House of Lords, rewarded and encouraged him. 
As an Irish landlord, his sincerity could not be dis- 
believed, when he expressed his conviction of the 
safety of emancipation ; but it was as an English 
proprietor and British noble, that it was evident 
that his grace felt most keenly upon this important 
measure. He described with power the peculiar 
injustice of the situation of the English Catholics. 
He professed to feel keenly upon this subject, be- 
cause his native comity had made him well ac- 
quainted with the temper of this class ; he painted 
in glowing terms, the loyalty, the wealth, the influ- 
ence, the noble virtues, of his Catholic neighbours ; 
and he closed a speech of an hour's duration, in 
which he had shown that a worn subject was sus- 
ceptible of novel treatment and novel interest, amid 
loud and general cheers. The lords gathered round 
him while he spoke, and many personally congratu- 
lated him upon his distinguished success. The 
debate took its course. At three o'clock the pro- 
catholics found themselves in a minority, but in a 
minority in which the prescient might have well 
discovered the herald of future justice. The address 
of the Duke of St. James was the crack speech of 
the night. 

The duke walked into White's. It was crowd- 
ed. The first man who w.elcomed him was Annes- 
ley. He congratulated the duke with a warmth 
for which the world did not give him credit. 

" I assure you, my dear St. James, that I am one 
of the few people whom this display has not sur- 
prised. I have long observed that you were formed 
for something better than mere frivolity. And, 
between ourselves, I am sick of it. Don't be sur- 
prised if you hear that I go to Algiers. Depend 
upon it, that I am on the point of doing something 
dreadful." 

" Sup with me, St. James," said Lord Squib ; 
" I will ask O'Connell to meet you." 

Lord Fitz-pompey and Lord Darrell were pro- 
fuse in congratulations ; but he broke away from 
them to welcome the man who now advanced. He 
was one of whom he never thought without a shud- 
der, but whom, for all that, he greatly liked. 

" My dear Duke of St. James," said Anmdel 
Dacre, "how ashamed I am that this is the first 
time I have personally thanked you for all your 
goodness !" 

" My dear Dacre, I have to thank you for proving 
for the first time to the world, that I was not with- 
out discrimination." 

" No, no," said Dacre, gayly and easily ; " all 
the congratulations and all the compliments to- 
night shall be for you. Believe me, my dear friend, 
I share your triumph.'' 

They shook hands with earnestness. 
" May will read your speech with exultation,' 
said Arundel. "I think we must thank her for 
making you an orator." 

The duke faintly smiled, and shook his head. 
"And how are all your Yorkshire friends'!" 
continued Arundel. " I am disappointed again in 



THE YOUNGDUKE. 



(jetting down to them ; but I hope, in the course 
of the month, to pay them a visit." 

" I shall see them in a clay or two," saiJ the duke. 
" I pay Mr. Dacre one more visit before my de- 
parture from England." 

"Arc you then indeed going 1" asked Arundel, 
in a kind voice. 
" Forever." 

■' Nay, nay, ever is a strong word." 
" It becomes then my feelings. However, we 
will not talk of this. Can I bear any letter for 
you ]" 

" I have just written," replied Arundel, in a 
gloomy voice, and with a changing countenance, 
" and therefore will not trouble you. And yet — " 
" What !" 

" And yet the letter is an important letter — to 
me. The post, to be sure, never does miss : — but 
if it were not troubling your grace too much, I 
almost would ask you to be its bearer." 

" It will be there as soon," said the duke, " for I 
shall be olf in an hoiar." 

" I will take it out of the box, then," said Arun- 
del, and he fetched it. " Here is the letter," said 
he on his return : " pardon me if I impress upon 
you its importance. Excuse this emotion, — but, 
indeed, this letter decides my fate. My happiness 
for life is dependent on its reception !" 

He spoke with an air and voice of agitation. 
The duke received the letter in a manner scarcely 
less disturbed ; and with a hope that they might 
meet before his departure, faintly murmured by 
one party, and scarcely responded to by the other, 
they parted. 

" Well, now," said the duke, " the farce is com- 
plete : — and I have come to London to be the bearer 
of his oflered heart ! I like this, now. Is there a 
more contemptible — a more ludicrous — absolutely 
ludicrous ass than myself? Fear not for its deli- 
very : most religiously shall it be consigned to the 
hand of its owner. The fellow has paid a compli- 
ment to my honour or my simplicity : I fear the 
last, — and really I feel rather proud. But away 
with these feelings ! Have not I seen her in his 
arms'! Pah, pah, pah ! Thanli God ! I spoke. At 
least, I die in a blaze. Even Annesley does not 
think me quite a fool. 0, May Dacre, May Dacre ! 
— if you were but mine, I should be the happiest 
fellow that ever breathed !" 

He breakfosted, and then took his way to the 
Dragon with Two Tails. The morning was bright, 
and fresh, and beautiful, even in London. Joy came 
upon his heart, in spite of all his loneliness, and he 
was glad and sanguine. He arrived just in time.. 
The coach was about to start. The faithful ostler 
vvaa there with liis great-coat, and the duke found 
that he had three tiellow-passcngers. They were 
lawyers, and talked for the first two hours of nothing 
but the case respecting which they were going into 
the country. At Woburn a despatch arrived with 
the newspapers. All purchased one, and the duke 
among the rest. He was well reported, and could 
now sympathize with, instead of smile at, the anx- 
iety oi" Lord Darrell. 

" The yoimg Duke of St. James seems to have 
distinguished himself very much," said the first 
lawyer. 

" So I observe," said the second one. " The lead- 
ing article calls our attention to his speech as the 
most brilliant delivered." 



blood, you 



333 

" I am surprised," said the third, " I thought he 
was quite a different sort of person." 

" By no means," said the first : " I have always 
had a very high opinion of him. I am not one of 
those who think the worse of a young man because 
he is a little wild." 

" Nor I," said the second. " Young 
know, is young blood." 

" A very intimate friend of mine who knows the 
Duke of St. James well, once told me," rejoined tha 
first, " that I was quite mistaken about him , that 
he was a person of no common talents, well read, 
quite a man of the world, and a good deal of wit 
too ; and let me tell you that in these days wit is no 
common thing." 

" Certainly not," said the third. " We have no 
wit now." 

"And a very kind-hearted, generous fellow," 
continued the first, " and very unaffected." 

" I can't bear an affected man," said the second, 
without looking off his paper. " He seems to have 
made a very fine speech, indeed." 

" I should not wonder his turning out something 
great," said the third. 

" I have no doubt of it," said the second. 
" Many of these wild fellows do." 
"He is not so wild as we think," said the 
first. 

" But he is done up," said the second. 
"Is he indeed?" said the third. " Perhaps, by 
making a speech, he wants a place ?" 

" People don't make speeches for nothing," said 
the third. 

" I shouldn't wonder if he is after a place in the 
Household," said the second. 

" Depend upon it, he looks to something more 
active," said the first. 

" Perhaps he would like to be head of the Admi- 
ralty 1" said the second. 

'• Or the Treasury V said the third. 
" That is impossible 7" said the first. " He is too 
young." 

" He is as old as Pitt," said the third. 
" I hope he will resemble him in nothing but his 
age then," said the first. 

" I look upon Pitt as the first man that evei 
lived," said the third. 

" What !" said the first. " The man wno worked 
up the national debt to nearly eight hundred mil- 
lions !" 

" What of that ?" said the third. " I look upon 
the national debt as the source of all our pros- 
perity." 

" The source of all our taxes, you mean." 
" What is the harm of taxes V 
" The harm is, that you will soon have no trade ; 
and when you have no trade, you will have no 
duties : and when you have no duties, you will have 
no dividends ; and when you have no dividends, 
you will have no law; and then where is your 
source of prosperity 1" said the first. 

But here the coach stopped, and the duke got 
out for an hour. 

By midnight they had reached a town not more 
than thirty miles from Dacre. The duke was quite 
exhausted, and determined to stop. In half an hour 
he enjoyed that deep, dreamless slumber vnth 
which no luxury can compete. One must have 
passed restless nights for years to be able to appro 
ciate the value of sound sleep. 



334 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



CHAPTER IX. 

He rose early ami iiiana£];ctl to reach Dacre at the 
lireakfast hour of the family. He tlischargci! his 
chaise at the park gate, and entered the house un- 
seen. He took his way along a corridor lined with 
j)lants, which led to the small ami favourite room in 
which the morning meetings of May and himself 
always took place when they were alone. As he 
lightly step]ied along, he heard a voice that he could 
not mistake, as it were in animated converse. Agi- 
tated hy sounds which ever created in him emotion, 
for a moment he paused. He starts, — his eye 
sparkles with strange delight, — a flush conies over 
his panting features, half of modesty, half of trium])h. 
He listens to his own speech from the lips of the 
woman he loves. She is reading to her father with 
melodious energy the passage in which he dcscrilics 
the high ipialities of his Catholic neighbours. The 
intonations of the voice indicate the deep sympathy 
of the reader, ^he ceases. He hears the admiring 
exclamation of his host. He rallies his strength, 
— he advances, — he stands before them. She utters 
almost a shriek of delightful surprise, and welcomes 
him with both her hands. 

How much there was to say ! — how much to 
ask ! — how much to answer ! Even Mr. Dacre 
poured forth questions like a boy. But May — she 
could not speak, but leaned forward in her chair 
with an eager ear, and look of congratulation, that 
rewarded him for ill his exertion. Every thing was 
to be told. How ne went ; — whether he slept in the 
mail, — where he went ; — what he did ; — whom he 
saw; — what they said; — what they thought: — all 
must be answered. Then fresh exclamations of 
wonder, delight, and triumph. The duke forgot 
every thing but his love, and for three hours felt 
the hajipiest of men. 

At length Mr. Dacre rose and looked at liis 
watch with a shaking head. " I have a most im- 
portant ai)pointment,*' said he, "and I must gallop 
to keep it. God bless you, my dear St. James ! I 
could stay talking with you forever; but you 
must be utterly wearied. Now, my dear boy, go to 
bed." 

"Tolled!" exclaimed the duke. " Why, Tom 
Ifawlins would laugh at you !" 

" And who is Tom Rawlins !" 

"Ah! I cannot tell j'ou every thing: hut assu- 
ledly I am not going to bed." 

" Well, May, I leave him to your care; but do 
not let him talk any more." 

" ! sir," said the duke, " I really had forgotten. ' 
1 am the bearer to you, sir, of a letter from Mr. 
Arundel Dacre." He gave it him. 

As Mr. Dacre read die communication, his 
countenance changed, and the smile which before 
was on 4iis face vanished. But whether he were 
displeased, or only serious, it was impossible to 
ascertain, although the duke watched him narrowly. 
At length lie said, " May ! here is a letter from 
Arundel, in which you are much interested." 

" {Jive it me then, papa." 

"No, my love ; we nmst speak of thi.s together. 
But I am pressed for time. When I come home. 
Remember I" He quitted the room. 

They were alone : the duke began again talk- 
ing, and Miss Dacre put her finger to her mouth, 
with a smile. 

"I assure you," said he, "I am not half so 



wearied as the daj' after hunting. I slept at y, 

and the only thing I now want is a good walk. Let 
me be your companion ihis morning!" 

" I was thinking of paying nurse a visit. What 
say you." 

" O ! I am ready ; anywhere." 
She ran for her l)onnet, and he kissed her hand- 
kerchief, which she left behind, and, I believe, 
every thing else in the room which bore the slight- 
est relation to her. And then the recollection of 
.•\runders letter came over him, and his joy fled. 
When she returned, he was standing before the 
fire, gloomy and dull. 

" I fear you are tired," she said. 
" Not in the least." 

" I shall never forgive myself if all this exertion 
make you ill." 
" Why not?" 

" Because, although I will not tell papa, I am 
sure my nonsense is the cause of your having gone 
to London." 

" It is probable; for you are the cause of all that 
does not disgrace me." He advan(;ed, and was 
about to seize her hand ; but the accursed minia- 
ture occurred to him, and he repressed his feelings, 
almost with a groan. She, too, had turned away 
her head, and was busily engaged in tending a 
flower. 

" Because she has explicitly declared her feelings 
to me, and, sincere in that declaration, honours me 
by ai friendship of which alone I am unworthy, am 
I to persecute her with my dishonom-ed overtures 
— the twice rejected 1 No, no !" He took up his 
hat, and oflcred her his arm. 

They took their way through the park, and he 
soon succeeded in reassuming the tone that befitted 
their situation. Traits of the debate, and the de- 
baters, which newspapers cannot convey, and which 
he had not yet recounted, — anecdotes of Annesley 
and their friends, and other gossip, were otTered 
for her amusement. But if she were amused, she 
was not lively, but singularly, unusually silent. 
There was only one point on which she seemed 
interested, and that was his speech. When he was 
cheered, and who particular!}^ cheered; who gathered 
round him, and what they said after the debate : 
on all these points she was most inquisitive. 

They rambled on : nurse was quite forgotten 
and at length they found themselves in the beauti- 
ful valley, rendered more lovely by the ruins of the 
abbey. It was a place that the duke couM never 
forget, and which he ever avoided. He had neves' 
renewed his visit since he first gave vent, among 
its reverend ruins, to his o'ercharged and most 
tumultuous heart. 

They stood in silence before the holy pile with 
its vaulting arches and crumbling walls, mellowed 
by the mild lustre of the declining sun. Not two 
years had fled since liere he first staggered after 
the breaking glimpses of self-knowledge, .and strug- 
gled to call order from out of the chaos of hig 
mind. Not two years, and yet what a change 
had come over his existence ! How diametrically 
opposite now were all his thoughts, and views, 
and feelings, to those which then controlled his 
fatal sou! ! How capable, as he firmly believed, 
was he no\r cf discharging hia duty to his Creator 
and his fel'ow-men ! and y.-'t the b<X)i? that ought 
to have been the reward for all tb's ?^l''-<'<»'?test — 
the sweet seal Iha*. ought to have r?»j/ie<l ^'» new 
contract ol existence was wanting. 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



335 



" Ah !" he exclaimed aloud, and in a voice of 
anguish, — "ah! if I ne'er had left the walls of 
Dacre, how dillerenl might have heen my lot!" 

A gentle but involuntary pressure reminded him 
of the companion whom for once in his life, he 
had for a moment forgotten. 

"I feel it is madness, — I feel it is worse than 
madness; but must I yield without a struggle, and 
see my dark fate cover me without an effort 1 O ! 
yes, here, even here, where I have wept over your 
contempt, — even here, although I subject myself 
to renewed rejection, let, let me tell you, before we 
part, how I adore you !" 

She was silent; a strange courage came over 
liis spirit ; and, with a reckless boldness, and rapid 
voice, a misty sight, and total unconsciousness of 
all other existence, he resumed the words which 
had broken out as if by inspiration. 

" I am not worthy of you. Who is 1 I was 
worthless. I did not know it. Have not I strug- 
gled to be pure 1 have not I sighed on my nightly 
pillow for your blessing ? ! could you read my 
heart, — and sometimes I think, you can read it, 
for indeed, v^-ith all its faults, it is without guile, I 
dare to hope, that you would pity me. Since we 
first mot, your image has not quitted my conscience 
for a second. When you thought me least worthy, 
— when you thought me vile, or mad, — ! by all 
that is sacred, I was the most miserable wretch 
that ever breathed, and flew to dissipation only for 
distraction ! 

" Not, not for a moment have I ceased to think 
yoM the best, the most beautiful, the most enchant- 
ing and endearing creature that ever graced our 
earth. Even when I first dared to whisper my 
insolent affection, believe me, even then, your pre- 
sence controlled my spirit as no other woman had. 
I bent to you then in pride and power. The sta- 
tion that I could then offer you was not utterly 
unworthy of your perfection. I am now a beggar, 
or, worse, an insolvent noble, and dare I, dare I to 
ask you to share the fortunes that are broken and 
the existence that is obscure !" 

She turned ; her arm fell over his shoulder ; she 
Duried her head in his breast. 



CHAPTER X. 

Mr. Uache returned home with an excellent 
appetite, and almost as keen a desire to renew his 
conversation with his guest ; but dinner and the 
duke were neither to be commanded. Miss Dacre 
also could not be found. No information could be 
obtained of them from any quarter. It was nearly 
M?ven o'clock — the hour of dinner. That meal, 
somewhat to Mr. Dacre's regret, was postponed for 
half an hour, servants were sent out, and the bell 
was rung — but no tidings. Mr. Dacre was a httle 
annoyed and more alarmed ; he was also hungry, 
and at half-past seven he sat down to a sohtary 
meal. 

About a quarter past eight, a figure rapped at 
the dining-room window : — it was the young duke. 
The fat Initler seemed astonished, not to say shock- 
ed, at this violation of etiquette; nevertheless, he 
slowly opened the window. 

"Any thing the matter, George! Where is 
May !" 



" Nothing. We lost our way. That is all. May 
— Miss Dacre desired me to say, that she would 
not join us at dinner." 

" I am sure something has happened." 

" I assure you, my dear sir, nothing, nothing at 
all the least unpleasant — but we took the v^rong 
turning. All my fault." 

" Shall I send for the soup 1" 

" No. I am not hungry — I will take sora 
wine." So saying, his grace poured out a tumble 
of claret. 

" Shall I take your grace's hatl" asked the fat 
butler. 

" Dear me ! have I my hat on 1" 

This was not the only evidence aflbrded by our 
hero's conduct that his presence of mind had slightly 
deserted him. He was soon buried in a deep re- 
very, and sat with a full plate but idle knife and 
fork before him, — a perfect puzzle to the fat butler, 
who had hitherto considered his grace the very 
pink of propriety. 

" George, you have eaten no dinner," said Mr. 
Dacre. 

" Thank you, a very good one indeed — a re- 
markably good dinner. Give me some red wine, 
if you please." 

At length they were left alone. 

" I have some good news for you, George." 

" Indeed !" 

" I think I have let Rosemount." 

"So!" 

" And exactly to the kind of person that you 
wanted, — a man who will take a pride, although 
merely a tenant, in not permitting his poor neigh- 
bours to feel the want of a landlord. You wiil 
never guess — Lord Mildmay." 

" What did you say of Lord Mildmay, sir?" 

"My dear fellow, your wits are wool-gathering 
— I say, I think I have let Rosemount." 

" O ! I have changed my mind about letting 
Rosemount." 

" My dear duke, there is no trouble which I will 
grudge to further your interests ; hut really I must 
beg, in future, that you wiil, a-t least, apprize me 
when you change your mind. There is nothing, 
as we have both agreed, more desirable that to find 
an eligible tenant for Rosemount. You never can 
expect to have a more beneficial one than Lord 
Mildmay; and really, unless you have positively 
promised the place to another person, which, excuse 
me for saying, you were not authorized to do, I must 
insist, after what has passed, upon his having the 
preference." 

" My dear sir, I only changed my mind this 
afternoon : I couldn't tell you before. I have pro- 
mised it to no one ; but I think of living there 
myself" 

"Yourself! 0! if that be the case, I shall be 
quite reconciled to the disappointment of Lord 
Mildmay. But what, in the name of goodness, my 
dear fellow, has produced this wonderful revolution 
in all your plans in the course of a few hours ? I 
thought you were going to mope away life in the 
lake of Geneva, or dawdle it away in Florence or 
Rome." 

"It is very odd, sir. I can hardly believe it 
myself: — and yet it must be true. I hear her 
voice even at this moment. O ! my dear Mr Da- 
cre, I am the happiest fellow that ever breathed '" 

" What is all this 1" 

" Is it possible, my dear sir, that you have not 



336 



^'ISRAELI'S NOV^ELS. 



long befors detected the feelings I ventured to en- 
tertain for your daughter ? In a word, she requires 
ordy your sanction to my being the most fortunate 
of men." 

" My dear friend, — my dear, dear boy !" cried 
Mr. Dacre, rising from his chair and embracing 
him, "it is out of the power of man to impart to 
me any event which could afford me suchexquisite 
pleasure ! Indeed, indeed, it is to me most sur- 
prising ! for I had been induced to suspect, George, 
that some explanation had passed between you and 
May, which, while it accounted for your mutual 
esteem, gave little hope of a stronger sentiment." 

" I believe, sir," said the young duke with a smile, 
" [ was obstinate." 

"Well, tliis changes all our plans. I have in- 
tended, for this fortnight past, to speak to you 
finally on your affairs. No better time than the 
present : and, in the first place^" 

But, really, this interview is confidential. 



CHAPTER XI. 

Thet come not : it is late. He is already tell- 
ing all ! She relapses into her sweet revery. Her 
thought fixes on no subject : her mind is intent on 
no idea : her soul is melted into dreamy delight : 
her only consciousness is perfect bliss ! Sweet 
sounds still echo in her ear, and still her pure pulse 
beats, from the first embrace of passion. 

The door opens, and her father enters, leaninf; 
upon the arm of her beloved. Yes — he has told 
all ! Mr. Dacre approached, and, bending down, 
pressed the lips of his child. It was the seal to 
their plighted faith, and told, without speech, that 
the blessings of a parent mingled with the vows 
of a lover ! No other intimation was at present 
necessary : but she, the daughter, thought now 
only of her father, that friend of her long life, 
whose love had ne'er been wanting, — was she 
about to leave him 1 She arose : she threw her 
arms round his neck and wept. 

The young duke walked away, that his presence 
might not control the full expression of her hal- 
lowed soul. " This jewel is mine," was his thought: 
" what, what have I done to be so blessed V 

In a few minutes he again joined them, and was 
seated by her side ; and Mr. Dacre considerately 
remembered that he wished to see his steward, and 
they were left alone. Their eyes met, and their 
soft looks tell that they were thinking of each 
other. His ^^■m steals round the back of her chair, 
and with his other hand he gently captures hers. 

First love, first love ! how many a glowing bard 
has sung thy beauties ! How many a poor devil 
of a prosing novelist, like myself, has echoed all 
our superiors, the poets, teach us ! No doubt, thou 
rosy god of young desire, thou art a most bewitch- 
ing little demon ; and yet, for my part, give me 
last love. 

Ask a man, which turned out best — the first 
horse he bought, or the one he now canters on ? 
Ask — but, in short, there is nothing in which 
knowledge is more important, and experience more 
valuable, than in love. When we first love, we 
are enamoured of our own imaginations. Our 
thoughts are high, our feelings rise from out the 
deepest raves of the tumultuous tide of our full 



life. We look around for one to share our exqui- 
site existence, and sanctify the beauties of our, 
being. 

But these beauties are only in our thoughts. 
We feel like heroes, when we are but l.oys. Yet 
our mistress must bear a relation, not to ourselves, 
but to our imagination. She must be a real he- 
roine, while our perfection is but ideal. And the 
quick and dangerous fancy of our race will, at first, 
rise to to the pitch. She is all — we can conceive. 
Mild and pure as youthful priests, we bow down 
before our altar. But the idol to which we breathe 
our warm and gushing vows, and bend our eager 
knees — all its power, does it not exist only in our 
idea 1 all its beauty, is it not the creation of our 
own excited fancy 1 And then the sweetest of su- 
perstitions ends. The long delusion bursts, and 
we are left like men upon a heath when fairies 
vanish — cold and dreary, gloomy, bitter, harsh , 
existence seems a blunder. 

But just when we are most miserable, and curse 
the poets' cunning and our own conceits, there 
lights upon our path, just hke a ray fresh from the 
sun, some sparkling child of light, that makes us 
think we are premature, at least, in our resolves. 
Yet we are determined not to be taken in, and try 
her well in all the points in which the others 
failed. One by one her charms steal on our warn> 
ing soul, as, one by one, those of the other beauty 
sadly stole away, and then we bless our stars, and 
feel quite sure that we have found perfection in a 
petticoat. 

What shall I do, then ? Why, sir, if you 
have cash enough, marry ; but if not, go to Paris 
for a month — not Bath or Brighton — you may 
find her there — and forget her. 

For, believe me, who, being a bachelor, may be 
allowed to put in a word in favour of a system in 
which I am not interested, love without marriage 
is "both expensive, immoral, and productive of the 
most disagreeable consequences. It tries the con- 
stitution, heart, and purse. Profligacy is almost 
an impossibility ; and even dissipation, as this 
work well proves, soon gets a bore. What we call 
morality is nothing else but common sense, and 
the experience of our fellow-men codified for our 
common good. 

And if, if marriage did not require such an in- 
come (they say three thousand now will scarcely 
do, even for us younkcrs. What times we live 
in !) — I have half a mind (I think we must come 
down) really to look about me ; (one gets tired of 
wandering ;) and, no doubt, there is great pleasure 
in a well-regulated existence, particularly if no 
children come in after dinner. 

But our duke — where are wel He had read 
woman thoroughly, and consequently knew how 
to value the virgin pages on which his thoughts 
now fixed. He and May Dacre wandered in the 
woods, and nature seemed to them more beautiful 
from their beautiful loves. They gazed upon the 
sky ; a brighter light fell o'er the luminous earth. 
Sweeter to them the fragrance of the sweetest 
flowers, and a more balmy breath brought on the 
universal promise of the opening year. 

They wandered in the woods, and there they 
breathed their mutual adoration. She to him was 
all in all, and he to her was like a new divinity. 
She poured forth all that she long had felt, and 
scarcely could suppress. From the moment he 
tore her from the insulter's arms, his image fixed 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



337 



in her heart, and the struggle which she expe- 
rienced to repel his renewed vows was great indeed. 
When she heard of his misfortunes, she had wept ; 
hut it was the strange delight she experienced 
when his letter arrived to her father, that first con- 
vinced her how irrevocably her mind was his. 

And now she does not cease to blame herself for 
all her past obduracy — now she will not for a mo- 
ment yield that he could have been ever any thhig 
but all that was pure, and beautiful, and good. 



CHAPTER XII. 

But although we are in love, business must not 
be utterly neglected, and Mr. Dacre insisted that 
the young duke should for one morning cease to 
wander in his park, and listen to the result of his 
exertions during the last three months. His grace 
listened. Rents had not risen, but it was hoped 
that they had seen their worst ; the rail-road had 
been successfully opposed ; and coals had im- 
proved. The London mansion and the Alhambra 
had both been disposed of, and well : the first to the 
new French ambassador ; and the second to a gray- 
headed stock-jobber, veiy rich, who, having no so- 
ciety, determined to make solitude amusing* The 
proceeds of these sales, together with sundry sums 
obtained by converting into cash the stud, the fur- 
niture, and the hijuuterie, produced a most respect- 
able fund, which nearly paid off the annoying mis- 
cellaneous debts. For the rest, Mr. Dacre, while 
he agreed that it was on the whole advisable 
that the buildings should be completed, determined 
that none of the estates should be sold, or even 
mortgaged. His plan was, to procrastinate the ter- 
mination of these undertakings, and to allow each 
year itself to afford the necessary supplies. By 
annually setting aside one hundred thousand 
pounds, in seven or eight years he hoped to find 
every thing completed and all debts cleared. He 
did not think that the extravagance of the duke 
could justify any diminution in the sum which had 
hitherto been apportioned for the maintenance of 
the Irish establishments ; but he was of opinion, 
that the decreased portion which" they, as well as the 
western estates, now afforded to the total incomes, 
was a sufficient reason. Fourteen thousand a-year 
were consequently allotted to Ireland, and seven to 
Pen Eronnock. There remained to the duke about 
ihirty thousand per annum ; but then Hautevillc 
was to be kept up with this. Mr. Dacre proposed 
that the young people should reside at Rosemount, 
and that, consequently, they might form their esta- 
l)lishment from the castle, without reducing their 
Yorkshire appointments, and avail themselves, 
without any obligation, or even the opportunity of 
great expenses, of all the advantages afforded by 
the neccssaiy expenditure. Finally, Mr. Dacre 
presented his son with his town-mansion and fur- 
niture ; and as the young duke insisted that the 
settlements upon her grace should be prepared in 
full reference to his inherited and future income, 
this generous father at once made over to him the 
great bulk of his personal property, amounting to 
upwards of a hundred thousand pounds, and a little 
ready money, of which he now knew the value. 

'J'lie Duke of St. James had duly informed his 
um-'e, the Earl of Fitz-pompey, of the intended 
43 



change in his condition, and in answer received the 
following letter. 

" Fitz-pompey Hall, May, 18—. 

" Mr BEAU Geouge : — Your letter did not give 
us so much surprise as you expected ; but, I assure 
you, it gave us as much pleasure. You have 
shown your wisdom and your taste in your choice; 
and I am free to confess, that I am acquainted with 
no one more worthy of the station which the 
Dutchess of St. James must always fill in society, 
and more calculated to maintain the dignity of your 
iamily than the lady whom you are about to intro- 
duce to us as our niece. Believe me, my dear 
George, that the notification of this agreeable event 
has occasioned even additional gratification both to 
your aunt and to myself, from the reflection that 
you are about to ally yourself with a family in 
whose welfare we must over take an especial inte- 
rest, and whom we may in a manner look upon as 
our own relatives. For, my dear George, in an- 
swer to your flattering and most pleasing commu- 
nication, it is my truly agreeable duty to inform 
you (and, believe me, you are the first person out 
of our immediate family to whom this intelligence 
is made known) that our Caroline, in whose hap- 
piness wo are well assured you take a lively inte- 
rest, is about to be united to one who may now be 
described as your near relative, namely, Mr. Arun- 
del Dacre. 

" It has been a long attachment, though, for a 
considerable time, I confess, unknown to cs ; and, 
indeed, at first sight, with Caroline's rank and 
other advantages, it may not appear, in a mere 
worldly point of view, so desirable a connexion as 
some perhaps might expect. And, to be quite con- 
fidential, both your aunt and myself were at first a 
little disinclined (great as our esteem and regard 
have ever been for him) — a little disinclined, I say, 
to the union. But Dacre is certainly the most 
rising man of the day. In point of family he is 
second to none ; and his uncle has indeed behaved 
in the most truly liberal manner. I assure you, he 
considers him as a son ; and even if there were no 
other inducement, the mere fact of your connexion 
with the family would alone not only reconcile, 
but, so to say, make us perfectly satisfied with the 
arrangement. It is unnecessary to speak to you 
of the antiquity of the Dacres. Arundel will ulti- 
mately be one of the richest commoners, and I 
think it is net too bold to anticipate, taking into 
consideration the fimnly into which he marries, 
and, above all, his connexion with you, that we 
may finally succeed in having him called up to us. 
You are, of course, aware that there was once a 
barony in the family. 

" Everybody talks of your speech. I assure 
you, although I ever gave you credit for uncom- 
mc-n talents. I was astonished. So you are to have 
the vacant riband ! Why did you not tell me 1 I 
learned it to-day from Lord Bobbleshim. But wo 
must not quarrel with men in love for not commu 
nicating. 

" You ask me for news of all your old friends. 
You, of course, saw the death of old Annesley. 
The new lord took his seat yesterday — he was in- 
troduced by Lord Bloomerly. I wag not surprised 
to hear in the evening, that he was about to be 
married to Lady Charlotte, though the world affect 
to be astonished. I should not forget to say tlmt 
Lord A. asked most particularly after you. 
2F 



338 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" I think I have now written you a very long 
letter. I once more congratulate you on your 
udiniruhlt selection ; and witli the united remem- 
brance of our family circle — particularly Caroline, 
who will write perhaps by this post to Mi?s D. — 
believe me, dear George, your truly affectionate 
uncle, J. P. 

'• P. 8. — Lord Marylebone is very unpopular — 
luite a brute. We all miss you." 

It is not f be supposed that this letter conveyed 
the first intimation to the Duke of St. James of the 
most interesting event of which it spoke. On the 
contrary he had long been aware of the whole 
affair ; but I have been too much engaged with his 
own conduct to find time to let the reader into the 
secret, which, like all secrets, is to be hoped, was 
no secret. Next to gaining the affections of May 
Dacre, it was impossible for any event to occur 
more delightful lo our hero than the present. His 
heart had often misgiven him when he had thought 
of Caroline. Now she was happy, and not only 
happy, but connected with him for life, just as he 
wished. Arundel Dacre, too, of all men he most 
■wished to like, and indeed most liked. One feel- 
ing alone had prevented them from being bosom 
friends, and that feeling had long triumphantly 
vanished. 

May Dacre had been almost from the beginning 
the confidant of his cousin. In vain however, had 
she beseeched him to intrust all to her father. 
Although he now repented his past feelings, he 
would not work upon himself to change ; and not 
till he had entered parliament and succeeded, and 
gained a name which would reflect honour on the 
family with which he wished to identify himself, 
could he impart to his uncle the secret of his heart, 
and gain that support, without which his great 
object could never have been achieved. The Duke 
of St. James, by returning him to parliament, had 
been the unconscious cause of all his happiness, 
and ardently did he pray that his generous friend 
might succeed in what he was well aware was his 
secret aspiration, and that his beloved cousin might 
yield her hand to the only man whom Arundel 
Dacre considered worthy of her. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

AjfOTiiF.n week brought another letter from the 
Earl of Fitz-pompey. 

THE EARL OF FITZ-POMPET TO TUE DUKE OF ST. 
JAMES. 

[Read this alone.'] 

" Mr DEAR George, — Ibegyou will not be alarm- 
ed by the above memorandum, which I thought it but 
prudent to prefix. A very disagreeable affair has just 
taken place, and to a degree exceedingly alarming; 
but it might have turned out much more distressing, 
and on the whole, we may all congratulate ourselves 
at the result. Not to keep you in fearful suspense, 
I beg to recall your recollection to the rumour, 
which is in cii-culation, of the intention of Lady 
Aphrodite Grafton to oppose the divorce. A few 
days back, her brother. Lord Wariston, with whom 
I was previously unacquainted, called upon me by 
niipointment, having previously requested a private 



interview. The object of his seeing me was no 
less than to submit to my inspection the letters, by 
aid of which it was anticipated that the divorce 
might be successfully opposed. You will be 
astounded to hear that these consist of a long series 
of correspondence of Mrs. Dallington Vere's, de- 
veloping, I am shocked to say, machinations of a 
very alarming nature, the effect of which, my dear 
George, was no less than very materially to control 
your fortunes in life, and those of that charming 
and truly admirable lady whom you have delighted 
us all so much, by declaring to be our future rela- 
tive. 

" From the very delicate nature of the disclo- 
sures, Lord Wariston felt the great importance of 
obtaining all necessary results without making them 
public ; and, actuated by these feelings, he applied 
to me, both as your nearest relative, and an ac- 
quaintance of Sir Lucius, and, as he expressed 
it, and I may be permitted to repeat, as one whose 
experience in the management of difficult and deli- 
cate negotiations was not altogether unknown, in 
order that I might be put in possession of the facts 
of the case, advise and perhaps interfere for the 
common good. 

" Under these circumstances, and taking into 
consideration the extreme difficulty attendant upon 
a satisfactory arrangement of the affair, I thought 
fit, in confidence, to apply to Arundel, whose talents 
I consider of the first order, and only equalled by 
his prudence and calm temper. As a relation, too, 
of more than one of the parties concerned, it was 
perhaps only proper that the correspondence should 
be submitted to him. 

" I am sorry to say, my dear George, that Arun- 
del behaved in a very odd manner, and not at all 
with that discretion which might have been ex- 
pected, both from one of his remarkably sober and 
staid disposition, and one not a little experienced 
in diplomatic life. He exhibited the most unequivo- 
cal signs of his displeasure at the conduct of the 
parlies princij)ally concerned, and expressed him- 
self in so vindictive a manner against one of them, 
that I very much regretted my application, and re- 
quested him to be cool. 

" He seemed to yield to my solicitations ; but, I 
regret to say, his composure was only feigned, and 
the next morning he and Sir Lucius Grafton met. 
Sir Lucius fired first without efVect, but Arundel's 
aim was more fatal, and his ball was lodged in the 
thigh of his adversary. Sir Lucius has only been 
saved by amputation ; and I need not remark to 
you, that to such a man, life on such conditions is 
scarcely desirable. All idea of a divorce is quite 
given over. The letter in question was stolen from 
his cabinet by his valet, and given to a soubrefle 
of his wife, whom Sir Lucius considered in his 
interest, but who, as you see, betrayed him. 

" For me remained the not very agreeable office 
of seeing Mrs. Dallington Vere. I madfT known 
to her, in a manner as little ofTensive as possible, 
the object of my visit. The scene, my dear George, 
was very trying ; and I think it very hard, that the 
follies of a parcel of young people should really 
place me in such a distressing position. She fainted, 
&c., wished the letters to be given up ; but Lord 
W would not consent to this, though he pro- 
mised to keep their contents secret, provided she 
quitted the country. She goes directly ; and I am 
well assured, which is not the least surprising part 
of this strange liistory, that her affairs are in a state 



THE YOUNG DUKE. 



339 



of great distraction. The relatives of her late 
husband are about again to try the will, and with 
every prospect of success. She has been negotiat- 
ing with them for some time through the agency 
of Sir Lucius Grafton, and the late expose will not 
favour her interests. 

" If any thing further happen, my dear George, 
depend upon my writing ; but Arundel desires me 
to say, that on Saturday he will run down to Dacre 
for a few days, as he very much wishes to see you 
and all. With our united remembrance to Mr. 
and Miss Dacre, 

" Ever, my dear George, 

" Your very aflectionate uncle, 

" FiTZ-POMPET." 

The young duke turned with trembling and 
disgust from these dark terminations of unprinci- 
pled careers, and their fatal evidences of the indul- 
gence of unbridled passions. How nearly too had 
he been shipwrecked in this moral whirlpool ! 
With what gratitude did he not invoke the benefi- 
cent Providence that had not permitted the innate 
seeds of human virtue to be blighted in his wild 
and neglected soul ! With what admiration did 
he not gaze upon the pure and beautiful being 
whose virtue and whose loveliness were the causes 
of his regeneration, the sources of his present, and 
the guarantees of his future joy. 

Four years have now elapsed since the young 
Duke of St. James was united to May Dacre ; and 
it would not be too bold to declare, that during that 
period he has never for an instant ceased to con- 
sider himself the happiest, and the most fortunate 
of men. His life is passed in the agreeable 
discharge of all the important duties of his exalted 
station, and his present career is by far a better 
answer to the lucubrations of young Duncan Mac- 
morrogh, than all the abstract arguments that ever 
yet were offered in flivour of the existence of an 
aristocracy. 

Hauteville House and Hauteville Castle pro- 
ceeded in regular course — their magnificent dwell- 
ings will never erase simple and delightful Rose- 
mount from the sji'ateful memory of the Dutchess 
of St. James. Parliament, and in a degree society, 
invite the duke and dutchess each year to the me- 
tropolis, and Mr. Dacre is generally their guest. 
Their most ioMmate and beloved friends are Arun- 
del and Lady Caroline; — and as her ladyship now 
heads the establishment of Castle Dacre, they are 
seldom ser^rafp'1 But amone their most agreeable 



company is a young gentleman styled by courtesy 
Dacre, Marquis of Hauteville ; and his young 
sister, who has not yet escaped from her beautiful 
mother's arms, and who beareth the blooming title 
of the Lady May. 



Reader ! our tale is told, and the sweet shades 
who for three long weeks have stolen from decay 
its consciousness, and lent life even to languor, 
vanish into air. The syllables are sailing on the 
wind, that are the sting of life. Farewell ! ! 
word of wo ! O ! sound of sorrow ! and yet the 
necessary termination of all joy. 



NOTES. 

Page 240.— (1) Lady Morgan, in her very agreeable work, 
" The Book of Uie BoudoTr," has a most amusing chapter 
on Raamteurs. Laily Morgan is certainly a woman of 
considerable talents, and has been what is called ■' hardly 
used." But I suspect that this lively writer is one who 
would prefer excessive abuse to moderate comniendstion. 
Why does Lady Morgan give her critics such unnecessary 
advantages 1 Why,"for instance, in the volumes of v^fhich 
I am speaking, and in which there is so much to admire, 
is the " Menagiana," and that too more than once, quoted 
and panegyrized as the work of Menage? Why do^a 
Vandyke, too, figure as the court painter of Henry the 
Eighth 1 Why— but I cease this ungracious office. I know 
that there is a delightful giddiness in Irish brains, which 
will perfectly account for these errors, without seeking fur 
a harsher cause ; but then, what use is the " English Tius- 
band" who is introduced to us with such triumph 1 Surely 
Sir Charles might be permitted to read the proofs, and to 
extinguish by \he frisorific influence of his Saxon blood, 
these inarula in the flaming luminary of Kildare street. 

Page 250 — (2) This important principle is much more 
ably expressed in the witty memoirs of the brilliant Henry 
Pelham. Had I his gay volumes at command, Ishould have 
pleasure in referring to them more particularly The au- 
thor of " Pelham " is one of the few rising writers to whom 
we may lookup for the maintenance of the honour of 
English literature. 

Page 257.— (3) Con. Don Juan. Cant. I. s. 216. 

Page 257. — (-1) Haifa century ago, when gentlemen were 
curious in their port wine, to which, ere long, we shall 
return, the Oporto Company made a present of sundry 
pipes to a royal duke of England. Small portions of tliis 
offering, by some villanous methods, reached other cellars 
besides tliat of the prince, and were known among connois- 
seurs hy the title of " duke wine."— My earliest recollec- 
tions are of this Lusitanian nectar. 

Page 259.— (5) I quote this line from a poem by Mr. Mill- 
man, whose initial oilein "The Martyr of Antioch " would 
have entitled him to the crown at Athens. 

Page 292.— (6) Dawson Turner, Esq. of Yarmouth, a 
gentleman whose taste and talents are appreciated by a 
large circle of distinguished friends, possesses, amone other 
literary treasures, an unrivalled collection of autograph 
letters. 

Page 302.— (7) This was the invariable custom at Straw 
berry Hill. 



C N T A R I N I F L E M T N G 



A PSYCOLOC.ICAL AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



I. 



Wandeiiing in those deserts of Africa that 
border the Erythraean sea, I came to the river Nile, 
to that ancient, and mighty, and famous stream, 
whose waters yielded us our earliest civilization, and 
which, after liaving witnessed the formation of so 
many states, and the invention of so many creeds, 
still flow on with the same serene beneficence, like 
all that we can conceive of Deity ; in form sublime, 
in action systematic, in nature bountiful, in source 
unknown. 

My solitary step sounded in the halls of the Pha- 
raohs. I moved through those imperial chambers, 
supported by a thousand columns, and guarded by 
colossal forms seated on mysterious thrones; I 
passed under glittering gates meet to receive the tri- 
umphal chariot of a Titan ; I gazed on sublime obe- 
lisks pointing to the skies, whose secrets their mys- 
tic characters atl'ected to conceal. Wherever I threw 
my sight, I beheld vast avenues of solemn sphinxes 
reposing in supernatural beauty, and melancholy 
groups of lion-visaged kings; huge walls vividly 
pictured with the sacred riles and the domestic 
offices of remote antiquity, or sculptured with the 
breathing forms of heroic warfare. 

And all this might, all this magnificence, all this 
mystery, all this beauty, all this labour, all this high 
invention — where were their originators? I fell into 
deep musing. And the kingdoms of the earth passed 
before me, from the thrones of the Pharaohs to 
those enormous dominations that sprang out of the 
feudal chaos, the unlawful children of Ignorance 
and Expediency. And I surveyed the generations 
of man from Rameses the Great, and Memnon the 
Beautiful, to the solitary pilgrim, whose presence 
now violated the sanctity of their gorgeous sepul- 
chres. And I found that the history of my race 
was but one tale of rapid destruction or gradual 
decay. 

And in the anguish of my heart, I lifted up my 
hands to the blue ether, and I said, "Is there no 
hope] What is knowledge, and what is truth"! 
How shall I gain wisdom 1" 

The wind arose, the bosom of the desert heaved, 
pillars of sand sprang from the earth and whirled 
across the plain, sounds more awful than thunder 
came rushing from the south; the fane and the 
palace, the portal and the obelisk, the altar and the 
throne, the picture and the frieze, disappeared from 
my sight, and darkness brooded over the land. I 
knelt down and hid my face in the movable and 
buriung soil, and as the wind of the desert passed 
over me, methought it whispered, "Child of na- 
ture, learn to unlearn!" 

We are the slaves of false knowledge. Our me- 
mories are filled with ideas that have no origin in 
truth. We learn nothing from ourselves. The sum 



of our experience is but a dim dream of the conduct 
of past generations, generations that lived in a total 
ignorance of their nature. Our instructers are the 
unknowing and the dead. We study human nature 
in a charnel-house, and, like the nations of the 
East, we pay divine honours to the maniac and the 
fool. A series of systems have mystified existence. 
We believe what our fathers credited, because they 
were convinced without a cause. The faculty of 
thought has been destroyed. Yet our emasculited 
minds, without the power of fruition, still pan for 
the charms of wisdom. It is this that makes us fly 
with rapture to false knowledge — to tradition, to 
prejudice, to custom. Delusive tradition, destruc- 
tive prejudice, degenerating custom! It is this that 
makes us prostrate ourselves with reverence before 
the wisdom of by-gone ages, in no one of which has 
man been the master of his own reason. 

I am desirous of writing a book which shall be 
all truth, a work of which the passion, the thought, 
the action, and even the style, -should spring from 
my own experience of feeling, from the meditations 
of my own intellect, from my own observation of 
incident, from my own study of the genius of ex- 
pression. 

When I turn over the pages of the metaphysician, 
I perceive a science that deals in words instead of 
facts. Arbitrary axioms lead to results that violate 
reason; imaginary principles establish systems that 
contradict the common sense of mankind. All is 
dogma, no part demonstration. Wearied, perplexed, 
doubtful, I throw down the volume in disgust. 

When I search into my own breast, and trace 
the developement of my own intellect, and the for- 
mation of my own character, all is light and order. 
The luminous succeeds to the obscure, the certain 
to the doubtful, the intelligent to the illogical, the 
practical to the impossible, and I experience all that 
refined arjd ennobling satisfaction that we derive 
from the discovery of truth and the contemplation 
of nature. 

I have resolved, therefore, to write the history of 
my own life, because it is the subject of which I 
have the truest knowledge. 

At an age when some have scarcely entered 
upon their career, I can look back upon past years 
spent in versatile adventure and long meditation. 
My thought has been the consequence of my or- 
ganization ; my action the result of a necessity not 
less imperious. My fortune and my intelligence 
have blended together, and formed my character. 

I am desirous of executing this purpose while my 
brain is still fed by the ardent though tempered 
flame of youth; while I can recall the past with ac- 
curacy, and record it with vividness; while my me- 
mory is still faithful, and while the dewy freshness 
of youthful fancy still lingers on the flowers of mj 
mind. 

343 



344 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



I would bring to this work the illumination of an 
intellect emancipated from the flital prejudices of an 
irrational education. This may be denied me. Yet 
some exemption from the sectarian prejudices that 
imbitter life may surely be expected from one who, 
by a curious combination of circumstances, finds 
himself without country, without kindred, and with- 
out friends; nor will he be suspected of indulging 
in the delusion of worldly vanity, who, having acted 
in the world, has retired to meditate in an inviolate 
solitude, and seeks relief from the overwhelming 
vitality of thought in the flowing spirit of creation. 

II. 

When I can first recall existence, I rememoer 
myself a melancholy child. My father. Baron Flem- 
ing, was a Saxon nobleman of ancient family, who, 
being opposed to the French interest, quitted, at 
the commencement of this century, his country, and 
after leading for some years a wandering life, entered 
into the service of a northern court. At Venice, 
yet a youth, he married a daughter of the noble 
house of Contarini, and of that marriage I was the 
only offspring. My entrance into this world was 
marked with evil, for my mother yielded up her life 
while investing me with mine. I was christened 
with the name of her illustrious race. Thus much, 
during the first years of my childhood, I casually 
learned, but I know not how; I feel I was early 
conscious that my birth was a subject on which it 
was proper that I should not speak, and one, the 
mention of which, it was early instilled into me, 
would only occasian my remaining parent bitter 
sorrow. Therefore upon this topic I was ever silent, 
and with me, from my earliest recollection, Venice 
was a name to be shunned. 

My father again married. His new bride was a 
daughter of the country which had adopted him. 
She was of high blood, and very wealthy, and beau- 
tiful in the fashion of her land. This union pro- 
duced two children, both males. As a child, I view- 
ed them with passive antipathy. They were called 
my brothers, but nature gave the lie to the reiterat- 
ed assertion. There was no similitude between us. 
Their blue eyes, their flaxen hair, and their white 
visages claimed no kindred with my Venetian coun- 
tenance. Wherever I moved, I looked around me, 
and beheld a race different from myself. There 
Was no sympathy between my frame and the rigid 
clime whither I had been brought to live. I knew 
not why, but I was unhappy. Had I found in one 
of my father's new children a sister, all might have 
been changed. In that sweet and singular tie, I 
might have discovered solace, and the variance of 
constitution would perhaps, between different sexes, 
have fostered, rather than discouraged affection. 
But this blessing, which 1 have ever considered the 
choicest boon of nature, was denied me, I was 
alone, 

I loved my father dearly and deeply, but I seldom 
saw him. He was burit d in the depth of affairs. 
A hurried kiss and a passing smile were the fleet- 
ing gifts of his affection. Scrupulous care however 
was taken tha* I should never be, and should never 
feel, neglected, I was overloaded with attentions, 
even as an infant. My stepmother, swayed by my 
father, and perhaps by a well-regulated mind, was 
vigilant in not violating the etiquette of maternal 
duty. No favour was shown to my white brethren 

Inch was not extended also to me. To me also, 



as the eldest, the preference, if necessary, was evir 
yielded. But for the rest, she was cold, and I was 
repulsive, and she stole from the saloon, which I 
rendered interesting by no infantile graces, to the 
nursery, where she could lavish her love upon her 
troifljlesome, but sympathizing offspring, and listen 
to the wondrous chronicle which their attendants 
daily supplied of their marvellous deeds and almost 
oracular prattle. 

Because I was unhappy, I was sedentary and 
silent, for the lively sounds and the wild gambols 
of children are but the unconscious outpourings of 
joy. They make their gay noises, and burst into 
their gay freaks, as young birds in spring chant in 
the free air, and flutter in the fresh boughs. But I 
could not revel in the rushing flow of my new blood, 
nor yield up my frame to its dashing and voluptu- 
ous course. I could not yet analyze my feelings; I 
could not indeed yet think; but I had an instinct 
that I was different from my fellow-creatures, and 
the feeling was not triumjih, but horror. 

My quiet inaction gained me the reputation of 
stupidity. In vain they endeavoured to concealfrom 
me their impression. I read it in their looks ; in 
their glances of pity full of learned discernment, in 
their telegraphic exchanges of mutual conviction. 
At last, in a moment of irritation, the sec.et broke 
from one of my white brothers. I felt that the 
urchin spoke truth, but I cut him to the ground. 
He ran howling and yelping to his dam, I was sur- 
rounded by the indignant mother and the domestic 
police. I listened to their agitated accusations, and 
palpitating threats of punishment, with sullen indif- 
ference. I offered no defence. I courted their ven 
geance. It came in the shape of imprisonment, 
I was conducted to my room, and my door was 
locked on the outside. I answered the malignant 
sound by bolting it in the interior. I remained 
there two days deaf to all their entreaties, without 
sustenance, feeding only upon my vengeance. Each 
fresh visit was an additional triumph. I never an- 
swered ; I never moved. Demands of apology wer£ 
exchanged for promises of pardon : promises of par- 
don were in turn succeeded by offers of reward. I 
gave no sign. I heard them stealing on tiptoe to 
the portal, full of horrible alarm, and even doubtful 
of my life. I scarcely would breathe. At length 
the door was burst open, and in rushed the half- 
fainting baroness, and a posse of servants, with the 
children clinging to their nurses' gowns. Planted 
in the most distant corner, I received them with a 
grim smile. I was invited avsay, I refused to 
move. A man-servant advanced and touched me. 
I stamped, I gnashed my teeth, I gave a savage 
growl, that made him recoil with dread. The 
baroness lost her remaining presence of mind, 
withdrew her train, and was obliged to call in 
my father, to whom all was for the first time com- 
municated. 

I heard his well-known step upon the stair, I be- 
held the face that never looked upon me without a 
smile, if in carelessness, still, still a smile. Now it 
was grave, but sad, not harsh. 

" Contarini," he said, in a serious, but not angried 
voice, " what is all this 1 " 

I burst into a wild cry, I rushed to his arms. He 
pressed me to his bosom. He tried to kiss away the 
flooding tears, that each embrace called forth more 
plenteously. For the first time in my life I felt 
happy, because for the first time in my life J felt 
loved. 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



345 



III. 



It was a beautiful garden, full of terraces and 
• iched walks of bowery trees. A tall fountain 
bj.vang up from a marble basin, and its glittering co- 
l«..nn broke in its fall into a thousand coloured drops, 
ai.d woke the gleamy fish that would have slept in 
the dim water. And I wandered about, and the 
enchanted region seemed illimitable, and at each turn 
more magical and more bright. Now a white vase 
shining in the light, now a dim statue shadowy in 
a cool grot. I would have lingered a moment at 
the mossy hermitage, but the distant bridge seemed 
to i-nvite me to new adventures. 

It was only three miles from the city, and be- 
longed to the aunt of the baroness. I was brought 
here to play. When the women met there was 
much kissing, and I also was kissed, but it gave me 
no pleasure, for I felt even then that it was a form, 
and I early imbibed a hatred of all this mechanical 
domestic love. And they sat together, and took out 
their work,and talked without ceasing, chiefly about 
the children. The baroness retold all the wonder- 
ful stories of the nurses, many of which I knew 
to be false. I did not say this, but the conviction 
gave me, thus early, a contempt for the chatter of 
women. As soon as I was unobserved, I stole 
away to the garden. 

Even then it was ravishing to be alone. And 
although I could not think, and knew not the cause 
of the change, I felt serene, and the darkness of my 
humour seemed to leave me. All was so new and 
so beautiful. The bright sweet flowers, and the 
rich shrubs, and the tall trees, and the flitting birds, 
and the golden bees, and the gay butterflies, and 
that constant and soothing hum, broken only ever 
and anon by a strange shrill call, and that wonder 
ful blending of brilliancy and freshness, and perfume 
and warmth, that strong sense of the loveliness and 
vitality of nature which we feel amid the growing 
life of a fair garden,. entered into my soul, and dif- 
fused themselves over my frame, softened my heart, 
and charmed my senses. 

But all this was not alone the cause of my hap- 
piness. For to me the garden was not a piece of 
earth belonging to my aunt, but a fine world. I 
wandered about in quest of some strange adven- 
ture, which I would fain believe, in so fair a region 
must quickly occur. The terrace was a vast desert 
over which I travelled for many days, and the mazy 
walks, so mysterious and unworldly, were an unex- 
plored forest fit for a true knight. And in the her- 
mitage, I sought the simple hospitality of a mild 
and aged host, who pointed to the far bridge as 
surely leading to a great fulfilment, and my com- 
panion was a faithful esquire, whose fidelity was 
never wanting, and we conversed much, but most 
respecting a mighty ogre, who was to fall be- 
neath my puissant arm. Thus glided many a day 
in unconscious and creative revery, but sometimes, 
when I had explored over again each nook and 
corner, and the illimitable feeling had worn off", 
the power of imagination grew weak. I found 
myself alone amid the sweets and sunshine, and 
felt sad. 

But I would not quit this delicious world without 
an eflbrt, and invented a new mode of mingling in 
its life. I reclined beneath a shady tree, and I 
covered my eyes with my little hand, and I tied to 
shut out the garish light, that seemed to destroy 
the visions \vhich were ever flitting before me. 
44 



They came in their beauty, obedient to my call- 
And I wandered in strange countries, and achieved 
many noble acts, and said many noble words, and 
the beings with whom I acted were palpable as my- 
self, with beautiful faces and graceful forms. And 
there was a brave young knight, who was my friend, 
and his life I ever saved, and a lovely princess, who 
spoke not, but smiled ever, and ever upon me. And 
we were lost in vast forests, and shared hard food, 
and as the evening drew on, we came to the gates 
of a castle. 

"Contarini! Contarini!"a voice sounded from 
the house, and all the sweet visions rushed away 
like singing birds scared out of a tree. I was no 
longer a brave knight : I was a child. I rose mise- 
rable and exhausted, and in spite of a repeated cry, 
I returned with a slow step and a sullen face. 

I saw there was an unusual bustle in the house. 
Servants were running to and fro doing nothing, 
doors were slammed, and there was much calling. 
I stole into the room unperceived. It was a new 
comer. They were all standing around a beautiful 
girl, expantling into prime womanhood, and all 
talking at the same time. There was also much 
kissing. 

It appeared to me that there could not be a more 
lovely being tlian the visiter. She was dressed in 
a blue riding-coat, with a black hat, which had fal- 
len off her forehead. Her full chestnut curls had 
broken loose. Her rich cheek glowed with the ex- 
citement of the meeting, and her laughing eyes 
sparkled with social love. 

I gazed upon her unperceived. She must have 
been at least eight years my senior. This idea 
crossed me not then, I gazed upon her unperceived, 
and it was fortunate, for I was entranced, I could 
not move or speak. My whole system changed. 
My breath left me. I panted with great difficulty. 
The colour fled from my cheek, and I was sick from 
the blood rushing to my heart. 

I was seen, I was seized, I vvas pulled forward. 
I bent down my head. They lifted it up, drawing 
back my curls ; they lifted it up covered with 
blushes. She leant down, she kissed me — O ! 
how unlike the dull kisses of the morning. But I 
could not return her embrace ; I nearly swooned 
upon her bosom. She praised, in her good-nature, 
the pretty boy, and the tone in which she spoke 
made me doubly feel my wretched insignificance. 

The bustle subsided ; eating succeeded to talk- 
ing. Our good aunt was a great priestess in the 
mysteries of plum-cake and sweet wine. I had no 
appetite. This was the fruitful theme of much dis- 
cussion. I could not eat : I thought only of the fair 
stranger. They wearied me with their wonder- 
ment and their inquiries. I was irritated and I 
was irritable. The baroness schooled me in that 
dull tedious way which always induces obstinacy. 
At another time, I should have been sullen, but my 
heart was full and softened, and I wept. My step- 
mother was alarmed lest, in an unguarded moment, 
she should have passed the cold, strict line of ma- 
ternal impartiality which she had laid down for her 
constant regulation. She would have soothed me 
with commonplace consolation. I was miserable 
and disgusted. I fled again to the garden. 

I regained with hurrying feet my favourite haunt, 
again I sat under my favourite tree. But not now 
to build castles of joy and hope, not now to com- 
mune with my beautiful creation, and revel in the 
warm flow of my excited fancy. AH, all had fled ; 



346 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



all, all had changed. I shivered under the cold 
horror of reality. 

I thought I heard beautiful music, but it was only 
the voice of a woman. 

" Contarini," said the voice, " why do you weep1" 

I looked up ; it was the stranger, it was Chris- 
tiana. " Because," I answered, sobbing, " I am 
miserable." 

" Sweet boy," she said, as she knelt down beside 
me, " dry, dry your tears, for we all love you. 
Mamma meant not to be cross." 

" Mamma ! She is not my mamma." 

" But she loves you like a mother." 

" No one loves me." 

"All love you, dearest — I love you," and she 
kissed me with a thousand kisses. 

" O ! Christiana," I exclaimed, in a low, tremu; 
lous voice, " love me, love me always. If you do 
not love me I shall die !" 

I threw my arms around her neck, and a gleam 
of rapture seemed to burst through the dark storm 
of my grief. She pressed me to her heart a thou- 
sand times, and each time I clung with a more ardent 
grasp — and by degrees, the fierceness of my pas- 
sion died away, ancl heavy sobs succeeded to my tor- 
rents of tears, and light sighs at last came flying af- 
ter, like clouds in a clearing heaven. Our grief 
dies away like a thunder-storm. 

IV. 

Th ^ visit of Christiana was the first great inci- 
dent of my life. No day passed without my seeing 
her, either at the garden-house, or at our town, and 
each day I grew happier. Her presence, the sound 
of her voice, one bright smile, and I was a different 
being; but her caresses, her single society, the pos- 
session of her soft hand — all this was maddening. 
When I was with her in the company of others, I 
was happy, but I indicated my happiness by no ex- 
terior sign. I sat by her side, with my hand locked 
in hers, and I fed in silence upon my tranquil joy. 
But when we were alone, then it was that her in- 
fluence over me broke forth. All the feelings of my 
heart were hers. I concealed nothing. I told her 
each moment that I loved her, and that until I knew 
her I was unhappy. Then I would communicate 
to her in confidence all my secret sources of enjoy- 
ment, and explain how I had turned common places 
into enchanted regions, where I could always fly 
for refuge. She listened with fondness and de- 
light, and was the heroine of all my sports. Now 
I had indeed a princess. Strolling with her, the ber- 
ceau was still more like a forest, and the solace of 
the hermit's cell still more refreshing. 

Her influence over me was all-powerful, for she 
seemed to change my habits and my temper. In 
kindness she entered into my solitary joys; in kind- 
ness she joined in my fantastic amusements; for 
her own temper was social, and her own delight in 
pastimes that were common to all. She tried to 
rouse me from my inaction, she counselled me to 
mingle with my companions. How graceful was 
this girl! Grace was indeed her characteristic, her 
charm. Sometimes she would run away swifter 
than an arrow, and then, as she was skimming 
along, suddenly stop, and turn her head with an 
expression so fascinating, that she appeared to me 
always like a young sunny fawn. 

"Contarini!" she would cry, in a clear flute-like 
voice. How I rushed to her! 



I became more amiable to my brothers. I courted 
more the members of my little society. I even 
joined in their sports. It was whispered that Con- 
tarini was much improved, and the baroness glanced 
at me with a kind of patronising air, that seemed to 
hint to the initiated not to press me too heavily 
with their regulations, or exercise towards one so 
unpractised, perhaps so incapable, all the severity 
of their childish legislation. 

The visit of Christiana drew to a close. There 
was a children's ball at our house, and she con- 
descended to be its mistress. Among my new com- 
panions, there was a boy who was two years my 
senior. He had more knowledge of the world than 
most of us, for he had been some time at school. 
He was gay, vivacious, talkative. He was the leader 
in all our diversions. We all envied him his supe- 
riority, and all called him conceited. He was ever 
with Christiana. I disliked him. 

I hated dancing, but to-night I had determined 
to dance, for the honour of our fair president. 
When the ball opened, I walked up to claim her 
hand as a matter of course. She was engaged — 
she was engaged to this youthful hero. Engaged! 
Was it true] Engaged! Horrible jargon! Were 
the hollow forms of mature society to interfere with 
our play of love? She expressed her regret, and 
promised to dance with me afterward. She pro- 
mised what I did not require. Pale and agitated, I 
stole to a corner, and fed upon my mortified heart. 

I watched her in the dance. Never had she 
looked more beautiful; what was worse, never more 
happy. Every smile pierced me through. Each 
pressure of my rival's hand touched my brain. I 
grew sick and dizzy. It was a terrible effort not to 
give way to my passion. But I succeeded, and 
escaped from the chamber, with all its glaring lights 
and jarring sounds. 

I stopped one moment on the staircase for breath. 
A servant came up and asked if I wanted any thing. 
I could not answer. He asked if I were unwell. I 
struggled with my choking voice, and said I was 
very well. I stole up to my bed-room. I had no 
light, but a dim moon just revealed my bed. I threw 
myself upon it and wished to die. 

My forehead was burning hot, my feet were icy 
cold. My heart seemed in my throat. I felt quite 
sick. I could not speak; I could not weep; I could 
not think. Every thing seemed blended in one terrible 
sensation of desolate and desolating wretchedness. 

Much time perhaps had not elapsed, although it 
seemed to me an age, but there was a sound in the 
room, light and gentle. I looked around, I thought 
that a shadowy form passed between me and the 
window. A feeling of terror crossed me. I nearly 
cried out; but as my lips moved, a warm mouth 
sealed them with sweetness. 

" Contarini," said a voice I could not mistake, 
"are you unwell?" 

I would not answer. 

"Contarini, my love, speak to Christiana!" 

But the demon prevailed, and I would not speaL 

"Contarini, you are not asleep"!" 

Still I was silent. 

"Contarini, you do not love me." 

I would have been silent, but I sighed. 

"Contarini, vi^at has happened? Tell me, tell 
me, dearest. Tell your Christiana. You know you 
always tell her every thing." 

I seized her hand — I bathed it with my fast-flow- 
ing tears. 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



34: 



She knelt down as she did on our first meeting 
in the garden, and clasped me in her arms; and 
each moment the madness of my mind grew greater. 
I was convulsed with passion. 

And when I grew more calm, she again spoke, 
and asked me what made me so unhappy; and I 
said, between my wild sobs, " ! Christiana, you 
too have turned against me!" 

"Dear, sensitive child," she said, as she pressed 
me to her bosom, "if you feel so keenly, you will 
never be happy. Turn against you! O! Conta- 
rini, who is your friend if not Christiana ! Do I not 
love you better than all the world! Do I not do 
all I can to make you happy and good ? And why 
sliould I turn against Contarini when he is the 
best and dearest of boys, and loves his Christiana 
with all his heart and soul?" 

She raised rae from the bed, and placed me in 
her lap. My head reposed upon her fond and faith- 
ful heart. She was silent, for I was exhausted, and 
I felt her sweet breath descending upon my cheek. 

"Go," I said, after some little time, and in a fee- 
ble voice, "go, Christiana. They want you." 

"Not without you, dearest. I came to fetch 
you." 

"I cannot go. It is impossible; I am so tired." 

"O! come dearest! I shall be so unhappy if 
you do not come. You would not have me unhappy 
the whole evening, this evening that we were to be 
so gay. See! I will run and fetch a light, and be 
with you in a moment." And she kissed me and 
ran away, and in a momen t returned. 

"Dearest Christiana! I cannot go. What will 
they think of mel" 

" Nobody knows even that you are away ; all are 
busy." 

" What will they think of me 1 Really I cannot 
go, and my eyes are so red." 

"Nonsense! They are the blackest and most 
beautiful eyes I ever saw." 

" O ! they are horridly red," I answered, looking 
in the glass, " I cannot go, Christiana." 

"They are not the least red. I will wash them 
with some eau de Cologne and water." 

"O! Christiana, do you really love me 1 Have 
you really made it upl" 

" I love you more than ever, dear ! There, let 
me brush your curls. Is this your brush ! What 
a funny little brush! Dear Contarini, how pretty 
you look!" 



V. 



When I was eight years of age, a tutor was in- 
troduced into the house, and I was finally and for- 
mally emancipated from the police of the nursery, 
and the government of women. My tutor was well 
qualified for his office, according to the existing 
ideas respecting education, which substitute for the 
noblest of sciences the vile art of teaching words. 
He was learned in his acquirements, and literary in 
his taste, with a calm mind, a bland manner, and a 
mild voice. The baroness, who fancied herself a 
great judge of character, favoured him, before the 
commencement of his labours, with an epiton* of 
mine. After a year's experience of his pupil, he 
ventured to express his opinion, that I was by no 
means so slow as was supposed, that although I had 
no great power of application, I was not averse to 
acquiring knowledge, and that if I were not en- 
dowed with any very remarkable or shining qualities, 



my friends might be consoled for the absence of 
these high powers by my being equally destitute of 
those violent passions and that ungovernable voli- 
tion which were usually attendant upon genius, 
and too often rendered the most gifted miserable. 

I was always a bad learner, and although I loved 
knowledge from my cradle, I liked to acquire it in 
my own way. I think that I was born with a detes- 
tation of grammars. Nature seemed to whisper to 
me the folly of learning words instead of ideas, and 
my mind would have grown sterile for want of ma- 
nure, if I had not taken its culture into my own 
hands, and compensated by my own tillage for my 
tutor's bad husbandry. I therefore, in a quiet way, 
read every book that I could get hold of, and studied 
as little as possible in my instructer's museum of 
verbiage, whether his specimens appeared in the 
anatomy of a substantive, or the still more disgust- 
ing form of a dissected verb. 

This period of my life was too memorable for a 
more interesting incident than the introduction of 
my tutor. For the first time I visited the theatre. 
Never shall I forget the impression. At length I 
perceived human beings conducting themselves as I 
wished. I was mad for the playhouse, and I had the 
means of gratifying my mania. I so seldom fixed 
my heart upon any thing, I showed, in general, such 
little relish for what is called amusement, that my 
father accorded me his permission with pleasure 
and facility, and as an attendant to this magical 
haunt, I now began to find my tutor of great use. 

I had now a pursuit, for when I was not a spec- 
tator at the theatre, at home I was an actor. I re- 
quired no audience — I was happier alone. My 
chivalric reveries had been long gradually leaving 
me; now they entirely vanished. As I learned 
more of life and nature, I required for my private 
world something which, while it was beautiful and 
uncommon, was nevertheless natural and could live. 
Books more real than fairy tales and feudal ro- 
mances had already made me muse over a more real 
creation. The theatre at once fully introduced to 
me this new existence, and there arose accordingly 
in my mind new characters. Heroes succeeded to 
knights, tyrants to ogres, and boundless empire to 
enchanted castles. My character also changed 
with my companions. Before all was beautiful and 
bright, but still and mystical. The forms that sur- 
rounded me were splendid, the scenes through 
which I passed glittering, but the changes took 
place without my agency, or if I acted, I fulfilled only 
the system of another — for the foundation was the 
supernatural. Now, if every thing were less beau- 
tiful, every thing was more earnest. I mingled with 
the warlike and the wise, the crafty, the suffering, 
the pious — all depended upon our own exertions, 
and each result could only be brought about by 
their own -simple and human energies — for the 
foundation was the natural. 

Yet at times even this fertile source of enjoy- 
ment failed, and the dark spirit which haunted in 
my first years would still occasionally descend upon 
my mind. I knew not how it was, but the fit came 
upon me in an instant, and often when least counted 
on. A star, a sunset, a tree, a note of music, the 
sound of the wind, a fair face flitting by me in un- 
known beauty, and I was Jost. All seemed vapid, 
dull, spiritless, and flat. Life had no object and no 
beauty ; and I slunk to some solitary corner, where 
I was content to lie down and die. These were 
moments of bitter agony, these were moments in 



349 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



which if I were spoken to I had no respect for per- 
sons. Once I remember my father found me be- 
fore the demon had yet flown, and, for the first 
time, he spoke without being honoured. 

At last I had such a lengthened lit that it at- 
tracted universal attention. I would scarcely move, 
or speak, or eat for days. There was a general 
alarm. The baroness fell into a flutter, lest my 
father should think I had been starved to death, or 
ill-used, or poisoned, and overwhelmed me with 
inquiries, each of which severally procrastinated 
my convalescence. For doubtless, now that I can 
analyze my past feelings, these dark humours arose 
only from tlie want of being loved. Physicians 
were called in. There were immense consulta- 
tions. They were all puzzled, and all had recourse 
to arrogant dogmas. I would not, nay, I could 
not assist them. Lying upon the sofa with my 
eyes shut, as if asleep, 1 listened to their confer- 
ences. It was settled that I was suffering from a 
want of nervous energy. Strange jargon, of which 
their fellow-creatures are the victims ! Although 
young, I looked upon these men with suspicion, if 
not contempt, and my after life has both increased 
my experience of their character, and confirmed 
my juvenile impression. 

Change of air and scene were naturally pre- 
scribed for an effect by men who were ignorant of 
the cause. It was settled that I should leave town, 
accompanied by my tutor, and that we should re- 
side for a season at my father's castle. 

VI. 

" And I, too, will fly to Egeria !" 

We were discoursing of Pompilius when the 
thought flashed across me. I no longer listened to 
his remarks, and ceased also to answer. My eyes 
were indeed fixed upon the page, but I perceived 
nothing; as it was not yet my hour of liberty, I 
remained in a soft state of dreamy abstraction. 

When I was again free I wandered forth into 
the park, and I hastened, with a rushing, agitated 
step, to the spot on which I had fixed. 

It was a small dell, and round it grew tall trees 
with thin and light-coloured leaves ; and the earth 
was everywhere covered with thick fern and many 
wild flowers. And the dell was surrounded at a 
very slight distance by a deep wood, out of which 
white glancing hares each instant darted to play 
upon the green sunny turf. It was not indeed a 
sparry grot, cool in the sparkling splendour of a 
southern scene ; it was not indeed a spot formed 
in the indefinite, but lovely, mould of the regions 
of my dreams, but it was green, and sweet, and 
wondrous still. 

And I threw myself upon the soft yielding fern, 
and covered my eyes. And a shadow}' purple tint 
was all that I perceived, and as my abstraction grew 
more intense, the purple lightened into a dusky 
white, and this new curtain again into a glittering 
veil, and the veil mystically disappeared, and I be- 
held a beautiful and female face. 

It was not unlike Christiana, but more dazzling, 
and very pensive. And the eyes met mine, and 
they were full of serious lustre, and my heart beat, 
and I seemed to whisper with a very low, but 
almost ecstatic voice, "Egeria !" Yet indeed my 
lips did not move. And the vision beamed with a 
melancholy smile. And suddenly I found myself 
iV, a spacious cave, and I looked up into the face 



of a beautiful woman, and her rountenance was 
the countenance of the vision. And we were in 
deep shade, but far out I could perceive a shining 
and azure land. And the sky was of a radiant 
purple, and the earth was streaming with a golden 
light. And there were blue mountains, and bright 
fields, and glittering vineyards. 

And I said nothing, but I looked upon her face, 
and dwelt upon her beauty. And hours flew, and 
the sun set, and the dew descended. And as the 
sky became less warm, the vision gradually died 
away, and I arose in the long twilight, and I re- 
turned home pensive and grave, but full of a soft 
and palpitating joy. 

And when I returned, I could not eat. My 
tutor made many observations, many inquiries, but 
he was a simple man, and I could always quiet 
him. I sat at the table full of happiness, and 
almost without motion. And in the evening I 
stole into a corner, and thought of the coming day 
with all its rich strange joys. 

My life was now one long stream of full felicity. 
It was indeed but one idea, but that idea was as 
beautiful as it was engrossing. Each day I has- 
tened to the enchanted dell, each day I returned 
with renewed rapture. I had no thought for any 
thing but my mystic mistress. My studies, always 
an effort, would now have been insupportable, had 
I not invented a system by which I rendered even 
their restraint a new source of enjoyment. I had 
now so complete a command of my system of ab- 
straction, that while my eye apparently was em- 
ployed and interested with my allotted page, I in 
fact perceived nothing but my visionary nymph 
My tutor, who observed me always engrossed, could 
not perceive that I was otherwise than a student, 
and when I could remember, I would turn over a 
leaf, or affect with much anxiety to look out a 
word in the lexicon, so that his deception was per- 
fect. Then at the end of the day I would snatch 
some hasty five minutes to gain an imperfect ac- 
quaintance with my task, imperfect enough te 
make him at length convinced that the baroness's 
opinion of my intellect was not so erroneous as he 
had once imagined. 

A short spring and a long summer had passed 
away thus delightfully, and I was now to leave the 
castle and return to the capital. The idea of being 
torn away from Egeria was harrowing. I became 
again melancholy, but my grief was tender, not 
savage. I did not recur to my ancient gloom, for 
I was prevented by the consoling conviction that I 
was loved. Yet to her the sad secret must be con- 
fided. I could not quit her without preparation. 
How often in solitary possession of the dreadful 
fact, have I gazed upon her incomparable face, how 
often have I fancied that she was conscious of the 
terrible truth, and glanced reproachfully even amid 
her looks of love. 

It was told : in broken acts of passionate wc 
with streaming eyes, and amid embraces of mac 
dening rapture, it was told, I clung to her, i 
would have clung to her forever, but a dark and 
irresistible destiny doomed us to part, and I was 
left to my uninspired loneliness. 

Returning home from my last visit to the dell, I 
met my tutor. He came upon me suddenly, other- 
wise I would have avoided him, as at this moment 
I would have avoided any thing else human. My 
swollen cheeks, my eyes dim with weeping, mv 
wild and broken walk, attracted even his attention. 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



349 



He inquired what ailed me. His appearance, so 
different from the radiant being from whom I had 
lately parted, his voice so strange after the music 
which yet lingered in my ear, his salutation so 
varying in style to the one that ever welcomed me, 
and ever and alone was welcome, the horrible con- 
trast tliat my situation formed with the condition I 
had the instant quitted — all this overcame me. I 
expressed my horror by my extended arms and my 
averted head. I screamed, I foamed at the mouth, 
I fell into violent convulsions, 

vir. 

Although I have delineated with some detail 
the feelings of my first boyhood, I have been in- 
debted for this record to the power of a faithful 
and analytic memory, and not to any early indul- 
gence in the habits of introspection. For indeed, 
in these young years I never thought about myself, 
or if some extraordinary circumstances impelled 
me to idiosyncratic contemplation, the result was 
not cheering. For I well remember that when, on 
the completion of my eleventh year, being about 
to repair to a college where I was to pass some 
years preparatory to the university, I meditated on 
this great and coming change, — I was impressed 
with a keen conviction of inferiority. It had some- 
times indeed crossed my mind that I was of a dif- 
ferent order to those around me, but never that the 
difference was in my favour, and brooding over the 
mortifying contrast which my exploits exhibited in 
my private and my public world, and the general 
opinion which they entertained of me at home, I 
was at times strongly tempted to consider myself 
even half a fool. 

Though change was ever agreeable, I thought 
of the vicissitude that was about to occur with the 
same apprehension that men look forward to the 
indefinite hoiror of a terrible operation. And the 
strong pride that supported me under the fear, and 
forbade me to demonstrate it, was indeed the cause 
of my sad forebodings. For I could not tolerate 
the thought that I should become a general jesf, 
and a common agent. And when I perceived the 
state preparing for me, and thought of Egeria, I 
blushed. And that beautiful vision that had brought 
me such delicious solace was now only a source of 
depressing mortification. And for the first time in 
my life, in my infinite tribulation, and in the agony 
of my fancy, I mused why there should be such 
a devilish and tormenting variance between my 
thought and my action. 

The hour came, and I was placed in the heart 
of a little and a busy world. For the first time in 
my life I was surrounded by struggling and excited 
beings. Joy, hope, sorrow, ambition, craft, courage, 
wit, dulness, cowardice, beneficence, awkwardness, 
grace, avarice, generosity, wealth, poverty, beauty, 
hideousness, tyranny, suffering, hypocrisy, truth, 
love, hatred, energy, inertness — they were all there, 
and all sounded, and moved, and acted about me. 
Light laughs, and bitter cries, and deep impreca- 
tions, and the deeds of the friendly, the prodigal, 
and the tyrant, and the exploits of the brave, the 
graceful, and the gay, and the flying words of na- 
tive wit, and the pompous sentences of acquired 
knowledge — how new, how exciting, how won- 
derful ! 

Did I tremble 1 Did I sink into my innermost 
self] Did I fly 1 Never, As I gazed upon them, 



a new principle rose up in my breast, and I per- 
ceived only beings whom I was determined to con- 
trol. They came up to me with a curious glance 
of half-suppressed glee, breathless and mocking. 
They asked me questions of gay nonsense with a 
serious voice and a solemn look. I answered in their 
kind. On a sudden I seemed endowed with new 
powers, and blessed with the gift of tongues. I 
spoke to them with a levity which was quite new to 
me, a most unnatural ease. I even, in my turn, 
presented to them questions to which they found it 
difficult to respond. Some ran away te communi- 
cate their impressions to their comrades, some stayed 
behind, but these became more serious and more 
natural. When they found that I was endowed 
with a pregnant and decided character, their eyes 
silently pronounced me a good fellow, they vied 
with each other in kindness, and the most impor- 
tant led me away to initiate me in their mysteries. 

Weeks flew away, and I was intoxicated with 
my new life and my new reputation. I was in a 
state of ceaseless excitement. It seemed that my 
tongue never paused: yet each word brought forth 
a new laugh, each sentence of gay nonsense fresh 
plaudits. All was rattle, frolic, and wild mirth. 
My companions caught my unusual manner, they 
adopted my new ])hrases, they repeated my extra- 
ordinary apophthegms. Every thing was viewed 
and done according to the new tone which I had 
introduced. It was decided that I was the wittiest, 
the most original, the most diverting of their so- 
ciety. A coterie of the most congenial insensibly 
formed around me, and my example gradually ruled 
the choice spirits of our world. I even mingled in 
their games, although I disliked the exertion, and in 
those in which the emulation was very strong, I 
even excelled. My ambition conquered my nature. 
It seemed that I was the soul of the school. Wher- 
ever I went, my name sounded, whatever was done, 
my opinion was quoted. I was caressed, adored, 
idolized. In a word, I was popular. 

Yet sometimes I caught a flying moment to turn 
aside, and contrast my present situation with my 
past one. What was all this] Wag I the same be- 
ing? But my head was in a whirl, and I had not 
time, or calmness, to solve the perplexing inquiry. 

There was a boy, and his name was Musseus, 
He was somewhat my elder. Of a kind, calm, do- 
cile, mellow nature, moderate in every thing, uni- 
versally liked, but without the least influence, — he 
was the serene favourite of the school. It seemed 
to me that I never beheld so lovely and so pensive 
a countenance. His face was quite oval, his eyes 
deep blue: his rich brown curls clustered in hya- 
cinthine grace upon the delicate rose of his downy 
cheeks, and shaded the light blue veins of his clear 
white forehead. 

I beheld him : I loved him. My friendship was 
a passion. Of all our society, he alone crowded 
not around me. He was of a cold temperament, 
shy and timid. He looked upon me as a being 
whom he could not comprehend, and rather feared. 
I was unacquainted with his motives, and piqued 
with his conduct. I gave up my mind to the ac- 
quisition of his acquaintance, and of course I suc- 
ceeded. In vain he endeavoured to escape. Wher- 
ever he moved, I seemed unintentionally to hover 
around him: whatever he vianted, I seemed provi- 
dentially to supply. In the few words that this 
slight intercourse called forth, I addressed him in a 
tone strange to our rough life ; I treated him with 
2G 



350 



D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. 



a courtesy which seemed to elevate our somewhat 
coarse condition. He answered nothing, was con- 
fused, thankful, agitated. He yielded to the unac- 
customed tenderness of my manner, to the unexpe- 
rienced elegance of my address. He could not but 
feel the strange conviction, that my conduct to him 
was different to my behaviour to others, for in truth 
his presence ever subdued my spirit, and repressed 
my artificial and excited manner. 

Mus£eus was lowly born, and I was noble; he 
poor, and I wealthy ; I had a dazzling reputation, 
he but good» report. To find himself an object of 
interest, of quiet and tender regard, to one to whose 
notice all aspired, and who seemed to exist only in 
a blaze of cold-hearted raillery and reckless repartee, 
developed even his dormant vanity. He looked 
upon me with interest, and this feeling soon ma- 
tured into fondness. 

! days of rare and pure felicity, when Mu- 
sfBus and myself, with our arms around each other's 
neck, wandered together amid the meads and shady 
woods that formed our limits. I lavished upon him 
all the fanciful love that I had long stored up, and the 
mighty passions that yet lay dormant in my ob- 
scure soul, now first began to stir in that glimmer- 
ing abyss. And indeed conversing with this dear 
companion was it, that I first began to catch some 
glimpses of my yet hidden nature. For the days 
of futurity were our usual topic, and in parcelling 
out their fortunes, I unconsciously discovered my 
own desires. I was to be something great, and 
glorious, and dazzling, but what we could not de- 
termine. The camp and the senate, the sword and 
the scroll, that had raised, and had destroyed, so 
many states — these were infinitely discussed. And 
then a life of adventure was examined, full of 
daring delight. One might be a corsair or a bandit. 
Foreign travel was what we could surely command, 
and must lead to much. I spoke to him, in the ful- 
ness of our sweet confidence, of the strangeness of 
my birth, and we marvelled together over myste- 
rious Venice. And this led us to conspiracies, for 
which I fancied that I had a predisposition. But 
in all these scenes, Musseus was to be never absent. 
He was to be my heart's friend from the beginning 
to the death. And I mourned that nature had given 
me no sister, wherewith I could bind him to me by 
a still stronger and sweeter tie. And then, with a 
shy, hesitating voice, for he delighted not in talking 
of his home, he revealed to me that he ,was more 
blessed : and Caroline Musmus rose up at once to 
me like a star, and without having seen her, I was 
indeed her betrothed. 

Thus, during these bright days, did I pour forth 
all the feelings I had long treasured up, and in en- 
deavouring to communicate my desires to another, 
I learned to think. I ascended from indefinite 
revery to palpable cogitation. 

1 was now seldom alone. To be the companion 
of Musffius, I participated in many pastimes which 
otherwise I should have avoided, and in return he, 
although addicted to sports, was content, for my 
sake, to forego much former occupation. With 
what eagerness I rushed, when the hour of study 
ceased — with what wild eagerness I rushed to re- 
sume our delicious converse ! Nor indeed was his 
image ever absent from me, and when, in the hour 
of school, we passed each other, or our counte- 
nances chanced to meet, there was ever a sweet, 
faint smile, that, unmarked by others, interchanged 
our love 



A love that I thought must last forever, and for- 
ever flow like a clear, bright stream, yet at timea 
my irritable passions would disturb even these 
sweet waters. The temperament of Musreus was 
cold and slow. I was at first proud of having in- 
terested his aflection, but, as our friendship gre\* 
apace, I was not contented with this calm sympathy 
and quiet regard. I required that he should re- 
spond to my ail'ection with feelings not less ardent, 
and energetic than mine own. I was sensitive, I 
was jealous. I found a savage joy in harrowing 
his heart — I triumphed when I could draw a tear 
from his beautiful eye ; when I could urge him to 
unaccustomed emotion ; when I forced him to as- 
sure me, in a voice of agitation, that he loved me 
alone, and prayed me to be pacified. 

From sublime torture to ridiculous teasing, too 
often Musoeus was my victim. One day I detected 
an incipient dislike to myself, or a growing affection 
for another : then, I passed him in gloomy silence, 
because his indispensable engagements had obliged 
him to refuse my invitation to our wdk. But the 
letters with which I overwhelmed him under some 
of these contingencies — these were the most vio- 
lent infliction. What pages of mad eloquence ! 
— solemn appeals, bitter sarcasms, infinite ebulli- 
tions of frantic sensibility. For the first time in 
my life, I composed. I grew intoxicated with my 
own eloquence. A new desire arose in my mind, 
novel asjiirations which threw light upon old and 
often-experienced feelings. I began to ponder over 
the music of language ; I studied the collocation of 
sweet words, and constructed elaborate sentences 
in lonely walks. Poor Musaeus quite sunk under 
the receipt of my effusions. He could not write a 
line, and had he indeed been able, it would have 
been often diflicult for him to have discovered the 
cause of our separations. The brevity, the simpli- 
city of his answers were irresistible and heart-rend- 
ing. Yet these distractions brought with them one 
charm, a charm to me so captivating, that I fear it 
was sometimes a cause — reconciliation was indeed 
a love-feast. 

The sessions of our college closed. The time 
came that Musreus and myself must for a moment 
part, but for a moment, for, I intended that he should 
visit me in our vacation, and we were also to write 
to each other every week. Yet even under these 
palliating circumstances parting was anguish. 

The eve of the fatal day, we took our last stroll in 
our favourite meads. The whole way I wept, and 
leaned upon his shoulder. With what jealous care 
1 watched to see if he too shed a tear. One clear 
drop at length came quivering down his cheek, like 
dew upon a rose. I pardoned him for its beauty. 
The bell sounded. I embraced him, as if it sounded 
for my execution, and we parted. 

viir. 

I WAS once more at home, once more silent, once 
more alone. I found myself changed. My ob- 
scure aspirations after some indefinite happiness, 
my vague dreams of beauty, or palpable personifi- 
cations of some violent fantastic idea, no longer in- 
spired, no longer soothed, no longer haunted me. 
I thought only of one subject, which was full of 
earnest novelty, and abounded in interest, curious, 
serious, and engrossing. I speculated upon my 
own nature. My new life had developed many 
quahties, and had filled me with sclf-confidenco 



C N T A R I N 1 FLEMING. 



351 



The clouds seemed to clear off from the dark land- 
scape of my mind, and vast ambition might be 
distinguished on the far horizon, rearing its head 
like a mighty column. My energies stirred within 
me, and seemed to pant for the struggle and the 
strife, A deed was to be done, but what 1 I enter- 
tained at this time a deep conviction that life must 
be intolerable, unless I were the greatest of men. 
It seemed that I felt within me the power that 
could influence my kind. I longed to wave my in- 
spiring sword at the head of armies, or dash into 
the very heat and blaze of eloquent faction. 

When I contrasted my feelings and my situation 
I grew mad. The constant jar between my con- 
duct and my conceptions was intolerable. In ima- 
gination a hero, I was in reality a boy. I returned 
from a victorious field to be criticised by a woman : 
in the very heart of a deep conspiracy, which was 
to change the fate of nations, to destroy Rome or 
to free Venice, I was myself the victim of each 
petty domestic regulation. I cannot describe the 
insane irritability which all this produced. Infinite 
were the complaints of my rudeness, my violence, 
my insufferable impertinence : incessant the threats 
of pains and penalties. It was universally agreed 
that college had ruined me. A dull, slow boy I 
had always been, but, at least, I was tolerably kind 
and docile. Now, as my tutor's report correctly 
certified, I was not improved in intellect, and all 
witnessed the horrible deterioration of my manners 
and my morals. 

The baroness was in despair. After several 
smart skirmishes, we at length had a regular pitched 
battle. 

She began her delightful colloquy in the true 
style of domestic reprimand; dull, drony nonsense, 
adapted, as I should hope, to no state in which hu- 
man intellect can ever be found, even if it have 
received the full benefit of the infernal tuition of 
nurses, which would be only ridiculous, if its 
effects weie not so fatally and permanently inju- 
rious. She told me that whenever I spoke I should 
speak in a low voice, and that I should never think 
for myself. That if any thing were refused, I 
should be contented, and never ask the reason 
why, because it was not proper ever to ask ques- 
tions, particularly when we were sure that every 
thing was done for our good. That I should do 
every thing that was bidden, and always be ready 
to conform to everybody's desires, because at my 
age no one should have a will of his own. That 
I should never, on any account, presume to give 
my opinion, because it was quite impossible that 
one so young could have one. That on no ac- 
count, also, should I ever be irritable, which never 
could be permitted; but she never considered that 
every effect has a cause, and never attempted to 
discover what might occasion this irritability. In 
this silly, superficial way she went on for some 
time, repeating dull axioms by rote, and offering 
■to me the same useless advice that had been equal- 
ly thrown away upon the tender minds of her 
generation. 

She said all this, all this to me, all this to one 
who, a moment before, was a Ciesar, an Alcibiades. 
Now I had long brooded over the connexion that 
subsisted between myself and this lady. I had 
long formed in my mind and caught up from books, 
a conception of the relations which must exist be- 
tween a stepmother and her unwelcome son. I 
Was therefore prepared. She grew pale as I de- 



scribed in mad heroics our exact situation. She 
had no idea that any people, under any circum- 
stances, could be influenced by sucL violent, such 
wicked, such insane sentiments. She stared, in 
stupid astonishment, at my terrible and unexpected 
fluency. She entirely lost her presence jf mind, 
and burst into tears — tears not of affection, but of 
absolute fright, the hysteric offspring of a cold, 
alarmed, puzzled mind. 

She vowed she would tell my father. I inquir- 
ed, with a malignant sneer, of what 1 She pro- 
tested she certainly would tell. I dilated on the 
probability of a stepdame's tale. Most certainly 
she would tell. I hurst into a dark, foaming rage. 
I declared that I would leave the house, that I 
would leave the country, that I would submit no 
longer to my intolerable life, that suicide (and here 
I kicked down a chair) should bring me immediate 
relief. The baroness was terrified out of her life. 
The fall of the chair was the perfection of fear. 
She was one of those women who have the highest 
respect for furniture. She could not conceive a 
human being, much less a boy, voluntarily kicking 
down a chair, if his feelings were not very keen 
indeed. It was becoming too serious. She tried 
to soothe me. She would not speak to my fither. 
All should be right, all should be forgotten, if I 
only would not commit suicide, and not kick down 
the chairs. 

After some weeks, Musasus paid his long medi- 
tated visit. I had never, until I invited him, an- 
swered his solitary letter. I received him with a 
coldness which astonished me, and must have been 
apparent to any one but himself. I was distressed 
by the want of unction in my manner, and tried 
to compensate by a laboured hospitality which, like 
ice, was dazzling, but frigid. Many causes, per- 
haps, conduced to occasion this change, tlien in- 
scrutable to me. Since we had [larted, I had 
indulged in lofty ideas of self, and sometimes re- 
membered, with a feeling approaching to disgustful 
mortification, the influence which had been exer- 
cised over me by a fellow-child. The reminiscence 
savoured too nvach of boyish weakness, and pain- 
fully belied my proud theory of universal supe- 
riority. At home, too, when the permission for the 
invitation was accorded, there was much discussion 
as to the quality of the invited. They wished to 
know who he was, and when informed looked 
rather grave. Some caution was muttered abou.t 
the choice of my companions. Even my father, 
who seldom spoke to me, seemed alarmed at the 
prospect of a bad connexion. His intense worldli- 
ness was shocked. He talked to me for an unusual 
time upon the subject of school friendships, and 
his conversation, which was rare, made an impres- 
sion. All this influenced me, for at that age I was, 
of course, the victim of every prejudice. Must I 
add to all this, what is perhaps the sad and dreary 
truth, that in loving all this time Musreus with such 
devotion, I was in truth rather enamoured of the 
creature of my imagination than the companion of 
my presence. Upon the foundation which he had 
supplied, I had built a beautiful and enchanted 
palace. Unceasing intercourse was a necessary' in- 
gredient of the spell. We parted, and the fairy 
fabric Jissolved into the clouds. 

Certain it is, that his visit was a failure. Mu- 
sffius was too little sensitive to feel the change of 
my manner, and my duty, as his host, impelled mo 
to conceal it. But the change was great. Ha 



352 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



appeared to me to have fallen off very much in his 
beauty. The baroness thought him a little coarse, 
and praised the •omplexion of her own children, 
which was like chalk. Then he wanted constant 
attention, for it was evident that he had no resources 
of his own, and certainly he was not very refined. 
But he was pleased, for he was in a new world. 
For the first time in his life he moved in theatres 
and saloons, and mingled in the splendour of high 
civilization. I took him everywhere ; in fact, I 
could bear every thing but to be alone with him. 
So he passed a very pleasant fortnight, and then 
quitted us. How different from our last parting! 
Cheerful indeed it was, and, in a degree, cordial. 
I extended him my hand with a patronising air, 
and mimicking the hollow courtesy of maturer 
beings, I expressed, in a flimsy voice of affected 
regard, a wish that he might visit us again. And 
six weeks before I had loved this boy better than 
myself, would have perilled for him my life, and 
shared with him my fortune ! 



IX. 



I iiETURNED to College gloomy and depressed. 
Kot that I cared for quitting home: I hated home. 
I returned in the fullness of one of my dark hu- 
mours, and which promised to be one of the most 
terrible visitations that had ever fallen upon me. 
Indeed, existence was intolerable, and I should have 
killed myself had I not been supported by my am- 
bition, which now each day became more quicken- 
ing, so that the desire of distinction and of astound- 
ing action raged in my soul, and when I recollected 
that at the soonest many years must elapse before I 
could realize my ideas, I gnashed my teeth in silent 
rage and cursed my existence. 

I cannot picture the astonishment that pervaded 
jur little society, when they found the former hero 
of their gayety avoiding all contact and conversa- 
tion, and moving about always in gloomy silence. 
It was at first supposed, that some great misfortune 
had happened to me, and inquiries were soon afloat, 
but nothing could be discovered. At length one 
of my former prime companions, I should say, per- 
haps, patrons, expostulated with me upon the sub- 
ject: I assured him with grim courtesy that nothing 
had happened, and wished him good morning. As 
for Mu^teus, I just contrived the first day to greet 
him with a faint agonizing smile, and ever after I 
shunned him. Nothing could annoy Musajus long, 
and he wuuld soon have forgotten his pain, as he 
had already perhaps freed his memory of any vivid 
recollection of the former pleasure v*'hich our friend- 
ship had undoubtedly brought him. He welcomed 
enjoyment with a smile, and was almost as cheer- 
ful when he should have been much less pleased. 

But although Musajus was content to be thus 
quiet, the world in which he lived determined that 
he should be less phlegmatic. As they had nothing 
better to do, they took his quarrel upon themselves. 
" He certainly has behaved infamously to Musacus. 
\ ou know they were always together. I wonder 
what it can be ! As for the rest of the school, that 
is in comparison nothing; butMusfeus — you know 
Ihey were decided cronies. I never knew fellows 
more together. I wonder what it can be! If I 
were Musjeus, I certainly would come to an expla- 
nation. We must put him up to it. If Musajus 
asks him, he cannot refuse, and then we shall 
know what it is all about" 



They at length succeeded in ^eating it into poor 
MuscEus's head, that he had been very ill-treated, 
and must be very unhappy, and they urged him to 
insist upon an explanation. But MusaBus was no 
hand at de.iianding explanations, and he deputed 
the task to a friend. 

I was alone, sitting on a gate in a part of the 
grounds which was generally least frequented, when 
I heard a shout which, although I could not guess 
its cause, sounded in my ear with something of a 
menacing and malignant expression. The whole 
school, headed by the deputy, were finding me out, 
in order that the important question might be 
urged, that the honour of Musteus might be sup- 
ported, and their own curiosity gratified. 

Now at that age, whatever I may be now, I could 
not be driven. A soft word, and I was an Abel ; 
an appearance of force, and I scowled a Cain. 
Had Musajus, instead of being a most common- 
place character, which assuredly he was, had it 
been in his nature to have struck out a single spark 
of ardent feeling, to have indulged in a single sigh 
of sentiment, he might perhaps yet have been my 
friend. His appeal might have freed me from the 
domination of the black spirit, and in weeping over 
our reconciliation upon his sensitive bosom, I might 
have been emancipated from its horrid thrall. But 
the moment that Musaeus sought to influence my 
private feelings by the agency of public opinion, he 
became to me, instead of an object of indifference, 
an object of disgust, and only not of hatred, be- 
cause of contempt. 

I did not like the shout, and when, at a conside- 
rable distance, I saw them advancing towards the 
gate with an eager run, I was almost tempted to 
retire; but I had never yet flinched in the course 
of my life, and the shame and sickness which I now 
felt at the contemplation of such an act impelled 
me to stay. 

They arrived, they gathered round me, they di(^ 
not know how to commence their great business; 
breathless and agitated, they looked first at their 
embarrassed leader, and then at me. 

When I had waited a sufficient time for my dig- 
nity, I rose to quit the place. 

" We want you, Fleming," said the chief. 
"Well!" and I turned round and faced the 
speaker. 

"I tell you what, Fleming," said he, in a rapid 
nervous style, "you may think yourself a very 
great man; but we do not exactly understand the 
way you are going on. There is Musseus; you 
and he were the greatest friends last half, and now 
you do not speak to him, nor to any one else. And 
we all think that you should give an explanation 
of your conduct. And, in short, we come here to 
know what you have got to say for yourself." 
"Do you!" I answered, with a sneer. 
"Well, what have you got to say T' he conti- 
nued in a firmer voice and more peremptory tone. 

"Say! say that either you or I must leave this 
gate. I was here first, but as you are the largest 
number, I suppose 1 must yield." 

I turned my heel upon him and moved. Some 
one hissed. I returned, and inquired in a very 
calm, mild voice, "Who hissed 1" 

Now the person who hissed was a boy, who was 
indeed my match in years, and perhaps in force, 
but a great coward. I knew it was he, because he 
was just the fellow who would hiss, and looked 
quite pale when I asked the question. Besides, iw 



CONTARINl FLEMING. 



353 



one answered it, and he was almost the only boy 
who, under such circumstances, would have been 
silent. 

"Are you afraid to own it?" I asked, in a con- 
temptuous tone, but still very subdued. 

This great mob of nearly two hundred boys were 
very much ashamed at the predicament in which 
their officious and cowardly member had placed 
them. So their leader, proud in a fine frame, a 
great and renowned courage, unrivalled achieve- 
ments in combat, and two years of superiority of age 
over myself, advanced a little and said, "Suppose I 
hissed, what then?" 

"What then!" I exclaimed,ina voice of thunder, 
and with an eye of lightning — " what then ! Why, 
then I will thrash you." 

There was an instantaneous flutter and agitation, 
and panting monosyllabic whisper in the crowd; 
they were like birds when the hawk is first detect- 
ed in airy distance. Unconsciously, they withdrew 
like waves, and the arena being cleared, my oppo- 
nent and I were left in opposition. Apparently 
there never was a more unequal match : but indeed 
he was not fighting with Contarini Fleming, but 
with a demon that had usurped his shape. 

"Come on, then," he replied, with brisk confidence. 

And I came — as the hail upon the tall corn. I 
flew at him like a wild beast; I felt not his best 
blow, I beat down his fine guard, and I sent him to 
the ground, stunned and giddy. 

He was up again in a moment, and indeed I 
would not have waited for their silly rules of mock 
combat, but have destroyed him in his prostration. 
But he was up again in a moment. Again I flew 
upon him. He fought with subtle energy, but he 
was like a serpent with a tiger. I fixed upon him: 
my blows told with the rapid precision of machinery. 
His bloody visage was not to be distinguished. I 
believe that he was terrified with my frantic air. 

I would never wait between the rounds. I cried 
out in a voice of madness for him to come on. 
There was breathless silence. They were thunder- 
struck. They were too generous to cheer their 
leader. They could not refrain from sympathizing 
with inferior force and unsupported courage. Each 
time that he came forward, I made the same dread- 
ful spring, beat down his guard, and never ceased 
working upon his head, until at length my fist 
seemed to enter his very brain, and after ten rounds 
he fell down quite blind, I never felt his blows — I 
never lost my breath. 

He could not come to time — I rushed forward — 
I placed my knee upon his chest. "I fight no 
more," he faintly cried. 

"Apologize," I exclaimed; "apologize." 

He did not speak. 

"By heavens, apologize," I said, "or I know not 
what I shall do." 

"Never!" he replied. 

I lifted up my arm. Some advanced to interfere. 
"OlT, dogs," I shouted; "Olf, ofl'." I seized the 
fallen chief, rushed through the gate, and dragged 
him like Achilles through the mead. At the bottom 
there was a dung hill : upon it I flung the half- 
inanimate body. 

X. 

I STROLLED away to one of my favourite haunts; 
r was calm and exhausted; rny face and hands 
were smeared with gore. I knelt down by the side 
43 



of the stream, and drank the most delicious dratight 
that I had ever quaffed. I thought that I should 
never have ceased. I felt invigorated, and a plunge 
in the river soon completed my renovation. 

I reclined under a branching oak, and moralized 
on the part. For the first time in my life, I had 
acted. Hitherto I had been a creature of dreams, 
but within the last month unconsciously I found 
myself a stirrer in existence. I jjerceived that I had 
suddenly become a responsible agent. There were 
many passions, many characters, many incidents. . 
Love, hatred, faction, vengeance, Musfeus, myself, 
my antagonist, his followers, who were indeed a 
world; our soft walks, the hollow visit, the open 
breach, the organized party, the great and triumph- 
ant struggle. 

And as I mused, all these things flitted across my 
vision, and all that had passed was again present, 
and again performed, except indeed that my part in 
the drama was of a more studied and perfect cast. 
For I was conscious of much that might have been 
finely expressed and dexterously achieved; and to 
introduce all this, I indulged in imaginary scenes. 
There was a long interview between myself and 
Musa3us, most harrowing; a logomachy between 
myself and the chief of the faction, most pungent. 
I became so excited, that I coufd no longer restrain 
the outward expression of my strong feeling. My 
voice broke into impassioned tones; I audibly ut- 
teied the scornful jest. My countenance was in 
harmony with my speech ; my action lent a more 
powerful meaning to my words. 

And suddenly there was a great change- whose 
order I cannot trace. For Musa;us, though he looked 
upon me, was not Musa;us, but a youth in a distant 
land, and I was there in a sumptuous dress, with a 
brilliant star; and we were friends. And a beauti- 
ful woman rose up, a blending of Christiana and 
Egeria. Both of us loved her, and she yielded her- 
self to me, and Musceus fled for aid. And there 
came a king with a great power, and as I looked 
upon his dazzling crown, lo! it encircled the brow 
of my late antagonist. 

And I beheld and felt all this growing and ex- 
panding life with a bliss so keen, so ravishing, that 
I can compare it to nothing but to joys, which I was 
then too young even to participate. My brain 
seemed to melt into a liquid, rushing stream ; my 
blood quickened into action, too quick even to re- 
cognise pulsation, fiery and fleet, yet delicate and 
soft. With difficulty I breathed, yet the oppression 
was delicious. But in vain I endeavour to paint 
the refined excitement of this first struggle of my 
young creation. 

The drama went on, nor was it now in my power 
to restrain it. At length, oppressed with the vita- 
lity of the beings I had fonned, dazzled with the 
shifting brilliancy of the scenes in which they moved, 
exhausted with the mnrvellous action of my sha- 
dowy self, who figured before me in endless exploit, 
now struggling, now triumphing, now pouring forth 
his soul in sentences of burning love, now breath- 
ing a withering blast of proud defiance, I sought for 
means to lay the wild ghosts that I had unconscious- 
ly raised. 

I lifted my hand to my face, that had been 
gazing all this time, in fixed abstraction, upon a 
crimson cloud. T'here was a violent struggle, which 
I did not comprehend. Every thing was chaos, 
but soon, as it were, a mystic music came rising out 
of the incongruous mass, a mighty secret was 
2c2 



354 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



revealed to me, all was harmony, and order, and 
repose, and beauty. The whirling scene no longer 
changed; there was universal stillness; and the 
wild beings ceased their fierce action, and bending 
down before nie in humility, proffered their homage 
to their creator. 

" Am I then," I exclaimed, looking around with 
an astonished and vacant air, "am I then, after all, 
a poetl" 

I sprang up — I paced up and down before the 
.tree, but not in thought. The perspiration ran 
down my forehead — I trembled — I panted — I was 
lost. I was not conscious of my existence. My 
memory deserted me — the rudder of my mind broke 
away. 

My thought came back — I threw myself upon the 
ground. "Yes," I exclaimed, "beautiful beings, I 
will release you from the prison-house of my brain. 
I will give you to freedom and to light. You shall 
exist not only for me — you shall go forth to the 
world to delight and to conquer." 

And this was the first time in my life that the 
idea of literary creation occurred to me. For I dis- 
liked poetry, of which indeed I had read little except 
plays, and although I took infinite delight in prose 
fiction, it was only because the romance, or the 
novel, offered to me a life more congenial to my 
feelings, than the world in which I lived. But the 
conviction of this day threw light upon my past 
existence. My imaginary deeds of conquest, my 
heroic aspirations, my long, dazzling dreams of fanci- 
ful adventure, were perhaps but sources of ideal ac- 
tion; that stream of eloquent and choice expression 
that seemed ever flowing in my ear was probably 
intended to be directed in a dillercnt channel than 
human asse;nblies, and might melt, or kindle the 
passions of mankind in silence. And the visions 
of beauty and the vows of love — were they too to 
glitter and glow only in imagination. 

XI. 

I REPAiKED the next day to my favourite tree, 
armed with a pencil and a paper book. My mind 
was, as I thought, teeming with ideas. I had com- 
posed the first sentence of rny work in schooltime — 
it seemed full of music. I had repeated it a thou- 
sand times — I was enchanted with its euphony. It 
was now written, fairly written. With rapture I 
perceived it placed in its destined position. But 
what followed ? — Nothing. In vain I rubbed my 
forehead ; in vain I summoned my fancies. The 
traitors would not listen. My mind seemed full to 
the very brink, but not a drop of the rich stream 
overflowed. I became anxious, nervous, fretful. I 
walked about; I reseated myself. Again I threw 
down the pencil. I was like a man disenchanted. 
I could scarcely recall the visions of yesterday, and 
if, with an effort, I succeeded, they appeared cold, 
tame, dull, lifeless. Nothing can describe my blank 
despair. 

They know not, they cannot tell — the cold, dull 
world — they cannot even remotely conceive the 
agony of doubt and des[iair which is the doom of 
vouthful genius. To sigh for Fame in obscurity is 
like sighing in a dungeon for light. Yet the votary 
and the captive share an equal hope. But to feel 
the strong necessity of fame, and to be conscious 
without intellectual excellence life must be insup- 
portable, to feel all this with no simultaneous fiiith 
in your own power — these are moments of de- 



spondency for which no immortality cuii con 
pensate. 

As for myself, repeated experiments only lirough' 
repeated failures. I would qotdie without a strug- 
gle, but I struggled only to be vanquished. One day 
was too hot; another I fancied too cold. Then 
again I was not well, or perhaps I was too anxious. 
I would trj' only a sentence each day. The trial 
was most mortifying, for I found when it came to 
this practical test, that in fact I had nothing to write 
about. Yet my mind had been so full, and even now 
a spark, and it would again light up ; but the flame 
never kindled, or if ever I fanned an appearance 
of heat, I was sure only to extinguish it. AYhy 
could I not express what I seemed to feell All 
was a mystery. 

I was most wretched. I wandered about in very 
great distress, for my pride was deeply wounded, 
and I could no longer repose on my mind with con- 
fident solace. My spirit was quite broken. Had I 
fought my great battle now, I should certainly have 
been beaten. I was distracted with disquietude — 
I had no point of refuge— hope utterly vanished. 
It was impossible that I could be any thing. I 
must always fail. I hated to think of myself. The 
veriest dunce in the school seemed my superior. I 
grew meek and dull. I learned my dry lessons — 
I looked upon a grammar with a feeling of reve- 
rence; my lexicon was constantly before me. But 
I made little advance. I no longer ascribed my i'l 
progress to the iminteresting task, but to my own 
incapacity. I thought myself, once more, half a fooi 

XII. 

Had I now been blessed with a philosophir 
friend, I might have found consolation and assist- 
ance. But my instructers, to whom I had a right 
to look up for this aid, were, of course, wanting. 
The system which they pursued taught them to 
consider their pupils as machines, which were to 
fulfil a certain operation, and this operation was 
word-learning. They attempted not to discover, 
or to develope, or to form character. Predisposi- 
tion was to them a dark oracle : organization, a 
mystery in which they were not initiated. The 
human mind was with them always the same soil, 
and one to which they brought ever the same til- 
lage. And mine was considered a sterile one, for 
they found that their thistles did not flourish where 
they should have planted roses. 

I was ever coirsidered a lazy, idle boy, because I 
required ideas instead of words. I never would 
make any further exertion than would save me 
from their punishments: their rewards I did not 
covet. Yet I was ever reading, and in general 
knowledge was immeasurably superior to all the 
students — for aught I know, to all the tutors. For 
indeed in any chance observations in which they 
might indulge, I could even then perceive that they 
were individuals of the most limited intelligence. 
They spoke sometimes of great men, I suppose for 
our emulation, but their great men were always 
commentators. They sometimes burst into a 
eulogium of a great work; you might be sure it 
was ever a huge bunch of annotations. An un- 
rivalled exploit turned out to be a happy conjecture 
a marvellous deed was the lion's skin that co- 
vered the ears of a new reading. I was confounded 
to hear the same epithets applied to their obsctire 
dcmi-gods that I associated with the names of Csesar 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



355 



and Socrates, and Pericles, and Cicero. It was per- 
plexing to find that Pharsalia or a Philippic — the 
groves of Academus or the fanes of the Acropoli-;, 
could receive no Ijigher admiration than was 
lavished upon the unknown exploits of a hunter af- 
ter syllables. 

After my battle, I was never annoyed by my 
former friends. As time advanced I slightly relaxed 
in my behaviour, and when it was necessary, we in- 
terchanged words, but I never associated with any 
one. I was however no longer molested. An idea 
got afloat that I was not exactly in my perfect 
senses, and on the whole, I was rather feared than 
disliked. 

Reading was my only resource. I seldom in- 
dulged in revery. The moment that I perceived 
my mind wandering, I checked it with a mixed 
feeling of disgust and terror. I made, however, 
duritig this period, more than one attempt to write, 
and always with signal discomfiture. Neither of 
the projected subjects in any way grew out of my 
own character, however they might have led to its 
delineation, had I proceeded. The first was a theme 
of heroic life, in which I wished to indulge in the 
gorgeousness of remote antiquity. I began with a 
line description, which again elevated my hopes, 
but when the scene was fairly painted, my actors 
would not come on. I flung the sheet into the 
river, and cursed my repeated idiotism. 

After an exposure of this kind, I always in- 
stantaneously became practical, and grave, and 
stupid ; as a man, when he recovers from intoxica- 
tion, vows that he will never again taste wine. 
Nevertheless, during the vacation, a pretty little 
German lady one night took it into her head to nar- 
rate some of the traditions of her country. Among 
these I heard, for the first time, the story of the 
Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein. It was most un- 
lucky. The baroness, who was a fine instrumen- 
tal musician, but who would never play when I re- 
quested her, chanced this night to be indulging us. 
The mystery and the music combined their damna- 
ble spells, and I was again enchanted. Infinite 
characters and ideas seemed rushing in my mind. 
I recollected that I had never yet given my vein a 
trial at home. Here I could command silence, soli- 
tude, hours unbroken and undisturbed. I walked 
up and down the room, once more myself. The 
music was playful, gay, and joyous. A village 
dance was before my vision — I marked with delight 
the smiling peasantry bounding under the cluster- 
ing vines, the girls crowned with roses — the youth 
adorned with flowing. ribands. Just as a venerable 
elder advanced, the sounds became melancholy, 
wild, and ominous. I was in a deep forest, full of 
doubt and terror — the wind moaned — the big 
branches heaved — in the distance I heard the bay- 
ing of a hound. It did not appear, for suddenly 
the trumpet announced a coming triumph : I felt 
that a magnificent procession was approaching, that 
each moment it would appear : each moment the 
music became louder, and already an advanced and 
splendid guard appeared in the distance. I caught 
a flashing glimpse of a sea of waving plumes and 
glistening arms. The music ceased — the proces- 
sion vanished — I fell from the clouds, I found my- 
self in a dull drawing-room, a silly boy, very ex- 
hausted. 

I felt so excessively stupid that I instantly gave 
up all thoughts of the Hunter of Rodenstein — and 



went to bed gloomy and without hope ; but in the 
morning when I rose, the sun was shining so softly, 
the misty trees and the dewy grass were so tender 
and so bright, the air was so fresh and fragrant, that 
my first feeling was the desire of composition, and 
I walked forth into the park cheerful, and moved by 
a rising faith. 

The excited feelings of the evening seemed to 
return, and when I had sufiiciently warmed my 
mind with revery, I sat down to my table sur- 
rounded by every literary luxury that I could re- 
member. Ink enclcsed in an ormolu Cupid, clear 
and brilliant, quires of the softest cream-coloured 
paper, richly gilt, and a perfect magazine of the 
finest pens. I was exceedingly nervous, but on the 
whole not unsuccessful. I described a young tra- 
veller arriving at night at a small inn on the borders 
of a Bohemian forest. I did not allow a single 
portion of his dress to escape, and even his steed 
and saddle-bags duly figured. The hostess was 
founded on our own housekeeper, therefore I was 
master of my subject. From her ear-rings to her 
shoe-buckles, all was perfect. I managed to supply 
my hero with supper, and at length I got him, not 
to bed, but to his bed-room — for heroes do not get 
into bed, even when wearied, with the expedition 
of more commonplace characters. On the con- 
trary, he first opened the window, it was a lattice 
window, and looked at the moon. I had a very 
fine moonlight scene. I well remember that the 
trees were tipped with silver, but O ! trium.ph of 
art, for the first time in my life, I achieved a si.aiile, 
and the evening breeze came sounding in his ear 
soft as a lover's sigh ! 

This last master-touch was too much for me. 
I was breathless, and indeed exhausted. I read 
over the chapter. I could scarcely believe its exist- 
ence possible. I rushed into the park — I hurried 
to some solitude where, undisturbed by the sight 
of a human being, I could enjoy my intense exist- 
ence. 

I was so agitated, I was in such a tumult of feli- 
city, that for the rest of the day I could not even 
think. I could not find even time to determine 
on my hero's name, or to ascertain the reason for 
which I had brought him to such a wild scene, and 
placed him in such exceedingly uncomfortable 
lodgings. The next morning I had recovered my 
self-possession. Calm and critical, I reviewed the 
warm product of brain which had the preceding 
day so fascinated me. It appeared to m.e that it had 
never been my unfortunate fate to read more crude, 
ragged, silly stuff in the whole course of my expe- 
rience. The description of costume, which I had 
considered so perfect, sounded like a catalogue of 
old clothes. As for the supper, it was very evident 
that so lifeless a personage could never have an ap- 
petite. What he opened the window for I cer- 
tainly knew not, but certainly if only to look at the 
moon he must have been disappointed, for in spite 
of all my asseverations it was very dim indeed, and 
as for the lover's sigh, at the same time so tame, 
and so forced, it was absolutely sickening. 

I threw away the wretched eflfusion, the beautiful 
inkstand, the cream-coloured paper, the fine pens — 
away they were all crammed in a drawer, which I 
was ever after ashamed to open. I looked out of 
the window, and saw the huntsman going out. I 
called to him, I joined him. I hated field-sports. I 
hated every bodily exertion except riding, which 



356 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



indeed is scarcely one, but now any thing that was 
bodily, that was practical, pleased, and I was soon 
slaughtering birds in the very bowers in which I 
had loved Egeria. 

On the whole, this was a most miserable and 
wretched year, I was almost always depressed, 
often felt heartbroken. I entirely lost any confi- 
dence in my own energies, and while I was de- 
prived of the sources of pleasure which I had been 
used to derive from revcry, I could acquire no new 
ones in the pursuits of those around me. 

It was in this state of mind that after a long soli- 
tary walk I found myself at a village which I had 
never before visited. On the skirts was a small 
Gothic building, beautiful and ancient. It was 
evening. The building was illuminated, the door 
open. I entered — I found myself in a Cathohc 
church, A Lutheran in a Lutheran country, for a 
moment I trembled, but the indifference of my 
Hither on the subject of religion had prevented me 
at least from being educated a bigot, and in my 
Venetian meditations I sometimes would recollect, 
that my mother must have professed the old faith. 

The church was not very full — groups were 
kneeling in several parts. All was dusk except at 
the high altar. There, a priest in a flaming vest 
officiated, and, ever and anon, a kneeling boy, in a 
scarlet dress, rang a small, and musical, and silver 
bell. Many tall white candles, in golden sticks, illu- 
minated the sacred table, redolent of perfumes, and 
adorned with flowers. Six large burnished lamps 
were suspended above, and threw a magical light 
upon a magical picture. It was a Magdalen kneel- 
ing and weeping in a garden. Her long golden 
hair was drawn off" her ivory forehead, and reached 
to the ground. Her large blue eyes, full of ecstatic 
melancholy, pierced to heaven. The heavy tears 
studded like pearls her wan, but delicate cheek. 
Her clasped hands embraced a crucifix. 

I gazed upon this pictured form with a strange 
fascination, I came forward, I placed myself near 
the altar. At that moment, the organ burst forth, 
as if heaven were opening ; clouds of incense rose 
and wreathed round the rich and vaulted roof, the 
priest advanced and revealed a God, which I fell 
down and worshipped. From that moment I be- 
came a Catholic. 

XIIL 

Theke was a mystery in the secret creed full of 
delight. Another link too seemed broken in the 
chain that bound me to the country, which, each 
day, I more detested. Adoration also was ever a 
resource teeming with rapture, for a creed is ima- 
gination. The Magdalen succeeded to Christiana 
and to Egeria. Each year my mistress seemed to 
grow more spiritual. First reality, then fancy, now 
l>ure spirit : a beautiful woman, a mystical nymph, 
a canonized soul. How was this to endl Per- 
haps I was ultimately designed for angelic inter- 
course, perhaps I might mount the skies, with the 
presiding essence of a star. 

My great occupations were devout meditation 
and solitary prayer. I inflicted upon myself many 
penances. I scrupulously observed every fast. My 
creative power was exercised in the production of 
celestial visitants ; my thirst for expression grati- 
fied in infinite invocation. Vv'herever I moved, I 
]ierceived the flashing of a white wing, the stream- 
ing of radiant hair ; however I might apparently 



be employed, I was, in fact, pondering over the 
music of my next supplication. 

One mundane desire alone mingled with these 
celestial aspirations, and in a degree sprang out of 
their indulgence. Each day I languished more for 
Italy, It was a strong longing. Nothing but tlie 
liveliness of my faith could have solaced and sup- 
ported me under the want of its gratification. I 
pined for the land where the true religion flourished 
in becoming glory, the land where I should behold 
temples worthy of the beautiful mysteries which 
were celebrated within their sumptuous walls, the 
land vi'hich the Vicar of God and the Ruler of 
Kings honoured and sanctified by his everlasting 
presence, A pilgrimage to Rome occupied my 
thoughts. 

My favourite retreat now, when at the college, 
were the ruins of a Gothic abbey, whither an 
hour's stroll easily carried me. It pleased me much 
to sit among these beautiful relics, and call back 
the days when their sanctity was undefiled, and 
their loveliness unimpaired. As I looked upon the 
rich framework of the oriel window, my fancy lent 
perfection to its shattered splendour. I beheld it 
once more beaming with its saints and martyrs, 
and radiant with chivalric blazonry. My eye wan- 
dered down the mouldering cloisters, I pictured a 
procession of priests solemnly advancing to the 
high altar, and blending in sacred melody, with 
their dark garments and their shining heads, ele- 
vating a golden and gigantic crosier, and waving 
on high a standard of Madonna. 

One day, as I was indulging in these soothing 
visions I heard a shout, and looking around, I ob- 
served a man seated at no great distance, wlio, by 
his action, had evidently called to me. I arose, and 
coming out of the ruins, advanced to him. He was 
seated on a mass of ancient brick-work, and ap- 
peared to be sketching. He was a tall man, fair 
and blue-eyed, but very sunburnt. He was hawk- 
nosed, with a quick glancing vision, and there was 
an air of acuteness in his countenance which was 
very striking. His dress was not the dress of our 
country, but I was particularly pleased with his 
cap, which was of crimson cloth, with a broad 
border of fur, and fell on one side of his head like 
a cap in a picture, 

" My little man," said he, in a brisk, clear voice, 
"I am sorry to disturb you, but as probably you 
know this place better than I, you can perhaps tell 
me whether there be a spring at hand." 

" Indeed, sir, a very famous one, for I have often 
drank its water, which is most sweet, and clear, and 
cold, and if you will permit me, I will lead you to 
it." 

" With all my heart, and many thanks, my little 
friend." So saying, he arose, and placing his port- 
foho under one arm, with the other lifted up a 
knapsack, which I oflTered to carry. 

" By no means, kind sir," said he, in a most 
cheerful voice, " I am ever my own servant." 

So leading him on round the other side of the 
abbey, and thence through a small but very fragrant 
mead, I brought him to the spring of which I had 
spoken. Over it was built a small, but fair arch, 
the keystone being formed of a mitre' escutcheon, 
and many parts very much covered with thick ivy 

The eye of the stranger kindled with pleasure 
when he looked upon the arch, and .hc.i, sitting 
down upon the bank, anu opening his knapsack, he 



C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 



357 



took out a large loaf and broke it, and, as I was 
retiring, he said, " Pritlice do not go, my little 
friend, but stay and share my meal. It is rough, 
but there is plenty. Nay, refuse not, little gentle- 
man, for I wish to prolong our acquaintance. In 
not more than as many minutes, you have con- 
lerred upon me two favours. In this world such 
characters are rare. You have given me that which 
I love better than wine, and you have furnished 
me with a divine sketch, for indeed this arch is of 
a finer style than any part of the great building, 
and must have been erected by an abbot of grand 
taste, I warrant you. Come, little gentleman, cat, 
prithee, eat." 

" Indeed, sir, I am not hungry ; but if you would 
let me look at your drawing of the abbey, I should 
be most delighted." 

" What, dost love art 1 What ! have I stumbled 
upon a little artist !" 

" No, sir, I cannot draw, nor indeed do I under- 
stand art, but I love every thing which is beautiful." 

" Ah ! a comprehensive taste," and he gave me 
the portfolio. 

" O !" I exclaimed, " how beautiful !" for the 
drawing turned out, not, as I had anticipated, a 
lean skeleton pencil sketch, but one rapidly and 
richly coloured. The abbey rose as in reality, only 
more beautiful, being suffused with a warm light, 
for he had dashed in a sunset full of sentiment. 

" ! sir, how beautiful ! I could look at it for- 
ever. It seems to me that some one must come 
forth from the pass of those blue mountains. Can- 
not you fancy some bright cavalier, sir, with a 
flowing plume, or even a string of mules, even that 
would be delicious !" 

"Bravo! bravo! my little man," exclaimed the 
stranger, shooting a sharp, scrutinizing side glance. 
" You deserve to see sketches. 'I'here ! undo that 
strap and open the folio, for there are many others, 
and some which may please you more." 

I opened it as if I were about to enter a sanc- 
tuary. I perceived it very full. I culled a draw- 
ing which appeared the most richly coloured, as 
one picks the most glowing fruit. There seemed 
a river and many marble palaces on each side, and 
long, thin, gliding boats shooting in every part, and 
over the stream there sprang a bridge, a bridge with 
a single arch, an ancient and solemn bridge, covered 
■with buildings, I gazed upon the scene for a mo- 
ment with breathless interest, a tear of agitating 
pleasure stole down my cheek, and then I shouted, 
"Venice! Venice!" 

" Little man," said ^the stranger, " what is the 
matter 1" 

" O ! sir, I beg your pardon, you must think 
me very foolish indeed. I am sure I did not mean 
to call out, but I have been longing all my life to 
go to Venice, and when I see any thing connected 
with it, I feel, sir, quite agitated. Your drawing, 
sir, is so beautiful, that I know not how — I thought 
for a moment that I was really looking upon these 
beautiful palaces, and crossing the famous Rialto." 

"Never apologize for showing feeling, my friend. 
•Remember that when you do so, you apologize for 
truth. I too am fond of Venice ; nor is there any 
city where I have made more drawings." 

" What, sir, have you been at Venice V 

" Is that so strange a deed 1 I have been in 
much stranger places." 

" ! sir, how happy you m ist be ! To see 



Venice, and to travel in the distant countries, 1 
could die at the condition of such enjoyment." 

" You know as yet too little of life to think of 
death," said the stranger. 

" Alas ! sir," I mournfully sighed, " I have often 
wished to die." 

"But can one so young be unhappy]" asked 
the stranger. 

" ! sir, most, most unhappy.* I am alone sup- 
ported in this world by a fervent persuasion, that 
the holy Magdalen has condescended to take me 
under her especial protection." 

"The holy Magdalen!" exclaimed the stranger, 
with an air of great astonishment — "indeed! and 
what made you unhappy before the holy Magdalen 
condescended to take you under her especial pro- 
tection ! I)o you think, or has anybody told you, 
that you have committed any sin1" 

"No! sir, my life has been, I hope, very inno- 
cent; nor do I see indeed how I could commit any 
sin, for 1 have never been subject to any temptation. 
But I have ever heen uidiappy, because I am per- 
plexed about myself. I feel that I am not like other 
persons, and that which makes them happy is to 
me a source of no enjoyment." 

"But you have, perhaps, some sources of enjoy- 
ment which are peculiar to yourself, and not open 
to them. Come, tell me how you have passed your 
liic. Indeed, you have excited my curiosity, for I 
observed to-day, while I was drawing, that you were 
a good four hours reclined in the same position." 

" Four hours, sir ! I thought that I had been there 
but a few minutes." 

"Four hours by the sun, as well as by this watch. 
What were you doing] Were you thinking of the 
blessed Magdalen]" 

"No, sir!" I gravely replied, "not to-day." 

" How then]" 

"Indeed, sir!" I answered, reddening, "if I teil 
you, I am afraid, you will think me very foolish." 

" Speak out, little man. We are all very foolish ; 
and I have a shrewd suspicion, that if we under- 
stood each other better, you might perhaps turn out 
the least foolish of the two. Open, then, your mind, 
and fear nothing. For believe me, it is dishonour- 
able to blush when you speak the truth, even if it 
be to your shame." 

There was something in the appearance and man- 
ner of the stranger that greatly attracted me. I 
sought him with the same eagerness with which I 
aKvays avoided my fellow-creatures. From the 
first, conversation with him was no shock. His 
presence seemed to sanctify, instead of outraging 
my solitude. His voice subdued my sullen spirit, 
and called out my hidden nature. He inspired me 
not only with confidence, but even with a degree 
of fascinating curiosity. 

"Indeed, sir," I began, still with a hesitating 
voice, but a more assured manner — "indeed, sir, I 
have never spoken of these things to any one, for I 
feel they could not believe or comprehend what I 
would wish to express, nor indeed is it delightful to 
be laughed at. But know that I ever like to be 
alone, and it is this — that when I am alone, I can 
indulge in thought, which gives me great pleasure. 
For I would wish you to comprehend, sir, that I 
have ever lived in, as it were, two worlds, a public 
world and a private world. But I should not be un- 
happy in the private world but for one reason, 
which is nothing, but I was ever most happy ; buJ 



358 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



n the public world, I am indeed miserable. For 
you must know, sir, that when I am alone, my 
mind is full with whatseem to me beautiful thoughts, 
nor indeed are they thoughts alone that make me 
so happy, but in truth I perform many strange and 
noble acts, and these too in distant countries, and 
in unknown places, and other persons appear, and 
tiiey also act. And we all speak in language more 
beautiful than common words. And, sir, many 
other things occur, which it would take long to re- 
count, but which, indeed, I am sure, that is, I think, 
would make any one very happy." 

•'But all this is a source of happiness, not of un- 
happiness," said the stranger. " Am I to compre- 
hend, then, the source has dried upl" 

'■O! no, sir, for only this morning I had many 
visions, but I checked them." 

" But why check IhemT' 

"Ah! sir," I answered, heaving a deep sigh, "it 
is this which makes me unhappy ; for when I en- 
ter into this private world, there arises in the end a 
desire to express what has taken place in it, which 
indeed I cannot gratify." 

The stranger for a moment mused. Then he sud- 
denly said, "And when you looked upon my sketch 
of the abbey, there seemed to you a cavalier advanc- 
ing, I think you saidi" 

"From the pass of the blue mountains, sir. When 
ever I look upon pictures, it is thus." 

"And when you beheld the Rialto, tell me what 
occurred then ]" 

" There was a great rush, sir, in my mind, and 
when my eye caught that tall young signior who is 
stepping oft" the stairs of a palace into a gondola, I 
wished to write a tale of which he should be the 
hero." 

"It appears to me, my young friend," said the 
stranger, in a serious tone, and looking at me very 
keenly — "it appears to me, my young friend, that 
you are a poet." 

"Alas! sir," I exclaimed, extremely agitated and 
nearly seizing his hand — "alas! alas! sir, I am not. 
For I once thought so myself, and have often tried 
to write; and cither I have not produced a line, or 
something so wretchedly flat and dull that even I 
have felt it intolerable. It is this that makes me so 
miserable, so miserable that were it not for feeling, 
in the most marked manner, that I am under the 
especial protection of the blessed Magdalen, I think 
I should kill myself." 

A gentle smile played upon the lip of the 
stranger, but it was in an instant suppressed. Then 
turning to me he said, " Supposing a man were born 
with a predisposition for painting, as I might have 
been myself, and that he were enabled to fancy 
pictures in his eye, do you think that if he took up 
a brush for the first time, he could transfer these 
pictures to the canvass?" 

" By no means, sir, for the artist must learn his 
art." 

" And is not a poet an artist, and is not writing 
n art, equally with painting 1 Words are but chalk 
and colour. The painter and the poet must follow 
the same course. Both must study before they ex- 
ecute. Both must alike consult nature and invent 
the beautiful. Those who delineate imitate nature, 
and those who describe her must equally study her, 
if they wish to excel in their own creations; and 
for man, if the painter study the outward form of 
the animal, the inward must be equally investigated 
by the poet. Thus far for the natural; and for the 



ideal, which is an improvement upon nature, and 
which you will some day more clearly comprehend, 
remember this, that the painter and the poet, how- 
ever assisted by their own organization, must alike 
perfect their style by the same process — I mean by 
studying the works themselves of great painters and 
great poets. See, then, my young friend, how un- 
reasonable you are, that because you cannot be a 
great artist without studying your art, you are un- 
happy." 

" ! sir, indeed, indeed, I am not. There is no 
application — there is no exertion, I feel, I feel it 
strongly, of which I am not capable to gain know- 
ledge. Indeed, sir, you speak to me of great things, 
and my mind opens to your wisdom, but how am I 
to study V 

" Be not too rapid. Before we part, which will 
be in a moment, I will write you some talismanic 
rules, which have been of great service to myself. 
I copied them from oft' an old obelisk amid the ruins 
of Thebes. They will teach you all that is now ne- 
cessary." 

"O! sir, how good, how kind you are. How 
different would have boon my life, had I been taught 
by somebody like you." 

" Where, then, were you educated 1" 

"I am a student of the college about two miles 
off. Perhaps you may have passed it!" 

" What, the large house upon the hill, where they 
learn words'!" said the stranger, with a smile. 

" Indeed, sir, it is too true. For though it never 
occurred to me before, I see novvf why, with an 
ardent love of knowledge, I have indeed there 
gained nothing but an ill name." 

"And now," said the stranger, rising, "I must 
away, for the sun will in a few-minutes sink, and I 
have to reach a village which is some miles olf for 
my night's encampment." 

I beheld him prepare to depart with a feeling of 
deep regret. I dropped for a moment into profound 
abstraction ; then rushing to him, I seized his hand, 
and exclaimed, " 0, sir, I am noble, and I am rich, 
yet let me follow you !" 

"By no means," said the stranger, very good- 
naturedly, "for our professions are different." 

" Yet a poet should see all things." 

" Assuredly. And you too will wander, but your 
hour has not yet come." 

" And shall I ever see Venice V 

" I doubt not, for when a mind Uke yours thinks 
often of a thing it will happen." 

"You speak to me of mysteries." 

" There is little mystery ; there is much igno- 
rance. Some day you will study metaphysics, and 
you will then understand the nature of volition." 

He opened his knapsack and took out two small 
volumes, in one of which he wrote some lines. 
"This is the only book," he said, "I have with me, 
and, as, like myself, you are such a strong Venetian, 
I will give it you, because you love art and artists, 
and are a good boy. When we meet again, I hope 
I may call you a great man. 

" Here," he said, giving them to me, " they are 
full of Venice. Here, you sec, is a view of the 
Rialto. This will delight you. And in the blank 
leaf I have written all the advice you at present re- 
quire. Promise me, however, not to read it till you 
return to your college. And so farewell, my littla 
man — farewell !" 

He extended me his hand. I took it, and although 
it is an awkward thing at all times, and chiefly fo' 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



359 



a boy, I began telling him my name and condition, 
but te checked me. " I never wish to know any- 
body's name. Were I to become acquainted with 
every being who iiits across me in life, the callous- 
ness of my heart would be endangered. If your 
acquaintance be worth preserving, fate or fortune 
will some day bring us again together." 

He departed. I watched his figure until it melted 
m the rising haze of evening. It was strange the 
ascendancy that this man exercised over me. When 
he spoke I seemed listening to an oracle, and now 
that he had departed, I felt as if some supernatural 
visitant had disappeared. 

I quickened my walk home from the intense 
anxiety to open the volume in which I was to find 
the talismanic counsel. When I had arrived, I read 
written in pencil these words. 

"Be patient. Cherish hope. Read more. Pon- 
der less. Nature is more powerful than education. 
Time will develope every thing. Trust not over- 
much in the blessed Magdalen: learn to protect 
yourself." 

XIV. 

Indeed I could think of nothing but the stranger. 
All night his image was before my eyes, and his 
voice sounded in my ear. I recalled each look, I 
repeated each expression. When I woke in the 
morning, the first thing I did was to pronounce 
from memory his oracular advice. I determined to 
be patient, I resolved never to despair. Revery was 
no longer to be endured, and a book was to be ever 
in my hand. 

He had himself enabled me to comply with this 
last rule. I seized the first opportunity to examine 
his present. It was the History of Venice in 
French, by Amelot de la Houssaye — a real history 
of Venice, not one written years after the extinction 
of the republic by some solemn sage, full of first 
principles and dull dissertations upon the vicious 
constitution — a prophet of the past, trying to shuffle 
off his commonplace deductions for authentic in- 
spiration — but a history of Venice written by one 
who had witnessed the doge sitting on his golden 
throne, and receiving awe-struck ambassadors in his 
painted halls. 

I read it with an avidity with which I had never 
devoured any book : some parts of it indeed with 
absolute rapture. When I came to the chapter 
upon the nobility, a dimness came over my sight : 
for a moment I could not proceed. I saw them all ; 
I marked all the divisions ; the great magniflcoes, 
who ranked with crowned heads, the nobles of the 
war of Candia, and the third, and still inferior 
class. I was so excited, that for a moment I did 
not observe that the name of Contarini did not ap- 
pear. I looked for it with anxiety. But when I 
read that there were yet four families of such pre- 
eminent ancestry, that they were placed even above 
th(?- magnificoes, being credited descendants of Ro- 
man consular families, and that of these the unri- 
valled house of Contarini was the chief, I dashed 
down the book in a paroxysm of nervous exultation, 
and rushed into the woods. 

I ran about like a madman for some time, cutting 
down the underwood that opposed my way with a 
sharp stick, leaping trenches, hallooing, spouting, 
fihouting, dashing, through pools of water. At 
length I arrived at a more open part of the wood. 
At a slight distance was a hill. I rushed on up 



the hill, and never stopped till I had gained th» 
summit. That steep ascent a little tamed me. I 
ft4und myself upon a great ridge, and a vast savage 
view opened upon all sides. I felt now more at 
ease, for the extent of the prospect harmonized with 
the largeness and swell of my soul. 

" Ha ! ha !" I cried, like a wild horse. I snorted 
in the air, my eyes sparkled, my crest rose, 
waved my proud arm. " Ha ! ha ! have I found it 
out at last ! I knew there was something. Nature 
whispered it to me, and time has revealed it. He 
said truly ; time has develoi)ed every thing. But 
shall these feelings subside into poetry 1 Away ! 
give me a sv^'ord, give me a sword I My consular 
blood demands a sword. Give me a sword, ye 
winds, ye trees, ye mighty hills, ye deep cold 
waters, give me a sword. I will fightl by heavens, 
I will fight ! I will conquer. Why am I not a 
doge1 A curse upon tlie tyranny of man, why is 
she not free ! why am I not a doge 1 By the God 
of heaven, I will be a doge ! ! thou fair and 
melancholy saint," I continued, falling on my knees, 
" who in thy infuiite goodness condescended, as it 
were, to come down from heaven to call me back to 
the true and holy faith of Venice, and to take me 
under thy especial protection, blessed and beautiful 
Mary Magdalene, look down from thy glorious seat 
above, and smile upon thy elected and favourite 
child !" 

I rose up refreshed by this short prayer, calmer 
and cooler, and began to meditate upon what was 
now fitting to be done. That Contarini Fleming 
must with all possible despatch erase to be a school- 
boy was indeed evident, necessary, and indispensa- 
ble. The very idea of the great house upon the 
hill, where they teach words, was hidicrous. 
Nor indeed would it become me ever again, under 
any pretence whatever, to acknowledge a master, 
or, as it would appear, to be subject to any laws, 
save the old laws of Venice, for I claimed for my- 
self the rights and attributes of a Venetian noble of 
the highest class, and they were those pertaining to 
blood royal. But when I called to my recollection 
the cold, worldly, practical character of my father, 
the vast quantity of dull, lowering, entangling ties 
that formed the great domestic mesh, and bound me 
to a country which I detested, covered me with a 
climate which killed me, surrounded me with man- 
ners with which I could not sympathize, and duties 
which nature impelled me not to fulfil, I felt that, 
to ensure my emancipation, it was necessary at 
once to dissolve all ties of blood and afTection, and 
to break away from those links which chained me 
as a citizen to a country which I abhorred. I re- 
solved therefore immediately to set out for Venice. 
I was, for the moment, I conceived, sufiiciently well 
supplied with money, for I possessed one hundred 
rix-dollars, more than any five of my fellow-stu- 
dents together. This, with careful husbandry, I 
counted would carry me to the nearest sea-port, 
perhaps even secure me a passage. And for the 
rest, I had a lively conviction that something must 
always turn up to assist me in any difficulties, for I 
was convinced that I was a hero, and heroes are 
never long forlorn. 

On the next morning, therefore, long ere the sun 
had risen, I commenced my adventures. I did not 
steal away. First I kissed a cross three times, which 
I carried next to my breast, and then recommend- 
ing myself to the blessed Magdalen, I walked off 
proudly and slowly, in a manner becoming Corio* 



3G0 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



lanus or C-Esar, who, after some removes, were both 
of them, for aught I knew, my great-grandfathers. 
I carried in a sort of knapsack, which we used for 
our rambles, a few shirts, my money, a pair of 
jiocket pistols, and some ammunition. Nor did I 
forget a large loaf of bread — not very heroic food, 
but classical in my sight, from being the victual of 
the mysterious stranger. Like him also I dcter- 
nined in future only to drink water. 

XV. 

I jounxETEi) for some hours without stopping 
along a road, about which all I knew was, that it 
was opposite to the one that had tirst carried me to 
the college, and consequently, I supposed, did not 
lead home. I never was so delighted in my life. 
I had never been up so early in my life. It was 
like living in a new world. Every thing was still, 
fresh, fragrant. I wondered how long it would 
last, how long it would be before the vulgar days, 
to which I had been used, would begin. At last a 
soft luminous appearance commenced in the hori- 
zon, and gradually gathered in strength and bright- 
ness. Then it shivered into brilliant streaks, the 
clouds were dabbled with rich flaming tints, and the 
sun rose. I felt grateful when his mild but vivif)*- 
ing warmth fell upon my face, and it seemed to me 
that I heard the sound of trumpets, when he came 
forth, like a royal hero, out of his pavilion. 

All the birds began singing, and the cocks 
crowed with renewed pride. I felt as if I myself 
could sing, my heart was so full of joy and exulta- 
tion. And now I heard many pleasant rural sounds. 
A horse neighed, and a whip smacked, there was a 
wViistle, and the sound of a cart-wheel. I came to 
a large farm-house. I felt as if I were indeed travel- 
ling, and seeing the world and its wonders. When 
I had rambled about before, I had never observed 
any thing, for I was full of nonsensical ideas. But 
now I was a practical man, and felt capable, as the 
stranger said, of protecting myself. Never was I 
so cheerful. 

There was a great barking, and several dogs 
rushed out at me, all very fierce, but I hit the larg- 
est over the nose with my slick, and it retreated 
yelping into the yard, where it ac:ain barked most 
furiously behind the gate ; the lesser dogs were 
so frightened that they slunk away immediately 
through different hedges, nor did they bark again 
till I passed the gate; but I heard them then, 
though very feeble, and rather snappish than fierce. 

The farmer was coming out of the gate, and 
saluted me. I returned him the salute with a firm 
voice and a manly air. He spoke then of the 
weather, and I differed with him to show that I was 
a thinking being, and capable of protecting myself. 
I made some inquiries respecting the distance of 
certain places, and I acquired from him much in- 
fiirmation. The nearest town was fifteen miles oft'. 
1'liis I wished to reach by night, as there was no 
great village, and this I doubted not to do. 

When the heat increased, and I felt a little fa- 
tigued, I stopped at a beautiful spring, and taking 
my loaf out of my knapsack like the stranger, I ate 
with a keen relish, and slaked my slight thirst in 
the running water. It was the coldest and purest 
v/ater that I had ever tasted. I felt qiiile happy, 
and was full of confidence and self-gratulation at 
my pros[)erous progress. I reposed here till noon, 
and as the day, though near midsummer, became 



cloudy, I then recommenced my journey without 
dread of the heat. 

On I went, full of hope. The remembrance of 
the cut that I had given the great dog over the nose 
had wonderfully inflamed my courage. I longed to 
knock down a man. Every step was charming. 
Every flower, every tree gave me delight, which 
they had not before yielded. Sometimes, yet sel- 
dom, for it was an unfrequented road, I met a tra- 
veller, and always prepared myself for an adven- 
ture. It did not come, but there was yet time. 
Every person I saw, and every place I observed, 
seemed strange and new : I felt in a far land. And 
for adventures, my own consciousness was surely 
a suihcient one, fur was I not a nobleman incognito, 
going on a piljjrimage to Venice ] To say nothing 
of the adventures that might then occur, here were 
materials for the novelist ! Pah ! my accursed 
fancy was again wandering. I forgot that I was 
no longer a poet, but something which, though dif- 
ficult to ascertain, I doubted not in the end all 
would agree to be infinitely greater. 

As the afternoon advanced, the thin gray clouds 
melted away, the sun mildly shone in the warm, 
light-blue sky. This was again fortunate, and in- 
stead of losing my gay heart with tke decline of 
day, I felt inspired with fresh vigoiir. and shot on 
joyous and full of cheerfulness. The road now 
ran through the skirts of a forest. It was still less 
like a commonplace journey. On each side was a 
large plot of turf, green and sweet. Seated on 
this at some little distance I perceived a group of 
men and women. My heart beat at the pros- 
pect of an incident. I soon observed them with 
more advantage. Two young women were seated 
together repairing a bright garment, which greatly 
excited my wonder. It seemed of very fine stuff, 
and richly embroidered with gold and silver. 
Greath' it contrasted with their own attire and that 
of their com.panions, which was plain, and indeed 
shabby. As they worked, one burst into repeated 
fits of laughter, but the other was more sedulous, 
and looking grave, seemed to reprove her. A man 
was feeding with sticks a fire, over which boiled a 
great pot; a middle-aged woman was stirring its 
contents. A young man was lying asleep upon the 
grass ; an older one was furbishing up a sword. 
A lightly built but large wagon was on the other 
side of the road, the unharnessed horses feeding on 
the grass. 

A little dog shrilly barked when I came up, but 
I was not afraid of dogs. I flourished my stick, 
and the laughing girl called out "Harlequin," and 
the cur ran to her. I stopped and inquired of the 
fire-lighter the distance to the town where I hoped 
to sleep. Not only did he not answer me, but he 
did not even raise up his head. It was the first 
time in my life that I had not obtained an answer. 
I was astonished at his insolence. "Sir," I said, 
in a tone of ofli^nded dignity, " how long is it since 
you have learned not to answer the inquiry of a 
gentleman V 

The laughing girl burst into a renewed fit. All 
stopped their pursuits. The fire-lighter looked up 
with a puzzled soitr face, the old woman stared 
with her mouth open, and the furbisher ran up to u 
with his naked weapon. He had the oddest and 
most comical fiice that I had ever seen. It was 
like that of a seal, but full of ludicrous mobility. Ho 
came rushing up, saying, with an air and voice of 
mock heroism, " To arms, to arms !" 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



361 



I was aslonished, and caught the eye of the 
laughing girl. She was very fair, with a small 
nose, and round cheeks breaking into most charm- 
ing dimples. When I caught her eye, she made 
a wild grimace at me, and I also laughed. Al- 
though I was trudging along with a knapsack, my 
dress did not befit my assumed character, and in a 
jnoment of surprise, I had given way to a manner 
which still less became my situation. Women are 
quicker than men in judging of strangers. The 
two girls were evidently my friends from the first, 
and the fair laugher beckoned me to come and sit 
dov\'n by her. This gay wench had wonderfully 
touched my fancy. I complied with her courteous 
offer without hesitation. I threw away my knap- 
sack and my stick, and stretched my legs with the 
air of a fine gentleman. I was already ashamed 
of my appearance, and forgot every thing in the 
desire to figure to the best advantage to my new 
friend. "This is the first time," I drawled out, 
with a languid air, and looking in her face, "this 
is the first time in life that I ever walked, and I am 
heartily sick of it." 

"And why have you walked, and where have 
you come from, and where are you going to ]" 
eagerly she demanded. 

" I was tired to death of riding every day of my 
life," I rejoined, with the tone of a man who had 
exhausted pleasure. "lam not going anywhere, 
and I forget where I came from." 

"O! you odd thing!" said the wench, and she 
gave me a pinch. 

The other girl, who was handsome, but dark, 
and of a more serious beauty, at this moment rose, 
and went and spoke to the crusty fire-lighter. When 
she returned, she seated herself on my other side, so 
I was now between both, but as she seated herself, 
though doubtless unconsciously, she pressed my 
hand in a very sentimental manner. 

"And what is your namel" asked the laughing 
girl. 

"Theodora! how can you be so rude 1" remark- 
ed the serious beauty. 

" Do you know," said the laughing girl, whisper- 
ing in my ear, " I think you must be a little count." 
I only smiled in answer, but it was a smile which 
complimented her penetration. 

" And now, may I ask who you may be, and 
whither you may be going]" 

" We are going to the next town," replied the 
serious beauty, "where, if we find the public taste 
not disinclined, we hope to entertain them with 
some representations." 

" You are actors, then. ! what a charming 
profession. How I love the theatre. When I am 
at home I go in my father's box every night. I have 
often wished to be an actor." 

" Be one," said the serious beauty, pressing ni}' 
hand. 

"Join us," said the laughing girl, pinching my 
elbow. 

"Why not?" I replied, and abnost thought. 
"Youth must be passed in adventure." 

Tile fairy nymph produced a box of sugarplums, 
and taking out a white almond, kissed it, and push- 
ed it into my mouth. While I laughed at her wild 
kitten-like action, the dark girl drew a deep-colour- 
ed rose from her bosom, and pressed it to my nose. 
I was nearly stifled with their joint sweets and kind- 
ness. Neither of them would take away their 
hands. The dark girl pressed her rose with in- 
46 



creased force ; the sugarplum melted away, but I 
found in my mouth the tip of a little finger scarcely 
larger, and as white and sweet. There was gig- 
gling without end ; I sank down upon my back. 
The dark girl snatched a hasty embrace, her com- 
panion fell down by my side, and bit my check. 
"You funny little count!" said the fair lieauty. 
" I shall keep these in remembrance of a happy 
moment," said her friend, with a sentimental air, 
and she glanced at me with her flashing eye. So 
saying, she picked up the scattered leaves of the 
rose. 

"And I! am I to have nothing?" exclaimed the 
blue-eyed girl with an air of mock sadness, and she 
crossed her arms upon her lap with a drooping 
head. 

I took a light iron chain from my neck, and threw 
it over hers. " There," 1 said, "Miss Sugaiplum. 
that is for you." 

She jumped up from the ground, and bounded 
about as if she were the happiest cf creatures, 
laughing without end, and kissing the slight gift. 
The dark girl rose and began to dance full of grace 
and expression : Sugarplum joined her, and they 
fell into one of their stage figures. The serious 
beauty strove to excel, and indeed was the greater 
artist of the two, but there was a wild grace about 
her companion which pleased me most. 
"Can you dance, little count]" she cried. 
"I am too tired," I answered. 
" Nay, then, another day, for it is pleasant to look 
forward to frolic." 

The man with the odd face now advanced to- 
wards me. He fell into the most ridiculous atti- 
tudes. I thought that he would never have finished 
his multiplied reverences. Every time he bowed he 
saluted me with a new form of visage. It was the 
most ludicrous medley of pomposity, and awkward- 
ness, and humour. I thought that I had never seen 
such a droll person, and was myself a little impreg- 
nated with his oddity. I also made him a bow with 
assumed dignity, and then he became more subdued. 
" Sir," said he, placing his huge hand u])on his 
breast, and bowing nearly to the ground, " I assure 
you, sir, indeed, sir, the greatest honour, sir, your 
company, sir, a very great honour indeed." 

"I am equally sensible of the honour," I replied, 
"and think myself most fortunate to have found so 
many and such agreeable friends," 

"The greatest honour, sir, the greatest honour, 
indeed, sir, very sensible, sir, always sensible, sir." 
He stopped, and I again returned his reverence, 
but this time without speaking. 

"The greatest liberty, sir, the greatest liberty in- 
deed, sir, never take liberties, sir, but fear you will 
consider it a very great liberty, a very great liberty 
indeed, sir." 

" Indeed, I shall esteem myself very fortunate to 
comply with any wish that you can express." 

" ! sir, you are too kind, sir, too kind, indeed, 
sir, always are kind, have no doubt, no doubt at all, 
sir, but our meal, sir, our humble meal, very hum- 
ble indeed, we venture to request the honour, very 
great honour indeed, sir, your company, sir," and 
he pronounced the last and often-repeated mono- 
syllable with a musical shake, and renewed reve- 
rence. 

" Indeed I fear that I have already too much, and 
too long intruded." 

" come, pray come !" and each girl seized aD 
arm and led me to their banquet. 
2H 



363 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



I sat down between my two friends. The fire- 
lighter, who was the manager, and indeed proprie- 
tor of the whole concern, now received me with 
great courtesy. When they were all seated, they 
called several" times, "Frederick, Frederick," and 
then the young man who was on the ground 
jumped up, and seated himself. He was not ill- 
looking, but I did not like the expression of his face. 
His countenance and his manner seemed to me 
vulgar. I took rather a prejudice against him. 
Kor indeed did my appearance seem much to please 
him, for he stared at me not very com teously, and 
when the manager mentioned that I was a young 
gentleman travelling, who had done them the ho- 
nour to join their repast, he said nothing. 

The repast was not very humble. There was 
plenty to eat. While the manager helped the soup, 
they sat very quiet and demure ; perhaps my pre- 
sence slightly restrained them. Even the laughing 
girl was, for a moment, calm. I had a keen appe- 
tite, and though I at first, from shame, restrained 
it, I played my part well. The droll carved a great 
joint of boiled meat. I thought I should have died ; 
he seldom spoke, but his look made us all full of 
merriment. Even the young man sometimes 
smiled. 

" We prefer living in this way to sojourning in 
dirty inns," said the manager, with an air of 
dignity. 

" You are quite right," I replied. " I desire no- 
thing better than to live always so." 

"Inns are indeed wretched things," said the old 
mother. " How extravagantly they charge for what 
costs them in a manner nothing !" 

Wine was now produced. The manager filled a 
oup, and handed it to me. I was just going to ob- 
serve, that I drank only water, when Sugarplum, 
first touching it with her lips, placed it in my hand, 
and pledging them all, I drank it oil". 

" You are eating rough fire," said the old mo- 
ther, " but you are welcome." 

" I never enjoyed any thing so much in my life," 
I truly replied. " How I envy you all the happy 
life you lead !" 

" Before you style it happy you should have ex- 
|x;rienced it," remarked Frederick. 

" What you say is in part true. But if a person 
have imagination, experience appears to me of lit- 
tle use, since both are means by which we can 
equally arrive at knowledge." 

'■ I know nothing about imagination," said the 
young man, " but what I know, I owe to experience. 
It may not have taught me as much as imagination 
has taught you." 

" Experience is every thing," said the old mother, 
shaking her head. 

"It sometimes costs dear," said the manager. 
"Terrible, terrible," observed the droll with a 
most sad and solemn shake of the head, and lifting 
up his hands. I- burst into a fit of laughter, and 
poured down another draught of wine. 

Conversation now oecanie more brisk, and I took 
more than my share of it, but I being new, they all 
wished me to talk. I got very much excited by 
my elocution, as much as by the wine. I discussed 
upon actmg, which I pronounced to be one of the 
first and finest of arts. I treated this subject in- 
deed very deeply, and in a spirit of aesthetical criti- 
cism, with which they seemed unacquainted, and a 
'ittle surprised. 

" Should we place it," I asked, " before painting?" 
46 



"Before scene-painting, certainly," said the droll, 
in a hoarse thick voice, " for it naturally takes its 
place there." 

" I never knew but one painter," said the old 
mother, " and therefore cannot give an opinion." 
The manager was quite silent. 

" All employments are equally disgusting," said 
the young man. 

'• On further reflection," I continued, " it appears 
to me that if we exiimine" — but here the white 
girl pinched me so severely under the table, that I 
could not contain myself, and was obliged to call 
out. All stared, and she looked quite demure, as if 
nothing had happened. 

After this all was merriment, fun, and frolic. 
The girls pelted the droll with plums, and he un- 
furled an umbrella to protect himself, I assisted 
them in the attack. The young man lighted his 
pipe and walked off. The old mother in vain pro- 
claimed silence. I had taken too much wine, and 
for the first time in my life. All of a sudden I felt 
the trees dancing and whirling round. I took 
another bumper to set myself right. In a few mi- 
nutes I fell down quite flat, and remember no- 
thing more 

XVI. 

"I MUST get out. I am so hot." 
" You shall not," said Thalia. 
" I nnist, I must. I am so very hot." 
"Will you desert meV exclaimed Melpomene. ' 
"0! how hot I am. Pray let me out." 
" No one can get out at night," said the darfe 
girl, earnestly, and in a significant voice, which in- 
timated to her companion to take up the parable. 
" No, indeed," said her friend. 
" Why not ?" I asked. 

" Because it is a rule. The manager will not 
permit it." 

" Confound the manager I Vv^hat is he to me ] 
I will get out." 

" ! what a regular little count," said Thalia, 
" Let me out, let me out. I never was so hot in 
my life." 

"Hush ! hush ! hush ! or you will wake them." 
" If you do not let me out, I will scream." 
The manager and the droll were in the fore part 
of the wagon affecting to drive, but they were both 
asleep. The old mother was snoring behind them. 
They had put me in the back part of the wagon 
with my two friends. 

" Let him out, Theodora," for the other was 
afraid of a contention. 

" Never," said Theodora, and she embraced me 
with increased energy. Mv legs were in the other 
girl's lap. I began to kick and struggle, 
" ! yon naughty little count," said one, 
"Is this the return for all our love !" exclaimed 
the other. 

" I will get out, and there is an end of it. I 
must have some air. I must stretch my legs. Let 
me out at once, or I will wake them all." 
" Let him out, Theodora." 

" He is certainly the wickedest little count, — but 
promise you will come back in five minutes." 

" Any thing, I will promise any thing ; only let 
me out." 

They imbolted the back of the wagon, tho 
fresh air came in. They shivered, but I felt it de- 
lightful. 

2H 



CONTARINl FLEMING. 



363 



"Farewell, dearest," exclaimed ^vlelpomene, " one 
paiting embrace. How heavily will the moments 
roll until we again meet !" 

" Adieu, count," said Thalia, " and remember you 
are to come back in live minutes." 

I jumped into tiie road. It was a clear, sharp 
night, the stars shining very brightly. The young 
man was walking behind, wrapped up in a great- 
coat, and smoking his pipe.^ He came up and as- 
sisted rae in shutting the door with more courtesy 
than he hud hitherto shown, and asked me if I would 
try a cigar. 

I declined this offer, and for some little way we 
walked on in silence. I felt unwell, my head ached, 
my mouth was parched. I was conscious that I 
had exposed myself. I had commenced the morn- 
ing by vowing that I would only drink water, and, 
for the first time in my life, I had got tipsy with 
wine. I had committed many other follies, and al- 
together felt much less like a hero. I recalled all 
my petty vanity and childish weaknesses with re- 
morse. Imagination was certainly not such a sure 
guide as experience. Was it possible that one who 
had already got into such scrapes, could really 
achieve his great purpose ! My conduct and my 
/ situation were assuredly neither of them Roman. 
As I walked on, the fresh air did its kind ofiice. 
My head was revived by my improved circulation, 
my companion furnished me with an excellent 
draught of water, Hope did not quite desert my 
invigorated frame. I began to turn in my mind 
how I might yet prosper. 

" I feel better," I said to my companion, with a 
feeling of gratitude. 

'• Ay ! ay ! that wagon is enough to make any 
one ill, at least any one accustomed to a more de- 
cent conveyance. I never enter it. To say nothing 
of their wine, which is indeed intolerable to those 
who may have tasted a fair glass in the course of 
this sad life." 

" You find life, then, sad 1" I inquired, with a 
mixed feeling of curiosity and sympathy. 

'• He who knows life will hardly style it joyous." 
" Ah! ah !" I thought to myself, " here is some 
chance of philosophical conversation. Perhaps I 
have found another stranger, who can assist me in 
self-knowledge." I began to think that I was ex- 
ceedingly wrong in entertaining a prejudice against 
this young man, and in a few minutes I had settled 
that his sullen conduct was the mark of a very su- 
perior mind, and that he himself must be a very 
interesting personage. 

" I have found life very gloomy myself," I re- 
joined; "but I think it arises from our faulty edu- 
cation. We are taught words and not ideas." 

" There is something in that," said the young 
man, thoughtfully. 

" After all, perhaps, the best is to be patient,-and 
cheri<h hope." 

"Doubtless," said the young man. 
'• And I think it equally true, that we should 
read more and ponder less. 

'• O ! curse reading," said my friend, "I never 
conld read." 

" You have, like myself, then, indulged in your 
own thoughts?" 

'• Always," he affirmed. 

" Ah ! indeed, my dear friend, there is, after all, 
nothing like it. Let them say what they will, but 
give me the g'orious pleasure of my private world, 
and all the jarring horror of a public one I leave 



without regret to those more fitted to struggle with 
them." 

" I believe that most public men arc scoundrels," 
said the young man. 

"It is their education," I rejoined, although I did 
not clearly detect the connexion of his remark. 
" What can we expect 1 " 

" No, sir, it is corruption," he replied, in a firm 
tone. 

" Pray," said I, leading back the conversation to 
a point which I more fully comprehended, "is it 
your opinion that nature is stronger than educa- 
tion ■?" 

" Why," said my friend, taking a good many 
whiffs of his pipe, " there is a great deal to be said 
on both sides." 

" One of the wisest and most extraordinary men 
I ever knew, however, was of a decided opinion that 
nature would ultimately prevail." 

" Who might he be]" asked my companion. 
" Why, really, his name — but it is a most extra- 
ordinary adventure, and to this hour I cannot help 
half believing that he was a supernatural being — 
but the truth is, I do not know his name, for I met 
him casually, and under very peculiar circum- 
stances, and though we conversed much and of very 
high matters, he did not, unfortunately, favour mo 
with his name." 

" That certainly looks odd," said Mr. Frederick, 
" for when a man sheers off giving his name, I, fcr 
one, never think him better than he should be." 

" Had he not spoken of the blessed Magdalen in 
a way which can scarcely reconcile with his other 
sentiments, I should certainly have considered him 
a messenger from that holy personage, for I have 
the best reason for believing that I am under her 
especial protection." 

" If he abused her, that could scarcely be," re- 
marked Frederick. 

" No. Certainly I think he must have been only 
a man. For he presented me with a gift before his 
departure — " 

" That was handsome." 

"And I can hardly believe that he was really de- 
puted — though I really do not know. Every thing 
seems mysterious, although I believe, after all, there 
is little mystery, but, on the contrary, much igno- 
rance." 

" No doubt : though they are opening schools 
now in every parish. And how much did he give 
you 1" continued Frederick. 

" How much ! I do not understand you." 
" I mean what did he give you ?" 
'^A most delightful book, to me particularly in- 
teresting." ■ 
" A book !" 

" A book which I shall no doubt find of great use 
in my travels." 

"I have myself some thoughts of travelling," said 
Frederick, " for I am sick of this life, which is ill- 
suited to my former habits, but one gets into scrapes 
without thinking of it." 

" One does in a most surprising manner." I 
never made an observation in a tone of greater sin- 
cerity. 

" You have led a very different sort of life, thenl" 
I asked—" To tell you the truth, I thought so. You 
could not disguise from me that you were superior 
to your appearance. I suppose, like myself, you 
are incog. 1" 

" That is the exact truth." 



364 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



"Good heavens! how lucky it is that we have 
met. Do not you tliink that we could contrive to 
travel together? What are your plans ?" 

" Why, to say truth, I care little where I go. It 
is necessary that I should travel about for some 
time, and see the world, until my father, the count, 
is reconciled." 

" You have quarrelled with your father V 

"Do not speak of it. It is a sad aflair. But I 
hope that it will end well. Time will show." 

"Time indeed developes every thing." 

"I hope every thing from my mokher the count- 
ess's influence — but I cannot bear speaking about 
it. I am supported now by my sister Lady Caro- 
line, out of her own allowance too, poor creature. 
There is nothing like those sisters." — And he raised 
his hand to his face, and would have brushed away 
the tear that nearly started from his mnnly eye. 

I was quite aiiected. I respected his grieis, and 
Tvould not press him for details. I exhorted him 
to take courage. 

" Ay ! ay ! it is very easy talking, but when a 
man accustomed to the society and enjoyments I 
have been, finds himself wandernig about the 
world in this manner — it is very easy to talk — but, 
curse it — do not let us speak of it. And now 
where do you intend to go V 

" I am thinking of Venice." 

" Venice ! just the place I should long to see. 
But that requires funds. You are very welcome 
to share mine as far as they will last — but have 
you any thing yourself?" 

" I have one hundred rix-dollars," I replied, 
" not too much, certainly, but I quitted home with- 
out notice ; you understand ?" 

" O, yes ! I have done these things myself. I 
was just such a fellow as you are at your age. A 
hundred rix-dollars ? — not too much, to be sure, 
but with what I have got, it will do. I scorn to 
leave a companion in distress like you. Let n^.e 
be shivered, if I would not share the last fimhing 
with the fellow I liked." 

" You shall never repent, sir, your kindness to 
me; of that feel assured. The time may come, 
when I may be enabled to yield you assistance, nor 
shall it be wanting." 

We now began seriously to consult over our 
plans. He recommended an immediate departure 
even that night, or else, as he justly remarked, I 
should get perhaps entangled ■ with these girls. 
I objected to quitting so unceremoniously, and 
without thanking my kind friends for their hospi- 
tality, and making some little present to the viorthy 
manager, but he said that that worthy manner 
already owed him a year's salary, and therefore I 
need not be anxious on his account. Hamburgh, 
according to him, was the port to which we must 
work our way, and indeed our departure must not 
be postponed an hour, for, luckily for us, the next 
turniug was the route to Hamburgh. I v^'as de- 
lighted to find for a friend such a complete man of 
the world, and doubled not, under his auspices, 
most prosperously to achieve my great object. 



XVII. 

"Hr.nfi is your knajjsack. I woke the girls 
getting it. They thought it was you, and woukl 
liave given me more kind words and kisses than I 
cure for. Theodora laughed heartily when she 



found out her mistake, but Emilia was m a great 
rage." 

" Good-natured lasses ! I think I must give them 
a parting embrace." 

" Pooh ! pooh ! that will spoil all. Think of 
Venice. I cannot ge^ at my portmanteau. Never 
mind, it matters little. I always carry my money 
about me. We must make some sacrifices, and 
we shall get on the better for it, for I can now carry 
provisions ; and yet my riband of the order of the 
Fox is there — pah ! I will not think of it. See ! 
here runs the Hamburgh road. Cheerily, boy, and 
good-bye to the old wagon." 

He hurried me along. I had no time to speak. 

We pushed on with great spirit. The road 
again entered the forest, on the skirts of which I 
had been the whole day journeying. 

" I know this country well," said Frederick, 
" for in old days I have often hunted here with my 
father's hounds. I can make many a short cut that 
will save us much. Come along down this gUde. 
We are making fine way." 

We continued in this forest several hours, walk- 
ing with great speed. I was full of hope, and con- 
fidence, and self-congratulation, that I had found 
such a friend. He took the whole management 
upon himself, always decided upon our course, 
never lost his readiness. J had no care. The 
lirisk exercise prevented me from feeling wearied. 
We never stopped. 

The morning broke and gave m.e fresh courage. 
The sun rose. It was agreeable to think that I 
was still nearer Venice. We came to a pleasanv 
piece of turf, fresh from the course of a sparkling 
rivulet. 

" We have gone as good as thirty miles," said 
Frederick, "f lad we kept the common road, we 
should have got through barely half." 

" Have we, indeed !" I said. " This is indeed 
progress : but there is nothing like willing hearts. 
May we get on as well each day." 

" Here I propose to rest a while," said my com. 
panion, " a few hours repose will bring us quite 
round. You must not forget that you rather de- 
bauched yesterday." 

Now that I had stopped, I indeed felt wearied 
and exceedingly sleepy. My companion kindly 
plucked some fern, and made me an excellent beJ 
under a branching tree. 

" This is indeed a life of adventure," I s'.iid. 
" How very kind you are. Such a bed in sufh a 
scene vi'ould alone repay me for all our fatigue." 

He produced some bread and a bottle, and gather- 
ed some cresses ; but I felt no desire to eat or drink, 
and before he had finished his meal, I had suidc 
into a deep slumber. 

I must have slept many hours, for when I wok« 
it was much past noon. I woke wonderfully re- 
freshed. I looked round for Frederick, but, to my 
surprise, he was not there. I jumped up. I called 
his name. No answer. I became alarmed. I ran 
about the vicinity of our encampment shouting 
" Frederick !" There was still no answer. Sud- 
denly I observed that my knapsack also was gene. 
A terrible feeling of doubt, or rather dismay, came 
over me. I sank down and Iniried my face in my 
hands, and it was some minutes before I could 
even think. 

"Can it be! It is impossible ! Infamous knave, 
or rather miserable ass ! Have I been deceived 
entrapped, plundered! O, Contarini, Contarini, 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



365 



you are at length punished for all your foolery ! 
Frederick, Frederick ! he cannot surely have left 
me 1 He is joking, he is trying to frighten me. I 
will not believe that I have been deceived. I will 
not appear frightened. I will not shout the least. 
Ah ! I think I see him behind that tree." I jumped 
up again and ran to the tree, but there was no 
Frederick. I ran about in turn shouting his name, 
execrating my idiotism, confiding in his good fiitli, 
proclaiming him a knave. An hour, a heavy but 
agitating hour, rolled away before I was convinced 
of the triumph of experience over imagination. 

I was hungrj', I was destitute, I was in a wild 
and unknown solitude, I might be starved, I might 
be murdered, I might die. I could think of nothing 
but horrible events. I felt for the first time in my 
life like a victim. I could not bear to recall my 
old feelings. They were at once maddening and 
mortifying. I felt myself, at the same time, the 
most miserable and the most contemptible of beings. 
I entirely lost all my energy. I believed that all 
men were villains. I sank upon the ground and 
gave myself up to despair. In a word, I was 
fairly frightened. 

I heard a rustling in a neighbouring copse. I 
darted up. I thought it was Frederick. It was 
not Frederick, but it was a human being. An 
ancient woodman came forth from a grove of oaks, 
a comely and venerable man. His white hair, his 
fresh hale face, his still keen eye, and the placid, 
benignant expression of his countenance, gave me 
hope. I saluted him, I told him my story. My 
appearance, my streaming eyes, my visible emotion, 
were not lost upon him. Sharply he scrutinized 
me, many were the questions he asked, but he 
finally credited my tale. I learned from him, that 
during the night I had advanced far into the inte- 
rior of the forest, that he himself lived in a cottage 
on its skirts some miles otf, that he was about to 
return from his daily labour, and that I should 
accompany him. As for the road to Hamburgh, 
that was a complete invention. I also collected, 
that home as well as the college were very dis- 
tant. « 

We proceeded together along a turf road, with 
his donkey laden with the day's spoils. I entirely 
regained my cheerfulness, and was very much in- 
terested by my new companion. Never had I 
seen any one so kind, and calm, and so truly 
venerable. We talked a great deal about trees. 
He appeared to be entirely master of his calling. 
I began to long to be a woodman, to pass a quiet, 
and contemplative, and virtuous life, amid the deep 
silence and beautiful scenery of forests — exercising 
all the primitive virtues which became so unso- 
phisticated a career. 

His dog darted on before us with joyful speed. 
We had arrived at his cottage. It was ancient, and 
neat, and well ordered as himself. His wife, at- 
tentive to the welcome bark, was ready at the gate. 
She saluted me, and her husband, shortly telling 
my tale, spoke of me in kind terms. Never had 
I been treated with greater kindness, never was I 
more grateful for it. The twilight was dying away, 
the door was locked and the lamp lighted, a blazing 
log thrown upon the fire, and the round table co- 
vered with a plenteous and pleasant meal. I felt 
quite hnp})y, and indeed to be happy yourself, you 
must live among the happy. 

The good woman did not join us in our meal. 



She sat by the fireside, under the lamp, watching 
us with a fond smile. Her appearance delighted 
me, and seemed like a picture. 

"Now docs not the young gentleman remind 
you of Peter 1" said the dame. " For that is just 
where he used to sit, God bless him. I wonder 
when we shall hear of him again 1" 

" She speaks of our son, young master," said 
my host, turning to me in explanation. 

" A boy as has been seldom seen among people 
of our condition, sir, I can well say," continued 
the old woman, speaking with great animation. 
" O ! why should he have ever left home ! Young 
people are ever full of fancies, but will they ever 
find friends in the world they think so much of, 
like the fither who gives them bread, and the 
mother who gives them milk'?"' 

" My father brought me up at home, and I have 
ever lived at home," observed Peter. " I have ever 
lived in this old forest. Many is the tree that is 
my forest brother, and that is sixty-eight years 
come Martinmas. I saw my father happy and 
wished no more. Nor had I ever a heavy hour till 
Peter began to take these fincies in his head, and 
that indeed was from a boy this high, for he was 
ever full of them, and never would do any thing 
with the axe. I am sure I do not know how they 
got there. The day will come he will wish he 
had never left home, and perhaps we may yet 
see him." 

" Too late, too late," said the old woman ; " he 
might have been the prop of our old age. Many 
is the girl that -would have given her eyes for 
Peter. Our grandchildren might have been run- 
ning this moment about the room. God bless 
t'nem, whom we shall never bless. And the old 
man now must vvfork for the old woman as if it 
were his wedding year." 

" Pooh ! pooh ! as for that, say nothing," re- 
joined Peter; "for I praise God my arms and legs 
are hearty . yet. And indeed were they not, we 
cannot say that our poor boy has ever forgot- 
ten us." 

"Indeed it is true. He is our own son. But 
where does the money come from? that is the 
question. I am sure I think what I dare not say, 
and Dray God to forgive me. How can a poor 
woodman's son, who never works, gain wherewith 
to support himself, much more to give away 1 I 
fear that if all had their rights, we should have 
better means to succour Peter, than Peter us." 

" Nay, nay, say not that, Mary," said her hus- 
band, reprovingly, " for it is in a manner tempting 
the devil." 

" The devil perhaps sent the thought, but it often 
comes," answered the old woman, firmly. 

" And where is your son, sirl" I asked. 

" God, who knows all, can tell, not I," said the 
old man ; " but wherever he be, I pray Gcd to 
bless him." 

" Has he left you long, sir 1" 

" Fifteen years last September ; but he ran away 
once before, when he was barely your height, but 
that was not for long." 

" Indeed," I said, reddening. 

" I believe he is a good lad," said the father, 
" and will never believe harm against him till I 
hear it. He was a kind boy, though strong-tem- 
pered, and even now every year he sends 'is some- 
thing, and sometimes writes a line, but never tells 
2h 2 



366 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



us where lie is, only that he is very happy, if we 
are. But for my part, I rather think he is in foreign 
parts." 

" That is certain," interrupted Dame Mary, " I 
dare say he has got among the French." 

" He was ever a wrong headed, queer chap," 
continued the father, in an under-tone, to me : 
" somotinics he wanted to be a soldier, then a 
painter, then he was all for travelling about, and I 
used to say, ' Peter, my boy, do you know what 
you are V And when I sent him into the woods 
to work, when he came home at night, I found he 
had been painting the trees !" 

The conversation had taken a turn which in- 
duced meditation. I was silent, and thoughtful ; 
the dame busied herself with work, the old man 
resumed his unfinished meal. Suddenly there was 
a loud shouting at the garden gate. All stared and 
started. The dog jumped up, and barked. The 
shouting was repeated, and was evidently addressed 
to the inmates of the cottage. The old woodman 
seized his rifle, and opened the casement. 

" Who calls," he demanded, " and what want 
you 1" 

"Dwelleth Peter Winter here!'' was inquired. 

" He speaks to you," was the reply. 

" Open the door, then," said the shouter. 

" Tell me first who you are." 

" My name has been already mentioned," an- 
swered the shouter, with a laugh. 

" What mean you V 

" Why, that my name is Peter Winter." 

The old woman screamed, a strange feeling also 
■was my lot, the woodman dropped the loaded rifle. 
I prevented it from going off- — neither of them could 
move. At last I opened the door, and the stranger 
of the abbey entered. 

XVIII. 

There was some embracing, much blessing, the 
old woman never ceased crying, and the eyes of the 
fatlier were full of tears. The son was calm, and 
inijx?rturbable, and smiling. 

" Are you indeed Peter V exclaimed the old wo- 
man, sobbing with joy. 

" I never heard so from any one but j'ou," an- 
swered the son. 

" And am I blessed with a sight of you before 
my death 1" continued the motker. 

" Death ! why you look ten years younger than 
when I last saw you !" 

" O ! dear, no, Peter. And why did not you tell 
us where you were 1" she continued. 

" Because I never knew." 

" ! my dear, dear son, how tall you have grown ! 
and pray how have yo\i managed to live '! honestly, 
I am sure : your face says so." 

" As for that, it docs not become me to praise 
myself, but you see I navo saved my neck." 

"And what would you like to eat V 

" Any thing." 

The father could not speak for silent joy. I had 
rcured to the remotest corner of the room. 

" I'he old cottage, pretty as ever. I have got a 
drawing of it in my portfolio — always kept it, and 
your portrait too, mother, and my father cutting 
down Schinkel's oak, do you remember .'" 

•'Do I remember! ^^'hy what a memory the 
child has got, and only think of its keeping its 
poor old mother's head in its pocketbook, and the 



picture of the cottage, and fatlier cutting down 
Schinkel's oak. Do I remember I — Why, I remem- 
ber — " 

" Come, my dear old lady, give me something 
to eat, and, father, your hand again. You flourish 
like one of your foster brothers. A shower of 
blessings on you both." 

" Ah ! what do we want more than to see our 
dear Peter!" said the old woman, bustling about the 
supper. " And as for working, I warrant you, you 
shall he plagued no more about working ; shall be 
as idle as it pleases, that's for it. For old Peter 
was only saying this evening, that he cOuld do 
more work now, and more easily, than when he 
first married — Ay ! he will make old bones, I war- 
rant him." 

" I said, Mary — " 

"Pooh! pooh! never mind what you said, hut 
get the brandy bottle, and give our dear Peter a 
sup. He shall he plagued no more about working, 
and that's for it. But Lord bless us, where is the 
young master all the time, for I want him to help 
me get the things." 

I advanced forward and caught the eye of the 
son. — " What," he exclaimed, " my little embryo 
poet — and how came you here, in the name of the 
holy Magdalen 1" 

" It is a long story," I said. 

" O ! then, pray, do not tell it," he replied. 

Supper soon appeared. He ate heartily, talking 
between each mouthful, and full of jests. The fa 
ther could not speak, but the mother was nevei 
silent. He asked many questions about old ac- 
quaintances, and I fancied he asked them witb 
little real interest, and o(dy to gratify his mother, 
who, at each query, burst into fresh admiration of 
his memory, and his kind-heartedness. At length, 
after much talk, he said, " Come, old people, to bed, 
to bed ; these hours are not for gray hairs. We 
shall have you all knocked up to-morrow, instead 
of fresh and joyful." 

" I am sure I cannot sleep," said the dame. " I 
am in such a taking.'' 

" P»oh ! you must sleep, mother — good-night to 
you, good-night," and kissing her, he pushed her 
into the next room — " Good-night, dear father," he 
added, in a soft and serious tone, as he pressed the 
honest woodman's hand. 

" And now, little man, you may tell me your 
story, and we will try to talk each other to sleep." 
So saying, he flung a fresh log on the fire, and 
stretched his legs in his father's ancient seat. 

Xix. 

It was settled that I should remain at the cotr 
tage for a few days, and then that, accompany ir;';> 
Winter, I should repair to the capital. Hiihcr 
he was bound — and for myself, both from his ad- 
vice, and his own impulse, I had resolved to return 
home. 

On the next morning the woodman went not to 
his usual labour, but remained with his son. Tlsey 
strolled out togcllier, but in a shod time returnttl. 
The mother bustled about preparing a good dinner. 
For her, this was full employment, but time hung 
heavy on the old man. At last he took his axe-, 
and fairly set at work at an old tree near his dwelling, 
which he had long condemned, and never found 
time to execute. His son and he had few ideas 'o 
exchange, and he enjoyed his happiness more while 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



367 



he was employed. Winter proposed to me a ram- 
ble, and I joined him. 

He was very gay, but would not talk about him- 
self, which I wished. I longed to know what he 
exactly was, but deemed a direct inquiry indelicate. 
He delighted to find out places he had known when 
he was young, and laughed at me very much about 
my adventures. 

" You see what it is to impart knowledge to youth 
like you. In eight-and-forty hours all these valua- 
ble secrets are given to Master Frederick, who will 
perhaps now turn out a great poet." 

I bore his rallying as good-humouredly as he 
could wish, and tried to lead our conversation to 
subjects which interested me. " Ask me no more j 
questions," he said, " about yourself — I have told 
you every thing. All that I can recommend you 
now is to practise sclf-forgetfulness." 

We rested ourselves on a bank, and talked about 
foreign countries, of which, though he himself never 
figured in his tales, he spoke without reserve. My 
keen attention proved with what curiosity and de- 
light I caught each word. Whenever he paused, I 
led him by a question to fresh narrative. I could 
not withstand expressing how I was charmed by 
such conversation. " All that I tell you," he said, 
"and much more, may be found in books. Those 
tliat cannot themselves obserN'e, can at least acquire 
the observation of others. These are indeed sha- 
dows, but by watching these shadows we learn 
that there are substances. Little man, you should 
read more. At your time of life, you can do no- 
thing better than read good books of travellers." 

" But is it not better myself to travel ]" 

" Have I not told you that your wandering days 
have not yet come] Do you wish to meet another 
Mr. Frederick 1 You are much too young. Tra- 
vel is the great source of true wisdom, but to travel 
with profit, you must have such a thing as previous 
knowledge. Do you comprehend 1" 

" Ah ! sir ! I fear me much that I am doomed to 
be unhappy." 

" Pooh ! pooh ! Clear your he^d of all such non- 
sense. There is no such thing as unhappiness." 

" No such thing as unhappiness, sir] •How may 
this be, for all men believe — " 

" All men believe many things which are not 
true ; but remember what I say, and when you 
have lived as long as I have, you will perhaps dis- 
cover that it is not a paradox. In the mean time 
it is nonsense talking about it, and I have got an 
enormous appetite. A fine dinner to-day for us, I 
warrant you.'' 

So we returned home at a brisk pace. The old 
woman looked out at the door when she heard our 
steps, and nodding to her son with a smile of fond- 
ness, " You must walk in the garden a .while, Pe- 
ter," she said, " for I am busy getting the room 
ready. Now, I dare say, you are thinking of the din- 
ner, but you cannot tell me what there is for Peter, 
that you cannot. But I'll tell you, for if you fret 
yourself with guessing, mayhap it will hurt your 
relish. Do you remember crying once for a pig, 
Peter, and father saying a woodman's boy must 
not expect to live like the forest farmer's son ] 
Well, he may say what he hkes, Peter, there is a 
pig." 

The father joined us cleanly shaved, and in his 
Sunday raiment. I never saw any one look so 
truly respectable as did this worthy old peasant in 
Dis long blue coat with brge silver buttons, deep | 



waistcoat covered with huge pink flowers and small 
green leaves, blue stockings, and massy buckles. 

The three days at the woodman's cottage flew 
away most pleasantly. I was grieved when they 
were gone, and in spite of my natural courage, 
which was confirmed by meditation, and heightened 
by my constantly trying it in ideal conjectures, I 
thought of my appearance at home with a little 
anxiety. 

We were to perform our journey on foot. The 
morning of the third day was to light us into the 
city. Ail was prepared. I parted with my kind 
friends with many good wishes, hearty shakes of 
the hand, and freijuent promises of another visit. 
Peter was coming to them again very shortly. 
They hoped I might again be his companion. The 
father walked on with us some little wav. The 
mother stood in the cottage door till we were out of 
sight, smiUng through her tears, and waving her 
hand with many blessings. 

"I must take care of my knapsack," said the 
younger Winter ; " evil habits are catching." 

" Nevertheless, I hope you will sometimes let mc 
carry it. At any rate, give me your portfolio." 

" No, no, you ai'e not to be trusted, and so come 



XX. 

"But, my dear friend, you have lodged, j'ou 
have fed, )'ou have befi-icnded, you have supported 
me. If my father were to laiow that we parted 
thus, he would never forgive me. Pray, pray, tell 
me." ■ 

" Prithee, no more. You have told me your 
name, which is against my rules ; you know mine, 
no one of my fellow-travellers ever did before ; and 
yet you are not contented. You grow unreasonable 
Did I not say that if our acquaintance were worth 
maintaining, we should meet again. Well ! I say 
the same thing now — and so good-bye." 

" Dear sir, pray, pray — " 

" This is my direction — your course lies over 
that bridge — look sharp about you, and do not enter 
into your private world, for the odds are, you may 
find your friend Count Frederick picking a pocket. 
Good morning, little man." 

We parted. I crossed the bridge. The stir of 
man seemed strange after the silence of the woods. 
I did not feel quite at my ease ; my heart a little 
misgave me. I soon reached the street in which 
my father resided. I thought of the woodman's 
cottage, and the careless days I had spent under 
that simple roof. I wished myself once more by 
Schinkel's oak, talking of Arabia the Blessed v.i'.h 
that strange man with whom my acquaintance, 
although so recent, seemed now only a dream. Did 
he really exist — were they all real beings with whom 
I seemed lately to have consorted ] Or had 1 in- 
deed been all this time plunged in one of my incu- 
rable reveries ! I thought of the laughing girl, and 
her dark sentimental friend. I felt for the chain 
which I always wore round my nedi. It was gone. 
No doubt, then, it must all be true. 

I had reached the gate. I uttered an involuntary 
sigh. I took up the knocker. It was for a moment 
suspended. I thought of the Contarinis, and my 
feeble knock hurried into a sharp rap. .. entered, 
" 'Tis a nervous business," thought I, "there is no 
concealing it. 'Tis flat rebellion — 'tis desertion— 
'tis an outrage of all parental orders — 'tis a viola- 



368 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



tion of the law of nature and of nations." I sighed 
again. '• Yet these arc all bng-bears, for what can 
they do to me ] Is there any punishment that they 
can inflict that I care for ] Certainly not, and 'tis 
likely it will all blow over. Yet the explanations, 
and the vile excuses, and the petty examinations, 
there is something pitiful, and contemptible, and 
undignified in the whole process. What is it that 
60 annoys me '? 'Tis not fear. I think it is the dis- 
gust of being accountable to any human being." 

I went up stairs. My father, I felt sure, was 
away. I found the baroness alone. She started 
when I entered, and looked sullen. Her counte- 
nance, she flattered herself, was a happy mixture 
cf the anxiety which became both a spouse and a 
mother, pity for my father, pity for me, and decided 
indignation at my very improper conduct. 

" How do you do, madam V I inquired, in as 
quiet a tone as I could command. " My father is, 
I suppose, at his office." 

" I am sure I cannot tell," she replied, speaking 
in a very subdvied, serious tone, as if there were 
death in the house. " I believe he has gone out 
to-day. He has been very agitated indeed, and I 
think is extremely unwell. We have all been 
extremely agitated and alarmed, I have kept my- 
self as quiet as I can, but can bear no noise what- 
ever. The baron has received a fine letter from 
your tutor," she continued, in a brisker and rather 
malignant tone, "but your father will speak to you, 
I know nothing about these things, I wished to 
have said something to soothe him, but I know I 
never interfere for any good." 

" Well," I observed, with a dogged, desperate 
tone, speaking through my teeth, " well ! all I can 
say is, that if my father has been prejudiced against 
me by a parcel of infamous falsehoods, as it appears 
by your account, I know how to protect myself. I 
see how tlie ground lies ; I see that I have already 
been judged, and am now to be plinished with>)ut 
a trial. But I will not submit any longer to such 
persecution. Kindness in this house I never ex- 
pect, but justice is a right enjoyed by a common 
woodman, and denied only to me," 

" Dear me, Contarini, how violent you are ! I 
never said your father was even angry, I only 
said I thought he was a little unwell — a little bi- 
lious, I think. My dear Contarini, you are always 
so very violent, I am sure I said I was confident 
you would never have left college without a very 
good cause indeed, I have no doubt you will 
explain every thing in the most satisfactory manner 
possible, I do not know what you mean always 
liy talking of not expecting kindness in this house, 
I am sure I never interfered with you, I make it 
a rule always, when your interest is in the least 
concerned, never to give an opinion, I am sure I 
wish you were quite happy and less violent. As 
for judging and punishing without a trial, you 
know your father never punishes any one, nor has 
he decided any thing, for all he knows is from the 
letter of your tutor, and that is merely a line, merely 
saying you had (juittcd the college without leave, 
and, as they .supposed, had gone home. They 
said, too, that they were the more surprised, as your 
general behaviour was quite unexceptionable. Not 
at all against you the letter was, not at all, I assure 
you. I pointed out to your father more than once, 
that the letter was, if any thing, rather in your 
favour, because I had no doubt that you would explain 
Uie step in the most satisfactory manner ; and they 



said, you see, that your conduct, otherwise, was 
perfectly unexceptionable." 

" Well, my dear madam, I am very sorry it [ 
have offended you. How are my brothers V 

"I am very willing to forget it. You may say 
and think what you please, Contarini, as long as 
you are not violent. The children are pretty well. 
Ernest quite ready to go to college, and now there 
is no one to take care of him. I always thought 
of your being there with quite a feeling of satisfac- 
tion, for I was sure that you would not refuse to 
do what you could for him among the boys. As 
it is, I have no doubt he will be killed the first half 
year, or, at least, have a limb broken, for, pool 
dear boy, he is so delicate, he cannot fight." 

" Well, my dear madam, if I be not there, I can 
recommend him to some one who will take care 
of him. Make yourself quite easy. A little rough 
life will do him no harm, and I will answer he is 
not killed, and even have not a limb broken. Now, 
what do you recommend me to do about my father ■• 
Shall I walk down to him 1" 

" I certainly think not. You know that he will 
certainly be at home this afternoon, though, to be 
sure, he will be engaged, but to-morrow, or the 
day after, I have no doubt he will find half an hour 
to speak to you. You know he is so very busy." 

I immediately resolved to walk down to him. 1 
had no idea of having a scene impending over me 
in this manner for days. My father at this time 
filled the oflice of Secretary of State for Foreign 
Affairs. He had been appointed to this post re 
cently, and I had never yet visited him at his new 
office. I repaired to it im.mediately. It was at 
some distance from his house. His horses were 
waiting at the door, therefore I was sure that he 
was to be found. When I entered, I found myself 
in a hall. A porter was loitering in a large chair. 
I asked him for Baron Fleming. He did not deign 
to answer me, but pointed to a mahogany door. I 
entered, and found myself in a large well-furnished 
room, fitted up with desks. At the end, two young 
men were fencing. Another, seated at a round 
table covered with papers, was copying music, and 
occasionally trying a note on his guitar. A fourth 
was throwing himself into attitudes before a pier- 
glass ; and the fifUi, who was the only one whose 
employment was in any degree of a political na- 
ture, was seated at his desk, reading the newspaper. 

No one noticed my entrance. I looked in vain 
for my father, and with some astonishment at those 
I found in his place. Then I inquired for Baron 
Fleming, and, for the second time in one day, I did 
not receive any answer, I repeated my query in 
a more audible tone, and the young gentleman 
who was reading the newspaper, without taking 
his eyes off' the columns, demanded, in a curt voice, 
what I wanted with him, 

" What is that to you 1" I ingenuously asked. 

This unusual reply excited attention. They all 
looked at me, and when they had looked at me, 
they looked at each other, and smiled. My aj^pear- 
'ance indeed, of which, till I had seen myself in the 
pier-glass, I was not sensible, was indeed well cal- 
culated to excite a smile, and to attract a stare. My 
clothes were not untattercd, and were very much 
soiled, being covered with shrcdsof moss and blades 
of grass, and stuck over with thistle-tops ; my boots 
had not been cleaned for a week, my shirt frill, 
which fell over my shoulders, was torn and dirtied, 
my dishevelled and unbrushcd locks reachea my 



C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 



369 



npck, and could scarcely be said to be covered by 
the small forester's cap, which I always wore at 
school, and in which I had decamped. Animate 
the countenance of this strange figure with that 
glow of health which can only be obtained by the 
pedestrian, and which seemed to shock the nerves 
of this company of dapper youths. 

"If you want Baron Fleming, then you must go 
up stairs," said the student of the newspaper in a 
peevish voice. 

As I shut tlie door, I heard the burst of laughter, 
I mounted up the great staircase and came into an 
antechamber. 

" What do you want, sir, what do you want, sir ] 
You must not come here," said a couple of pom- 
pous messengers, nearly pushing me out. 

"I shall not go away," I replied; "I want Baron 
Fleming." 

" Engaged, young gentleman, engaged — caTi't see 
any one — impossible." 
" I shall wait, then." 

" No use waiting, young gentleman ; better go." 
" It is not such an easy matter, I perceive, to see 
one's father," I thought to myself. 

I did not know which was his room, otherwise I 
would have gone in : but turning round, I detected 
written on a door, " Under Secretary's Office," and 
I ran to it. 

" Stop, sir, stop," said the messengers. 
But I had hold of the lock. They pulled me, I 
kicked the door, and out came the private secretary 
of the under secretary. 

" What is all this, what is all this 1" asked the 
private secretary. He was a fit companion for the 
young gentlemen I had left down stairs. 

" I want Baron Fleming," I replied, " and these 
rnen will not tell mc where he is, and therefore I 
come to the under secretary to ask.'' So saying, 
I most indignantly freed my arm from the capture 
of one of the messengers, and kicked the shin of 
the other. 

" May I ask who you are ]" demanded the private 
secretary. 

" I am Baron Contarini Fleming," I replied. 
" Pray sit down," said the private secretary, " I 
will be with you in a moment." 

The two messengers darted back, and continued 
bowing without turning their backs, until they un- 
expectedly reached the end of the room. 

The private secretary returned with the under 
secretary. The under secretary told me that my 
father was engaged with the chancellor, and that 
Ids door was locked, but that the moment the door 
was luilocked, and the chancellor departed, he 
v\'ould take care that he was informed of my arri- 
val. In the mean time, as he himself had a deputa- 
tion to receive in his room, who were to come to- 
day to complain in form of what tliey had for 
months been complaining informally, he begged 
that I would have the kindness to accompany his 
private secretary to the room down stairs. 

The room down stairs I again entered. The 
private secretary introduced me. Ail looked very 
confused, and the young gentleman who was 
still reading the newspaper immediately handed it 
to me. I had never read a newspaper in my life, 
but I accepted his ofl'er to show my importance. 
As I did not understand politics, I turned the back 
ol the sheet, v/here there is generally an article on 
the fine arts, or a review of a new book. My 
wandering eye fixed upon a memoir of the Che- 
47 



valier de Winter. I was equally agitated and as- 
tonished. My eye quivered over the page. I saw 
in an instant enough to convince me it was my 
friend, and that my friend was styled " a great or- 
nament to the country," and the Northmen were 
congratulated on at length producing an artist 
whom the Italians themselves acknowledged un- 
rivalled among the living. I learned how he was 
the son of a peasant: how his genius for painting 
early developed itself; how he had led four years 
an eccentric and wandering life ; how he had return- 
ed to Rome, and at once produced a master-piece : 
how he had gained prizes in academies : how he 
was esteemed and honoured by foreign princes ; how 
his own illustrious monarch, ever alive to the patron- 
age of the fine arts, had honoured him with two com- 
missions ; how he had returned to his native country 
with these magnificent pictures, which were daily 
exhibiting at the Royal Academy of Arts ; how the 
king had conferred on him the collar of a high order 
and offered him a great pension ; how he had re- 
fused the pension, and requested only that a com- 
petency might be settled on his parents. 

I was bewildered, I fell into a deep revery, the 
paper dropped from my hand, the door opened, and 
the private secretary summoned me to the presence 
of my father. 

XXI. 

It is time you should know something of my 
father. You must remember that he was little 
more than a score of 3'cars my senior. Imagine then 
a man about four-and-thirty years of age, tall and 
thin, slightly bald, handsome and elegant, pensive and 
pale. His clear broad brow, his aquiline, but deli- 
cately-chiselled nose, his gray, deep-set, and pene- 
trating eye, and his compressed lips, altogether 
formed a countenance which enchanted women, 
and awed men.' 

His character is more difficult to delineate. It 
was perhaps inscrutable. I will attempt to sketch 
it, as it might then have appeared to those who con- 
sidered themselves qualified to speculate upon hu- 
man nature. 

His talents were of a high order, and their exer- 
cise alone had occasioned his rise in a country in 
which he had no interest and no connexions. He 
had succeeded in every thing he had undertaken. 
As an orator, as a negotiator, and in all the details 
of domestic administration he was alike eminent, 
and his luminous interpretation of national law had 
elevated the character of his monarch in the 
opinion of Europe, and had converted a second- 
rate power into the mediator between the highest. 

The minister of a free people, he was the per- 
sonal as well as the political pupil of Mettemich, 
Yet, he respected the institutions of his country, 
because they existed, and because experience proved 
that, under their influence, the natives had become 
more powerful machines. 

His practice of politics was compressed in two 
words — subtelty and force. The minister of an 
emperor, he would liavc maintained his system by 
armies ; in the cabinet of a small kingdom, he com- 
pensated for his deficiency by intrigue. 

His ]iprfection of human nature was a practical 
man. He looked upon a theorist either with alarm 
or with contempt. Proud in his own energies, 
and conscious that he owed every thing to his ow 
dexterity, he believed all to depend upon the inll 



370 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



ence of individual character. He required men 
not to think but to act, not to examine but to obey, 
and animating their brute force with his own intel- 
ligence, he found the success wliich he behevcd 
could never be achieved by the rational conduct of 
an enlightened people. 

Out of the cabinet, the change of his manner 
might perplex the supcrlicial. The moment that 
he entered society, his thoughtful face would break 
into a fascinating smile, and he listened with in- 
terest to the talcs of levity, and joined with readiness 
m each frivolous pursuit. He was sumptuous in 
his habits, and was said to be even voluptuous. 
Perha{)s he affected gallantry because he was deeply 
impressed with the influence of women, both upon 
public and upon private opinion. With them he 
was a universal favourite ; and as you beheld him 
assenting with conviction to their gay or serious 
nonsense, and waving, with studied grace, his per- 
fumed handkerchief in his delicately-white and 
jewelled hand, you might have supposed him for a 
moment a consummate lord-chatnberlain — but only 
for a moment, — f ^r had you caught his eye, you 
would have witluhawiiyour gaze with precipitation, 
and perhaps with awe. For the rest, he spoke all 
languages, never lost his self-possession, and never 
in my recollection, had displayed a spark of strong 
feeling. 

I loved my father deeply, but my love was mixed 
with more than reverence ; it was blended with 
fear. He was the only person before whom I 
ever quailed. To me he had been universally 
kind. I could not recall, in the whole period of my 
existence, a single harsh word directed to myself 
that had ever escaped him. Whenever he saw me, 
he smiled and nodded ; and sometimes, in early 
days, when I requested an embrace, he had pressed 
my lips. As I grew in years, every thing v^'as ar- 
ranged that could conduce to my happiness. What- 
ever I desired v^'as granted, whatever wish I 
expressed was gratified. Yet with all this, by some 
means or other which I could not comprehend, the 
intercourse lietweeii my father and myself seemed 
never to advance. I was still to him as much an 
infant as if I were yet a subject of the nursery, 
and the impending and important interview 
might be considered the first time that it was ever 
my fortune to engage with him in serious converse. 

The door was opened, my heart palpitated, the 
))rivate secretary withdrew, I entered the lofty 
room. My father was writing. He did not look 
up as I came in. I stood at his table a second. 
He raised his eyes, stared at my odd appearance, 
and then pointing to a chair, he said, " How do you 
do, Contarini 1 I have been expecting you some 
days." Then he resumed his writing. 

I was rather surprised, but my entrance had so 
agitated me that I was not sorry to gain time. A 
clock was opposite to mc, and I employed myself 
in watching the hands. They advanced over one, 
two, three minutes very Mowly and solemnly ; still 
my father wrote; even five minutes disappeared, 
and my father continued writing. I thought five 
minutes had never gone so slowly ; I began to think 
of what I should say, and to warm up my courage 
by an imaginary conversation. Suddenly I observed 
tliat ten minutes had Hown, and these last five had 
scudded in a most surprismg manner. Still my 
father was employed. At length he rang his bell. 
One of my friends the messengers entered. My fa- 
tlier sent for Mr. Strelamb, and before Mr. Strelumb, 



who v\'as his private secretar)'-, appeared, he had 
finished his letter and given it to the other messen- 
ger. Then Mr. Strelamb came in and seated him- 
self opposite to my father, and took many notes 
with an attention and quickness which appeared to 
me quite marvellous, and then my father, looking 
at the clock, said he had an apj»oinlment with the 
Prussian ambassador at his palace ; but, while ?vlr. 
Strelamb was getting some papers in order for him, 
he sent for the under secretary and gave him so 
many directions, that I thought the under secretary 
must have the mostwonderful memory in the world. 
At length my father left the room, saying, as he 
quitted it, " Rest you here, Contarini." 

I was consoled for his neglect by the conscious- 
ness that my father was a very great man indeed. 
I had no idea of such a great man. I was filled 
with awe. I looked out of the window to see him 
mount his horse, but just as he had one foot in his 
stirrup, a carriage dashed up to the door, my father 
withdrevsf his foot, and saluting the person in the 
carriage, entered it. It was the Austrian ambas- 
sador. In ten minutes he came out, but just as the 
steps were rattled up, and the chasseur had closed 
the door with his best air, my father returned to 
the carriage, liut he remained only a minute, and 
then, mounting his horse, galloped off. 

" This is indeed a great man," I thought, " and 
I am his son." I began to muse upon this idea of 
political greatness. The simple woodman, and his 
decorous cottage, and his free forest life recurred to 
my mind, unaccompanied by that feeling of satis- 
faction wliich I had hitherto associated with them, 
and were pictured in faded and rather insipid 
colours. Poetry, and jihilosophy, and t!>e delights 
of solitude, and the beauty of truth, and the rapture 
of creation — I know not how^ it was, they certainly 
did not figure in such paramount beauty and 
colossal importance as I had previously viewed 
them. I thought of my harassing hours of doubt 
and diffidence with disgust, I sickened at the time 
wasted over imperfect efforts, at what, when per- 
fect, seemed somehow of questionable importance. 
I was dissatisfied with my past life. Ambassadors, 
and chancellors, under secretaries, and private 
secretaries, and public messengers, flitted across 
my vision. I was sensibly struck at the contrast 
between all this greatness achieved, and moving 
before me in its quick and proud reality, and my 
weak meditations of unexecuted purposes and 
dreamy visions of imaginary grandeur. I threw 
myself in my father's chair, took up a pen, and, 
insensibly to myself, while I indulged in these r«^ 
flections, scribbled Contarini Fleming over every 
paper that afforded itself for my signature. 

My father was a long while away. I fell into a 
profound revery. He entered the room. I did not 
observe him, I was entirely lost. I was engaged 
in a conversation with both the Prussian and Aus- 
trian ambassadors together. My father called me ; 
I did not hear him. My eyes were fixed on va- 
cancy, but I was listening with the greatest atten- 
tion to their excellencies. My father approached, 
lilted me gently from his seat, and placed me in 
my original chair. I stared, looked up, and shook 
myself hke a man awakened. He slightly smiled, 
and then seating himself, shrugging up his 
shoulders at my labours, and arranging his papers, 
he said, at the same time, 

" Now, Contarini, I wish you to tell me why 
you have left your college 1" 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



371 



This was a home query, and entirely brought 
me to myself. With the greatest astonishment, I 
found that I had no answer. I did not speak, and 
my fiitlier commenced writing. In two or three 
instances he said, " Well can you answer my 
question]" 

" Yes, sir," I replied, to gain time. 

"Well! tell me." 

" Because, sir, because it was no use staying 
tliere." 

" Why V 

" Because I learned nothing !" 

" Were you the first boy in the school, or the 
last ] had j'ou learned every thing that they could 
teach you, or nothing]" 

" I was neither first nor last. Not that I should 
be ashamed of being last where I considered it no 
honour to be first." 

" Why notr' 

" Because I do not think that it is an enviable 
situation to be the first among tlie learners of 
words." 

My father gave me a sharp glance, and then 
said, " Did you leave college because you con- 
sidered that tliey taught ytu only words]" 

" Yes, sir, and because 1 wished to learn ideas." 

" Some silly book has filled your head, Contarini, 
with these ridiculous notions about the respective 
importance of words and ideas. Few ideas are 
correct ones, and what are correct no one can as- 
certain. But with words we govern men." 

This observation completely knocked up all my 
philosophy, and I was without an answer. 

"I tell you what, Contarini: I suspect that 
there must be some, other reason for this step of 
yours. I wish you to tell it to me. If you were 
not making there that progress which every intelli- 
gent youth desires, such a circumstance might be 
a very good reason for your representing your state 
to your parent, and submitting it to his considera- 
tion, but you — you have never complained to me 
upon the subject. You said nothing of the kind 
when you were last with me, you never communi- 
cated it by letter. I never heard of a boy running 
away from school because they did not teach him 
suflicient, or sufiiciently well. Your instructers do 
not complain of your conduct, except with regard 
to this step. I'here must be some other reason 
which induced you to adopt a measure Which, I 
(latter myself, you have already learned to consider 
as both extremely unauthorized and very injudi- 
cious.'' 

I had a good mind to pour it all out. I had a 
good mind to dash Venice in his teeth, and let him 
chew it as he could. I was on the point of ask- 
ing a thousand questions, which I had been burn- 
ing all my life to know, but the force of early im- 
pressions was too strong. I shunned the fatal 
word, and remained silent with a clouded brow, 
and my eyes fixed upon the ground. 

" Answer me, Contarini," he continued ; "you 
know that all I ask is only for your good. An- 
swer me, Contarini ; I request that you answer me. 
Were you uncomfortable ! Were you unhappy ]" 

" [ am always unhappy," I replied, in a gloomy 
tone. 

My father moved round his chair. " You asto- 
nish me, Contarini. Unhappy ! always unhappy ! 
Why are you unhappy 1 I should have thought 
you the happiest boy of my acquaintance. I am 
iiure I cannot conceive what makeri you unhappy. ^ 



Pray tell me. Is there any thing you want ? Have 
you done, has anybody done any thing to annoy 
you 1 Have you any thing upon your mindl" 

I did not answer, my eyes were still fixed upon 
the ground, the tears stealing down my cheek, tears 
not of tenderness, but rage. 

" My dear Contarini," continued my father, '• I 
must indeed earnestly request you to answer mc. 
Throughout life you have never disobeyed me. 
Do not let to-day be an epoch of rebellion. Speak 
to me frankly. Tell me why you are unhappy." 

" Because I have no one I love, because there is 
no one who loves me, because I hate this country, 
because I hate every thing and everybody, because 
I hate myself." I rose from my seat and stamped 
about the room. 

My father was perfectly astounded. He had 
thought that I might possibly have got into debt, 
or had a silly quarrel, but he did not lose his self- 
command. 

" Sit down, Contarini," he said very calmly, 
" never give way to your feelings. Explain to 
me quietly what all this means. What book have 
you been reading to fill your head with all this 
nonsense ! What could have so suddenly altered 
your character ?" 

" I have read no book, my character is what I 
always was, and I have only expressed to-day, for 
the first time, what I have ever felt. Life is in- 
tolerable to me, and I wish to die." 

" What can you mean by persons not loving 
vou?" resumed my father, "I am sure the baro- 
ness—" 

" The baroness !" I entcrrupted him in a sharp 
tone; " what is the baroness to me 1 Always this 
WTetched nursery view of life — always considered 
an insignificant, unmeaning child — What is the 
baroness, and her petty persecutions to me ] — 
Pah !" 

I grew bold. The truth is, my vanity was flat- 
tered by finding the man, who was insensible to all, 
and before whom all trembled, yield his sympathy 
and his time to me. I began to get interested iu 
the intervievv. I was excited by this first conversa- 
tion with a parent. My suppressed character began 
unconsciously to develope itself, and I uninteii- 
tionally gave way to my mind, as if I were in one 
of my own scenes. 

" I should be sorry if there were even petty per- 
secutions," said my father, " and equally so, if you 
were insensible to them ; but I hope that you speak 
only under excited feelings. For your father, 
Contarini, I can at least answer, that his conscience 
cannot accuse him of a deficiency in love fjr one 
who has such strong claims upon a father's affec- 
tion. I can indeed say that I have taken no im- 
portant step in life which had not for its ulterior 
purpose your benefit ; and what, think you, can 
sweeten this all-engrossing and perhaps fatal 
labour, to which I am devoted, but the thought 
that I am toiling for the future happiness of my 
child 1 You are young, Contarini. Some day 
vou will become acquainted with the feelings of a 
father, and you will then blush with shame and 
remorse that you have ever accused me of insensi- 
bility." 

While he spoke I was greatly softened. The 
tears stole down my cheek. I leaned my arm upon 
the table, and tried to shade my face with my 
hand. My father rose from his seat, turned tho 
key of the door, and resumed his place 



373 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Occupied with affairs," he resumed, " which 
do not always allow me sleep, I have never found 
lime for those slight parental offices which I do 
not think less delightful because it has been my 
misfortune not to fulfil, or to enjoy them. But 
you, Contarini, have never been absent from my 
thoughts, and I had considered that I had made 
such arrangements as must secure you the gratifi- 
cation of every innocent desire. But to-day I find, 
for the first time, that I have been mistaken for 
years. I regret it : I wish, if possible, to compen- 
sate for my unhappy neglect, or rather unfortunate 
ignorance. Tell me, Contarini, what do you wish 
zne to do?" 

" Nothing, nothing," I sobbed and sighed. 
" But if necessity have hitherto brought us less 
together than I could wish, you are now, Con- 
tarini, fast advancing to that period of life, to which 
I looked forward as a consolatory recompense for 
this deplorable estrangement, I hoped to find in you 
a constant companion. I hoped that I might have 
the high gratification of forming you into a great 
and good man — that I might find in my son, not 
merely a being to be cherished, but a friend, a 
counsellor, a colleague — yes ! Contarini, perhaps 
a successor." 

I clasped my hands in agony, but restramcd a 
cry. 

" And now," he continued, " I am suddenly told, 
and by himself, that I have never loved him ; but 
still more painful, still more heart-rending, is the 
accompanying declaration, which indeed is what I 
could not be prepared for. Misconception on his 
part, however improbable, might have accounted for 
his crediting my coldness, but alas ! I have no room 
for hoj)e or doubt ; his plain avowal can never be 
misconstrued. I must then yield to the terrible 
conviction tliat I am an object of abhon-ence to my 
cliild." 

I flung myself at his feet, I seized his hand, I 
kissed it, and bathed it with my tears. 

"Spare me, ! spare me," I faintly muttered. 
" Henceforth I will be all you wish !" I clung upon 
his hand, I would not rise till he pardoned me. 
" Pardon me," I said, " pardon me, I beseech you, 
father, for I spoke in madness ! Pardon me, pardon 
me, dear father ! It was in madness, for indeed there 
is something which comes over me sometimes like 
madness, but now it will never come, because you 
love me. Only tell me that you love me, and I will 
always do every thing. I am most grieved for what 
I said about the baroness. She is too good ! I will 
never give you again an uneasy moment, not a sm- 
gle uneasy moment. Now that I know that you 
love me, you may depend upon me, you may indeed. 
You may depend upon me forever." 

He smiled, and raised me from the gi-ound, and 
kissed my forehead. " Compose yourself, dearest 
boy ! Strelamb must soon come in. Try more to 
repress your feelings. There, sit down and calm 
yourself." 

He resumed his writing directly, and I sat sob- 
bing myself into composure. In about a quarter 
of an 'hour, he said, "I must send for Strelamb 
now, love. If you go into the next room, you can 
wash your face." 

W hen I returned, my father said, " Come ! come ! 
you look quite blooming. By-the-by, are you 
aware what a very strange figure you are, Conta- 
rini 1 After being closeted all the morning with 
me, they will think, from your costume, that you ] 



are a foreign ambassador. Now, go home, and 
dress, for I have a large dinner-party to-day, and 1 
wish you to dine with me. Inhere are several 
persons whom you should know. And, if you 
like, you may take my horses, for I had rather 
walk home." 

XXII. 

I WAS SO very happy that, for some time, I did 
not think of the appalling efli)rt that awaited me. 
It was not till I had fairly commenced dressing, 
that I remembered, that in the course of an hour, 
for the first time in my life, I was to enter a room 
full of strangers, conducting themselves with ease 
in all that etiquette of society in which I was 
entirely unpractised. My heart misgave me. I 
wished myself again in the forest. I procrastinated 
my toilet to the last possible moment. Ignorant of 
the art of dress, I found myself making a thousand 
experiments, all of which failed. The more I 
consulted my glass, the less favourable was the 
impression. I brushed my hair out of curl. I 
confined my neck for the first time in a cravat. 
Each instant my appearance became more awk- 
ward, more formal, and inetfective. At last I was 
obliged to go down, and less at my ease, and 
conscious of appearing worse than I ever did in 
my life, at the only moment of that life in which 
appearance had been of the slightest consequence, 
and had ever occupied my thoughts, I entered the 
room at the side door. It was very full, as I 
had expected. I stole in, without being observed, 
which a little reanimated my courage. I looked 
round in vain for a person I knew ; I crept to a 
corner. All seemed at their ease. All were smil- 
ing, all exchanging words, if not ideas. The wo- 
men all appeared beautiful, the men all elegant. I 
painfully felt my wretched inferiority. I watched 
the baroness, magnificently attired, and sparkling 
with diauionds, wreatlied with smiles, and scatter- 
ing, without effort, phrases which seemed to ditluse 
universal pleasure. This woman, whom I had 
presumed to despise, and dared to insult, became 
to me an object of admiration and of envy. She 
even seemed to me beautiful. I was bewildered. 

Suddenly a gentleman approached me. It was 
the under secretary. I was delighted by his notice. 
I answered his many uninteresting questions about 
every school pastime, which I detested, as if I felt 
the greatest interest in their recollection. All that 
I desired was, that he would not leave me, that I 
might at least appear to be doing what the others 
were, and might be supposed to be charmed, 
although I was in torture. At length he vt^alked 
ofi'to another group, and I found myself once more 
alone, apparently without a single chance of keep- 
ing up the ball. I felt as if every one were watch- 
ing with wonder, the strange, awkward, ugly, silent 
boy. I coined my cheek into a base smile, but I 
found that it would not pass. I caught the eye of 
the baroness ; she beckoned me to come to her. I 
joined her without delay. She introduced me to a 
lady who was sitting at her side. This lady had a 
son at the college, and asked me many questions. 
I answered in the most nervous, rapid manner, as 
if her son were my most intimate friend, gave the 
anxious mother a complete detail of ail his orcu- 
pations, and praised the institution up to the scventli 
heaven. I was astonished at the tone of affection 
with which tlie baroness addressed me, at the inte- 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



373 



rest which she took in every thing; which concerned 1 very novel one, and I was astonished at observing 



me. It was ever " Contarini, dear" — " Contarini, 
my love" — " You have been riding to-day. Where 
have you been 1 I have hardly had time to speak 
to you. He only came home to-day. He is look- 
mg vastly well — very well indeed — very much 
grown — O ! amazingly — quite a beau for you, ba- 
roness — ! yes, quite delightful." 

What amiable people, I thought, and what 
would I give to be once more in old Winter's 
cottage ! 

The door opened, the Chevalier de Winter was 
announced. My fellow-traveller entered the room, 
though I could scarcely recognise him in his rich, 
and even fanciful dress, and adorned with his bril- 
liant order. I was struck with iiis fine person, his 
noble carriage, and his highly-polished manner. 
Except my father, I had never seen so true a noble- 
man. The baron went forward to receive him with 
his most courteous air, and most fascinating smile. 
I withdrew as he led him to my mother. I watched 
the baroness as she rose to greet him. I was sur- 
prised at the warmth of her welcome, and the tone 
of consideration with which she received him. 
Some of the guests, who were the highest nobles 
in the country, requested my father to present them 
to him : with others Winter was already acquaint- 
ed, and they seemed honoured by his recognition. 

" This also is a great man," I exclaimed, " but 
of a different order." Old feelings began to boil up 
from the abyss in which I had plunged them. I 
sympathized with this great and triumphant artist. 
In a few days it seemed that the history of genius 
had been acted before me for my instruction, and 
for my encouragement. A combination of cir- 
cumstances had allowed me to trace this man from 
his first hopeless obscurity. I had seen ail — the 
strong predisposition, the stubborn opposition of 
fortune, the first efforts, the first doubts, the par- 
amount conviction, the long struggle, the violated 
ties, the repeated flights, the deep studies, the sharp 
discipline, the great creation, and the glorious 
triumph. 

My father, crossing the room, saw me. " Con- 
tarini," he said, "where have you been all this 
time 1 I have been often looking for you. Come 
with me, and I will introduce you to the Chevalier 
de Winter, one of the first painters in the world, 
and who has just come from Rome. You must go 
and see his pictures ; every one is talking of them. 
Always know ennnent men, and always be master 
of the subject of the day. Chevalier," for we had 
now come up to him, " my son desires your ac- 
quaintance." 

"Ah! fellow-traveller, welcome, welcome — I 
told you we should soon meet again," and he 
pressed my hand with warmth. 

" Sir, I had a prescience that I had been the 
companion of a great man." 

This was pretty well said for a bashful youth, 
but it was really not a compliment. The moment 
I addressed Winter, I resumed unconsciously my 
natural tone, and, reminded by his presence that 
higher accomplishments and qualities existed than 
a mere acquaintance with etiquette, and the viva- 
city which could enliven the passages of ordinary 
conversation, I began to feel a little more at my 
ease. 

Dinner was announced. The table was round. 
I sat between the under secretary and the lady to 
whom I had been introduced. The scene was a 



a magnificent repast, which all seemed to pique 
themselves upon tasting as little as possible. They 
evidently assembled here, then, I thought, for the 
sake of conversation, yet how many are silent, and 
what is said might be omitted. But I was then 
ignorant of the purposes for which human beings 
are brought together. My female companion, who 
was a little wearied by a great general, who, al- 
though a hero and a strategist, was soon beaten and 
bewildered in a campaign of repartee, turned round 
to amuse herself with her other supporter. Her 
terrific child was again introduced. I had drank a 
glass or two of wine, and altogether had, in a great 
degree, recovered my self-possession. I could sup- 
port her tattle no longer. I assured the astonished 
mother that I had never even heard of her son ; 
that, if really at college, he must be in a different 
part of the establishment ; and that I had never 
met him, that I did not even know the name, that 
the college was a very bad college indeed, that no- 
body learned any thing there, that I abhoiTed it, and 
that I hoped I should never return, and then I asked 
her to do me the honour of taking wine. 



XXIII. 

The day after the party, I went with the baroness 
to sec the great pictures of Winter in the Royal 
Academy of Arts. They both of them seemed to 
me magnificent, but one, which was a national 
subject, and depicted the emancipating exploits of 
one of the heroic monarchs, was the most popular. 
I did not feel so much interested with this. I did 
not sympatliize with the gloomy, savage scene, 
the black pine forests, the rough mountains, the 
feudal forms and dresses ; but the other, which was 
of a very different character, afforded me exquisite 
delight. It represented a procession going up to 
sacrifice at a temple in a Grecian isle. The bril- 
liant colouring, the beautiful and beautifully-clad 
forms, the Ionian fane, seated on a soft acclivity 
covered with sunny trees, the classical and lovely 
background, the deep-blue sea, broken by a tall 
white scudding sail, and backed by undulating and 
azure mountains — I stood before it in a trance, a 
crowd of ideas swiftly gathered in my mind. It 
was a poem. 

After this, I called upon Winter, and found him 
in his studio. Many persons were there, and of 
high degree. It was the first time I had ever been 
in the studio of an artist. I was charmed with all 
I saw; the infinite sketches, the rough studies, the 
unfinished pictures, the lay figure, the beautiful 
cast, and here and there some choice relic of anti- 
quity, a torso, a bust, or a gem. I rtmained here 
the whole morningexamininghis Venetian sketches: 
and a day seldom passed over that I did not drop 
in to pay my devotions at this delighttul temple. 

I was indeed so much at home, that if he were 
engaged, I resumed my portfolio without notice, so 
that in time I knew perhaps more about Venice 
than many persons who had passed their whole 
lives there. 

When I had been at home a fortnight, my father 
one day invited me to take a ride with him, and 
began conversing with me on my plans. He said 
that he did not wish me to return to college, but 
that he thought me at least a year too young t«) 
repair to the university, whither, on every account, 
21 



374 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



he desired me to go. "We should consider, then," 
he continued, " how this interval can be turned to 
the greatest advantage. I wish you to mix as 
much as is convenient with society. I apprehend 
that you have, perhaps, hitherto indulged a little 
too much in lonely habits. Young men are apt to 
get a little abstracted, and occasionally to tliink 
that there is something singular in their nature, 
wjien the fact is, if they were better acquainted 
with their fellow-creatures, they would find they 
were mistaken. This is a common error, indeed 
the commonest. I am not at all surprised that you 
have fallen into it. All have. The most practical 
business-like men that exist have many of them, 
when children, conceived themselves totally disqua- 
lified to struggle in the world. You may rest as- 
sured of this. I could mention many remarkable 
instances. All persons, when young, are fond of 
solitude, and when they are beginning to think, are 
sometimes surprised at their own thoughts. There 
is nothing to be deplored, scarcely to be feared, in 
this. It almost always wears oil"; but sometimes 
it happens, that they have not judicious friends by 
them to explain, that the habits whirh they think 
peculiar are universal, and, if unreasonably in- 
dulged, can ultimately only turn them into indolent, 
insignificant members of society, and occasion 
them lasting unhappiness." 

I made no reply, but gave up all idea of writing a 
tale, which was to embrace both Venice and 
Greece, and which I had been for some days me- 
ditating. 

"But to enter society with pleasure, Contarini, 
you must be qualified for it. I think it quite time 
for you to make yourself master of some accom- 
plishments. Decidedly, you should make your- 
self a good dancer. Without dancing, you can 
never attain a perfectly graceful carriage, which is 
of the highest importance in life, and should be 
every man's ambition. You are yet too j'oung 
fully to comprehend how much in life depends 
upon manner. Whenever you see a man who is 
successful in society, try to discover what makes 
him pleasing, and, if possible, adopt his system. 
You should learn to fence. For languages, at 
})resent, French will be suflicicnt. You speak it 
iliirly — try to speak it elegantly. Read French 
authors. Read Rochefoucault. The French wri- 
ters are the finest in the world, for they clear our 
heads of all ridiculous ideas. Study precision. 

'' Do not talk loo much at present — do not iry 
to talk. But, whenever you speak, speak with self- 
possession. Speak in a subdued tone, and always 
look at the person whom you are addressing. 
Before one can engage in general , conversation 
with any effect, there is a certain acquaintance 
with trifling, but amusing subjects, which must be 
first attained. You will soon pick up sufiicient by 
listening and observing. Never argue. In society 
nothing must be discussed — give only results. If 
any person differ with you — bow, and turn the 
conversation. In society, never think — always be 
on the watch, or you will miss many opportunities, 
und say many disagreeable things. 

" Talk to women — talk to women as much as 
you can. This is the best school. This is the 
Avay to gain fluency — because you need not care 
what you say, and had better not be sensible. 
They, too, will rally you on many points, and, as 
Ihey are women, you will not be offended. No- 
lliing is of so much importance, and of so much use, 



to a young man entering life, as to be well crit'- 
cised by women. It is impossible to get rid of 
those bad habits which we pick up in boyhood 
without this supervision. Unfortunately, you have 
no sisters. But never be tffended iif a woman 
rally you. Encourage her. Otherwise, you will 
never be free from your awkwardness, or any little 
oddities, and certainly never learn to dress. 

" You ride pretty well, but you had better go 
through the manege. Every gentleman should be 
a perfect cavalier. You shall have your own 
groom and horses, and I wish you to ride regularly 
every day. 

" As you are to be at home for so short a time, 
and for other reasons, I tliink it better that you 
should not have a tutor in tiie house. Parcel out 
your morning, then, for your separate masters. 
Rise early and regularly, and read for three hours. 
Read the memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz — the 
life of Richelieu — every thing about Napoleon — read 
works of that kind. Strelamb will prepare you a 
list. Read no history — nothing but biography, 
for that is life without theory. Then fence. 
Talk an hour with your French master, but do 
not throw the burden of the conversation upon 
him. Give him an account of something. De- 
scribe to him the events of yesterday, or give him 
a detailed account of the constitution. You will 
have then sufliciently rested yourself for youi danc- 
ing. And, after that, ride and amuse yourself as 
much as you can. Amusement to an observing 
mind is study." 

I pursued the system which my father had 
pointed out with exactness, and soon with plea- 
sure. I sacredly observed my hours of reading, 
and devoted myself to the study of the lives of 
what my father considered really great men — that 
is to say, men of great energies and violent volition, 
who look upon their fellow-creatures as mere tools, 
with which they can build up a pedestal for their 
solitary statue, and who sacrifice every feeling, 
whii'h should sway humanity, and every high work 
which genius should really achieve, to the short- 
sighted gratification of an irrational and outrageous 
selfism. As for my manners, I flattered myself 
that they had advanced in measure with mj mind, 
although I already emulated Napoleon. I soon 
overcame the fear which attended my first experi- 
ments in society, and by scrupulously observing 
the paternal maxims, I soon became very self- 
satisfied. I listened to men witli a delightful mix- 
ture of deference and self-confidence: were they 
old, and did I differ with them, I contented myself 
by positively stating my opinion in a most subdued 
voice, and then either turning the subject or turn- 
ing upon my heel. But as for women, it is asto- 
nishing how well I got on. The nervous rapidity 
of my lirst rattle soon subsided into a continuous 
flow of easy nonsense. Impeitinent and flippant, 
I was universally hailed an original and a wit. 
But the most remarkable incident was, that the 
baroness and myself became the greatest friends. I 
was her constant attendant, and rehearsed to her 
flattered ear all my evening performance. She was 
the person with whom I practised, and as she had 
a taste in dress, I encouraged her opinions. Un 
conscious that she was at once my lay figure and 
my mirror, she loaded me with presents, and an- 
nounced to all her coterie, that I was the most 
delightful young man of her acquaintance. 

From all this, it may easily be suspected that, at 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



375 



the age of fifteen, I had unexpectedly become one 
of the most affected, conceited, and intolerable 
atoms that ever peopled the sunbeam of society. 

A few days before I quitted home for the univer- 
sity, I paid a farewell visit to Winter, who was 
himself on the point of returning to Rome. 

" Well, my dear chevalier," I said, seizing his 
hand, and speaking in a voice of affected interest, 
" I could not think of leaving town without seeing 
you. I am off to-morrow, and you — you, too, are 
going. But what a difference — a Gothic university 
and immortal Rome ! Pity me, my dear chevaUer," 
and I shrugged my shoulders. 

" O ! yes, certainly — I tliink you are to be 
pitied." 

" And how does the great work go on ? Your 
name is everywhere. I assure you. Prince Besbo- 
rodsko was speaking to me last night of nothing 
else. By-the-by, shall you be at the opera to- 
night ]" 

" I do not know." 

" O ! you must go. I am sorry I have not a box 
to offer you. But the baroness's, I am sure, is al- 
ways at your service." 

" You are vastly kind." 

"'Tis the most charming opera. I think his 
master-piece. That divine air — I hum it all day. 
I do indeed. What a genius ! I can bear no one 
else. Decidedly the greatest composer that ever 
existed." 

. " He is certainly very great, and you are, no 
doubt, an excellent judge of his style ; but the air 
you meant to hum is an introduction, and by Pa- 
cini." 

"Is it, inde(.d 1 Ah ! Italy is the land of music. 
We men of the north must not speak of it.'' 

" Why is Italy the land of music 1 Why not 
Germany 1" 

" Perhaps music is more cultivated in Germany 
at present, but do not you think that it is, as it 
were, more indigenous in Italy 1" 

" No." 

As I never argued, I twirled my cane, and asked 
his opinion of a new Casino. 

" Ah ! by-the-by, is it true, chevalier, that you 
have at last agreed to paint the princess-royal] I 
toll you what I recommend you seriously to do — 
most seriously, I assure you — most decidedly it is 
my opinion — most important thing, indeed — should 
not be neglected a day. Certainly, I should not 
think of going to Italy without doing it." 

"Well, well!" 

" Countess Arnfeldt, chevalier. By heavens, she 
is divine ! What a neck, and what a hand ! A 
perfect study." 

" Poh !" 

" Don't you think so, really 1 Well, I see I am 
terribly breaking into your morning. Adieu ! Let 
us hope we may soon meet again. Perhaps at 
Rome — who knows ? Au revoir, au rcvoir." 

I kissed my hand, and tripped out of the room 
in all the charming fulness of a perfectly graceful 
mamier. 



PART THE SECOND. 

I. 

Our schoolboy days are looked back to by all 
with fondness. Oppressed with the cares of life, 



we contrast our worn and harassed existence with 
that sweet prime, free from anxiety, and fragrant 
with innocence. I cannot share these feelings. I 
was a most miserable child, and school I detested 
more than I ever abhorred the world in the darkest 
moments of my experienced manhood. But the 
university — this new life yielded me different feel- 
ings, and still commands a gratefvd reminiscence. 

My father, who studied to foster in me every 
worldly feeling, sought all means which might tend 
to make me ertamoured of that world to which he 
was devoted. An extravagant allowance, a lavish 
establishment, many servants, numerous horses 
were forced upon, rather than solicited by me. Ac- 
cording to his system, he acted dexteiously. My 
youthful brain could not be insensible to the bril- 
liant position in which I was placed. I was now, 
indeed, my own master, and every thing around 
me announced that I could command a career flat- 
tering to the rising passions of my youth. I well 
remember the extreme self-complacency with which 
I surveyed my new apartments, how instanta- 
taneously I was wrapped up in all the mysteries 
of furniture, and how I seemed to have no other 
purpose in life than to i)lay the honoured and 
honourable part of an elegant and ' accomplished 
host. 

My birth, my fortune, my convivial habits, rallied 
around me the noble and the gay, the flower of our 
society. Joyously flew our careless hours, while 
we mimicked the magnificence of men. I had no 
thought but for the present moment. I discoursed 
only of dogs and horses, of fanciful habiliments and 
curious repasts. I astonished them by a new 
fashion, and decided upon the exaggerated charms 
of some ordinary female. How long the novelty 
of my life would have been productive of interest, 
I know not. An uicident occurred which changed 
my habits. 

A new professor arrived in the university. He 
washy birth a German. I attended, by an accident, 
his preliminary lecture on Grecian history. I had 
been hunting, and had suddenly returned home. 
Throwing my gown over my forest frock, I strolled, 
for the sake of change, into the theatre. I nodded, 
with a smile, to some of my acquaintance, I glanced 
with hstlessness at their instructor. His abstracted 
look, the massiness of his scull, his large luminous 
eye, his long gray hair, his earnest and impassioned 
manner, struck me. Ho discoursed on that early 
portion of Grecian history which is entirely un- 
known. I was astonished at the fulness of his 
knowledge. That which to a common student 
appears but an inexplicable or barren tradition, be- 
came, in his magical mould, a record teeming with 
deep knowledge and picturesque interest. Hordes, 
who hitherto were only dimly distinguished wan- 
dering over the deserts of antiquity, now figured as 
great nations, multiplying in beautiful cities, and 
moving in the grand and progressive march of civi- 
lization ; and I listened to animated narratives o± 
their creeds, their customs, their manners, their 
philosophy, and their arts. I was deeply impressed 
with this mystical creation of a critical spirit, I 
was charmed with the blended profundity and im- 
agination. I revelled in the sagacious audacity of 
his revolutionary theories. I yielded to the full 
spell of his archaic eloquence. The curtain was 
removed from the sacred shrine of antique ages, 
and an inspired prophet, ministeruig in the sanctu- 
ary, expounded the mysteries which had perplexed 



576 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



the imperfect intelligence of their remote pos- 
terity. 

'i'he lecture ceased; I was the first who broke 
into plaudits ; I advanced, I oflered to our master 
my congratulations and my homage. Now that 
his office had finished, I found him the meekest, 
the most modest, and nervous being that ever trem- 
bled in society. With difficulty he would receive 
the respectful compliments even of his pupils. He 
l)cwed, and blushed, and disappeared. His reserve 
only the more interested me. I returned to my 
rooms, musing on the high matters of his discourse. 
Upon my table was a letter from one of my com- 
panions, full of ribald jests. I glanced at its un- 
congenial lines, and tossed it away unread. I fell 
into a revery of Arcadian loveliness. A beautiful 
temple rose up in my mind like the temple in the 
picture of Winter. The door opened, a band of 
loose revellers burst into their accustomed gather- 
ing room. I was silent, reserved, cold, moody. 
Their inane observations amazed me. I shrunk 
from their hollow tattle, and the gibberish of their 
foul slang. Their unmeaning, idiotic shouts of 
laughter tortured me. I knew not how to rid my- 
self of their infernal presence. At length one 
offered me a bet. I rushed out of the chamber. 

I did not stop until I reached the room of the 
professor. I found him buried in his books. He 
stared at my entrance. I apologized, I told him 
all I felt, all I vi'anted ; the wretched fife I was 
leading, my deep sympathy "with his character, my 
infinite disgust at my own career, my unbounded 
love of knowledge, and admiration of himself. 

The simplicity of the professor's character was 
not shocked by my frank enthusiasm. Had he 
been a man of the world, he would have been 
alarmed, lest my strong feeling and unusual con- 
duct should have placed us both in a ridiculous 
position. On the contrary, without a moment's 
hesitation, he threw aside his papers, and opened 
his heart to all my wants. My imperfect know- 
ledge of the Greek language was too apparent. 
Nothing could be done until I mastered it. He ex- 
plained to me a novel and philosophical mode of 
acquiring a full acquaintance with it. As we pro- 
ceeded in our conversation, he occasionally indi- 
cated the outlines of his grand system of meta- 
physics. I was fascinated by the gorgeous pros- 
pect of comprcliending the unintelligible. The 
professor was gratified by the etlect that his first 
eflusion had produced. He was interested by the 
ardour of my mind. He was flattered in finding 
an enthusiastic votary in one whose mode of life 
had hitherto promised any thing but study, and 
whose position in society was perhaps an apology, 
if not a reason, for an irrational career. 

I aimounced to my companions that I was going 
to read. They stared, they pitied me. Some 
deemed the avowal affectation, and trusted that in- 
creased frolic would repay them for the abstinence 
of a week of application. Fleming and his books 
was only a fresh instance of his studied eccentricity. 
But they were disappointed. I worked at Greek 
for nearly fourteen hours a-day, and at the end of 
a month I had gained a very ample acquaintance 
with the construction of the language, and a still 
fuller one of its signification. So much can be 
done by an ardent and willing spirit. I had been 
for six or seven years nominally a Greek student, 
and had learned nothing, and how many persons 



waste even six or seven more, and only find them 
selves in the same position ! 

I was amply rewarded for my toilsome effort. I 
felt the ennobling pride of learning. It is a fine 
thing to know that which is unknown to others, it 
is still more dignified to remember that we have 
gained it by our own energies. The struggle after 
knowledge too is full of delight. The intellectual 
chase, not less than the material one, brings fresh 
vigour to our pulses, and infinite palpitations ot 
strange and sweet suspense. The idea that is 
gained with effort affords far greater satisfaction 
than that which is acquired with dangerous facility. 
We dwell with more fondness on the perfume of 
tlie flower that we have ourselves tended, than on 
the odour which we cull with carelessness, and 
cast away without remorse. The strength and 
sweetness of our knowledge depend upon the im- 
pression which it makes upon our own minds. It 
is the liveliness of the ideas that it affords, which 
renders research so fascinating, so that a trifling 
fact or deduction, when discovered or worked out 
by our own brain, aflbrds us infinitely greater 
pleasure than a more important truth obtained by 
the exertions of another. 

I thought only of my books ; I was happy, I 
was quite emancipated from my painful seltisra. 
My days passed in unremitting study. My love of 
composition unconsciously developed itself. My 
note-books speedily filled, and my annotations soon 
swelled into treatises. Insensibly I had become an 
author. I wrote with facility, for 1 was master of 
my subject. I was fascinated with the expanding 
of my own mind. I resolved to become a great 
historical writer. Without intention, I fixed upon 
subjects in which imagination might assist era- 
dition. I formed gigairtic schemes which many 
lives could not have accomplished : yet I was san- 
guine I should achieve all. I mused over an ori- 
ginal style which was to blend profound philosophy, 
and deep learning, and brilliant eloquence. The 
nature of man, and the origin of nations, were to 
be expounded in glowing sentences of oracular 
majesty. 

Suddenly the university announced a gold medal 
for the writer of the ablest treatise upon the Dorian 
people. The subject delighted me. Similar ones 
had already engaged my notice. I determined to 
be a candidate. 

I shut myself up from all liuman beings ; I col- 
lected all the variety of information that I could 
glean from the most ancient authors, and the 
rarest modern treatises. I moulded the crude mat- 
ter into luminous order. A theory sprang out of 
the confused mass like light out of chaos. The 
moment of composition commenced. I wrote the 
fir.st sentence while in chapel, and under the influ- 
ence of music. It soxmded.like the organ that in- 
spired it. The whole was composed in my head 
before I comm.itted it to paper, — composed in my 
daily rides, and while pacing my chamber at mid- 
night. The action of my body seemed to lend vi- 
tality to my mind. 

Never shall I forget the moment when I finished 
the last sentence of my fair copy, and, sealing it, 
consigned it with a motto to the princi))al. It was 
finished, and at the very instant, my mind seemed 
exhausted, my power vanished. The excitement 
had cea.sed. I dashed into the forest, and throwing 
myself under a tree, passed the first of many day< 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



377 



that flew away in perfect indolence, and vagne and 
unmeaning revery. 

In spite of my great plans, which demanded the 
devotion of a life, and were to command the ad- 
miration of a grateful and enlightened world, I 
was so anxious about the fate of my prize essay, 
that all my occupations suddenly ceased. I could 
do nothing. I could only think of sentences which 
might have been more musical, and deductions 
which might have lieen more logically true. Now 
that it was finished, I felt its imperfectness. Week 
after week I grew more desponding, and the very 
morning of the decision I had entirely discarded all 
hope. 

It was announced : the medal was awarded, — 
and to me. Amid the plaudits of a crowded thea- 
tre, I recited my triumphant essay. Full of vic- 
tory, my confident voice lent additional euphony 
to the flowing sentence, and my bright, firm eye 
added to the acuteness of my reasoning, and en- 
forced the justice of my theory. I was entirely 
satisfied. No passage seemed weak. Noble, wealthy, 
the son of the minister, congratulations came thick 
upon me. Th6 seniors complimented .each other 
on such an example to the students. I was the 
idol of the university. The essay was printed, 
lavishly praised in all the journals, and its author, 
full of youth and promise, anticipated as the future 
ornament of his country. I returned to my father 
in a blaze of glory. 



ir. 



I ADDRESSED him witli the confidence that I was 
now a man, and a distinguished one. My awe 
of his character had greatly worn off. I was most 
cordial to the baroness, but a slight strain of con- 
descension was infused into my courtesy. I had 
long ceased to view her with dislike : on the con- 
trary, I had even become her protege. That was 
now over. We were not less warm, but I was 
now the protector, and if there was a slight indica- 
tion of pique, or a chance ebullition of temper, in- 
stead of their calling forth any simultaneous senti- 
ments on my side, I only bowed with deference to 
her charms, or mildly smiled on the engaging 
weaknesses of the inferior sex. I was not less self- 
conceited or less affected than before, but my self- 
conceit and my affectation were of a nobler nature. 
I did not consider myself a less finished member of 
society, but I was also equally proud of being the 
historiographer of the Dorians. I was never gloomy. 
I was never in repose. Self-satisfaction sparkled 
on my countenance, and my carriage was agitated 
with the earnestness and the excitement with which 
I busied myself with the trivial and the trite. My 
father smiled, half with delight and half with hu- 
mour, upon my growing consciousness of impor- 
tance, and introduced me to his friends with in- 
creased satisfaction. He even listened to me while, 
one day after dinner, I disserted upon the Pelasgi, 
but when he found that I believed in innate ideas, 
he thought my self-delusion began to grow serious. 

As he was one of those men who believe that di- 
rectly to oppose a person in his opinions is a certain 
mode of confirming him in his error, he attacked 
me by a masked battery. Affecting no want of in- 
terest in my pursuits, he said to me one day, in a 
very careless tone, " Contarini, I am no great friend 
to reading, but as you have a taste that way, if I 
48 



were you, during the vacation, I would turn over 
Voltaire." 

Now I had never read any thing of Voltaire's. 
The truth is, I had no very great opinion of the 
philosopher of Ferney, for my friend the professor 
assured me that Voltaire knew nothing of the Do- 
rians, that his Hebrew also was invariably incorrect, 
and that he was altogether a very superficial per- 
son, — but I chanced to follow my father's counsel. 

I stood before the hundred volumes ; I glanced 
with indifierence upon the wondrous and witching 
shelf. History, poetry, philosophy, the lucid nar- 
rative, and the wild invention, and.the unimpas- 
sioned truth — they were all before me, and with 
my ancient weakness for romance I drew out Zadig. 
Never shall I forget the ellect this work produced 
on me. What I had lieen long seeking offered 
itself This strange mixture of brilliant fantasy 
and poignant truth, this unrivalled blending of ideal 
creation and worldly wisdom — it all seemed to 
speak to my two natures. I wandered a ])oet in 
the streets of Babylon, or on the banks of the Tigris. 
A philosopher and a statesman, I moralized over 
the condition of man and the nature of government. 
The style enchanted me. I delivered myself up to 
the full abandonment of its wild and brilliant p;race. 

I devoured them all, volume after volume. 
Morning, and night, and noon, a volume was ever 
my companion. I ran to it after my meals, it re- 
posed under my pillow. As I read, T roared, I 
laughed, I shouted with wonder and admiration, I 
trembled with indignation at the fortunes of my 
race, my bitter smile sympathized with searching 
ridicule and withering mockery. 

Pedants, and priests, and tyrants, the folios of 
dunces, the fires of in(iuisitors, and the dungeons 
of kings, and the long, dull system of imy)0sture and 
mi.srule, that had sat like a gloating incubus on the 
fair neck of nature, and all our ignorance, and all 
our weakness, and all our folly, and all our infinite 
imperfection — I looked round — I thou2;ht of the dis- 
sertation of the Dorians, and I considered myself 
the most contemptible of my wretched species. 

I returned to the university: I rallied round me 
my old companions, whom I had discarded in a fit 
of disgusting pedantry. But not now merely to 
hold hiffh revels. The goblet indeed still encircled, 
Init a bust of the author of " Candide" over the 
head of the president, warned us, with a smile of 
prophetic derision, not to debase ourselves, and if 
we drank deep, our potations were perhaps neces- 
sary to refresh the inexperienced eflorts of such no- 
vices in philosophy. Yet we made way : even the 
least literary read the romances, or parts of the 
Philosophical Dictionary : the emancipation of our 
minds was rapidly efiecting, we entirely disembar- 
rassed ourselves of prejudice, we tried every thing 
by the test of first principles, and finally we resolved 
ourselves into a Secret Union for the Amelioration 
of Society. 

Of this institution I had the honour of being 
elected president by acclamation. My rooms were 
the point of meeting. The members were in num- 
ber twelve, chiefly my equals in rank and fortune. 
One or two of them were youths of talents, and not 
wholly untincturcd by letters ; the rest were ardent, 
delighted with the novelty of what they did and 
heard, and, adopting our thoughts, arrived at con 
elusions the truth of which they did not doubt 

My great reputation at the university Ion": pre 
vented these meetings from being viewed with sua 
2 I 2 



378 



D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. 



jDicion, and when the revolutionary nature of our 
opinions occasionally developed itself in a disregard 
for the authorities by some of our society, who per- 
haps considered such license as the most delightful 
portion of the new philosophy, mj' interest often 
tucceeded in stifling a public explosion. In course 
of time, however, the altered tenor of my own con- 
duct could no longer be concealed. IVIy ah.sence 
from lectures had long been overlooked, from the 
conviction that the time thus gained was devoted to 
the profundity of private study ; but the systematic 
assembly at my rooms of those who were most emi- 
nent for their disregard of discipline, and their ne- 
plcct of study, could no longer be treated with inat- 
tention, and after several intimations from inferior 
officer's, I was summoned to the presence of the 
High Principal. 

This great personage was a clear-headed, cold- 
minded, unmanageable individual. I could not 
cloud his intellect, or control his purpose. My 
ever-successful sophistry, and my ever-fluent speech 
failed. At the end of every appeal, he recurred to 
his determination to maintain the discipline of the 
university, and repeated with firmness that this was 
the last time our violation of it should be privately 
noticed. I returned to my rooms in a dark rage. 
My natural impatience of control and hatred of re- 
eponsibility, which had been kept olfof late years 
by the fondness of society, which developed itself 
with my growing passions, came hack upon me. I 
cursed authority, I paced my room like Cataline. 

At this moment my accustomed companions as- 
sembled. They were ignorant of what had passed, 
but they seemed to me to look like conspirators. 
Moody and ferocious, I headed the table, and filling 
a bumper, I drank confusion to all government. 
They were surprised at such a novel commence- 
ment, for, in general, we only arrived at this great 
result by the growing and triumphant truths of a 
long evening, but they received my proposition, as 
indeed they ever did, with a shout. 

The wine warmed me. I told them all. I even 
exaggerated in my rage the annoying intelligence. 
I described our pleasant meetings about to cease for 
ever. I denounced the iniquitous system which 
would tear us from the pursuit of real knowledge 
and ennobling truths — knowledge that illuminated, 
and truths that should support the destinies of ex- 
isting man — to the deplorable and disgusting study 
of a small collection of imperfect volumes, written 
by Greeks, and preserved by Goths. It was bitter 
to think that we must part. Surely society, cruel 
society, would too soon sever the sweet and agree- 
able ties that bound our youth. Why should we 
be parted ever 1 Why, in pursuance of an unna- 
tural system, abhorred by all of us — why were we 
to he dispersed and sent forth to delude the world in 
monstrous disguises of priests, and soldiers, and 
statesmen '? Out upon such hypocrisy ! A curse 
light upon the craven knave who would not strug- 
gle for his salvation from such a monotonous and 
degrading doom. The world was before us. Let 
us seize it in our prime. Let us hasten away — let 
us form a society in some inviolate solitude founded 
upon the eternal i>rincii)les of truth and justice. 
Let us fly from the feudal system. Nobles and 
wealthy, let us cast our titles to the winds, and our 
dross to the earth which produced it. Let us pride 
ourselves only on the gifts of nature, and exist only 
Oil her beneficence. 



I ceased, and three loud rounds of cheering an- 
nounced to the High Principal and all his slaves thjxt 
we had not yet yielded. 

We drank deep. . A proposition came forth with 
the wine of every glass. We all talked of America. 
Already we viewed ourselves in a primeval forest, 
existing by the chase, to which many of us were 
devoted. The very necessary toil of life .seemed, 
in such an existence, to consist of what, in this 
worn-out world, was considered the choicest pa.s 
time and the highest pleasure. Arid the rich cli 
mate, and the simple manners, and the intelligible 
laws, and the fair aborigines, who must be attracted 
by such interesting strangers — all hearts responded 
to the glowing vision. I alone was grave and 
thoughtful. The remembrance of Master Frederick 
and tlie Venetian expedition, although now looked 
back to as .a childish scrape, rendered me neverthe- 
less the most practical of the party. I saw imme- 
diately the invincible difficulty of our reaching with 
success such a distant land. I lamented the glo- 
rious times when the forests of our own northern 
land could afford an asylum to the brave and free. 

The young Count de Pahlen Vv'as a great hunter. 
Wild in his life, and daring in his temper, he pos- 
sessed, at the same time, a lively and not unculti- 
vated intellect. He had a great taste for poetry, 
and, among other accomplishments, was an excel- 
lent actor. He rose up as I spoke, like a volcano 
out of the sea. " I have it, Fleming, I have it !" he 
shouted, with a dancing eye and exulting voice. 
" You know the great f irest of Jonsterna. Of'en 
have I hunted in it. The forest near us is but, as 
it were, a huge root of that vast woodland. Nearly 
in its centre is an ancient and crumbling castle, 
which, like all old ruins, is of course haunted. No 
peasant dare approach it. At its very mention the 
face of the forest-farmer will grow grave and serious. 
Let us fly to it. Let us become the scaring ghosts 
whom all avoid. We shall be from man — we shall 
live only for ourselves — we — " but his proposition 
was drowned in our excited cheers, and rising to- 
gether, we all pledged a sacred vow to stand or fall 
by each other in this great struggle for freedom and 
for nature. 

The night passed in canvassing plans to render 
this mighty scheme practicable. The first point 
was to baffle all inquiries after our place of refuge, 
and to throw all pursuers oft' the scent. Wc agreed 
that on a certain day, in small and separate parties, 
we should take our way by different routes to the 
old castle, which we calculated was about sixty 
miles distant. Each man was to bear with him a 
rifle, a sword, and pistols, a travelling cloak, his 
knapsack, and as much ammunition as he could him- 
self carry. Our usual hunting dress aftbrded an 
excellent uniform, and those who were without it 
were immediately to supply themselves. We were 
to quit the university without notice, and each of 
us on the same day was to write to his friends, to 
notify his sudden departure on a pedestrian tour in 
Norway. Thus we calculated to gain time, and 
effectually to bafile pursuit. 

In .spite of our lavish allowances, as it ever hap- 
pens among young men, money was wanted. All 
that we jjossessed was instantly voted a common 
stock, but several men required rifles, and the funds 
were deficient. I called for a crucible : I opened a 
cabinet: I drew out my famous gold medal. I 
gazed at it for a moment, and the classic chee» 



CONTARINl FLEMING. 



379 



amid which it had been awarded seemed to rise upon 
luy ear. I dashed away the recollection, and in a 
few minutes the splendid reward of my profound 
researches was melting over the fire, and affording 
tlie means of our full equipment. 



III. 



It was the fjurth morning of our journey. My 
companion was Ulric de Braho. He was my only 
junior among the band, delicate of frame and af- 
fectionate in disposition, though hasty if excited, 
but my enthusiastic admirer. Jle was my great 
friend, and I was almost as intent to sujjport him 
under the great fatigue, as about the success of our 
enterprise. I had bought a donkey in our progress 
of a larmer, and loaded it with a couple of kegs of 
tile brandy of the country. We had travelled the 
last two days entirely in the forest, j)assing many 
farmhouses, and several villages, and as we be- 
lieved, were now near our point of rendezvous. I 
kicked on the donkey before me, and smiled on 
Ulric. I would have carried his rifle, as well as my 
own, but his ardent temper and devoted love main- 
tained him, and when I expressed any anxiety 
about his toil, he only laughed, and redoubled his 
pace. 

We were pushing along an old turf road cut 
through the thick woods, when suddenly, at the 
end of a side vista, I beheld the tower of a castle. 
'■ Jonsterna!" I shouted, and I ran forward without 
the donkey. It was more distant than it appeared, 
but at length we came to a large piece of clear land, 
and at the other side of it we beheld the long- 
dreamt-of building. It was a vast structure, rather 
dilapidated than ruined. With delight I observed 
a human being moving upon the keep, whom I 
recognised by his uniform to be one of us, and as 
we approached nearer we distinguished two or three 
of our comates stretched upon tlxe turf. They all 
jumped up and ran forward to welcome us. How 
heartily we shook hands, and congratulated each 
other on our reunion ! More than half were 
already assembled. All had contrived, besides their 
own equipments, to bring something for the com- 
mon stock. There was jilenty of bread, and brandy, 
and game. Some were already out collecting wood. 
Before noon the rest arrived, except Pahlen and 
his comrade. And they came at last, and we re- 
ceived them with a cheer, for the provident vice- 
president, like an ancient warrior, was seated in a 
cart. " Do not suppose that I am done up, my 
boys," said the gay dog, " I have brought gun- 
powder." 

When we had all assembled we rushed into the 
castle, and, in the true spirit of boyhood, examined 
every thing. There was a large knights'-hall, 
covered with tapestry, and tattered banners. This 
was settled to be our chief apartment. We even 
found a huge oak table, and some other rude and 
ancient furniture. We appointed committees of 
examination. Some surveyed the cellars and dun- 
geons, some the out-buildings. We were not 
afraid of ghosts, but marvellously fearful that we 
might have been anticipated by some human beings, 
as wild and less philosophical than ourselves. It 
was a perfect solitude. We cleared and cleaned 
uut the hall, lighted an immense fire, arranged our 
stores, appointed their keeper, made beds with our 
cloaks, piled our arms, and cooked our dinner. An 
hour alter sunset our first meal was prepared, and 



the Secret Union for the Amelioration of Society 
resumed their sittings almost in a savage state, 

I shall never forget the scene, and the proud 
exultation with which I beheld it. The vast and 
antique hall, the mystic tapestry, moving and moan- 
ing with every gust of the windy night — the deep 
shades of the distant corners, the flickering light 
tlung by the lilazing hearth, and the huge pine 
torches, the shining arms, the rude but plenteous 
banquet, the picturesque revellers, and I iheir pre- 
sident, with my sword pressing on a frame ready 
to dare all things. "This, this is existence," I ex- 
claimed. " ! let us live by our own right arms, and 
let no law be stronger than qur swords!" 

I was even surprised by the savage yell of exulta- 
tion with which my almost unconscious cxclamatiou 
was received. But we were like young tigers, who, 
for a moment tamed, had for the first time tasted 
blood, and rushed back to their own natures. A 
band of philosophers, we had insensibly placed our- 
selves in the most antiphilosophical position. Fly- 
ing from the feudal system, we had, unawares, taken 
refuge in its favourite haunt. All our artificial 
theories of universal benevolence vanished. We 
determined to be what fortune had suddenly made 
us. We discarded the abstract truths which had in 
no age of the world ever been practised, and were, 
of course, therefore impracticable. We smiled at 
our ignorance of human nature and ourselves. The 
Secret Union for the Amelioration of Society sud- 
denly turned into a corps of bandits, and their phi- 
losophical president was voted their captain. 



IV. 



It was midnight. They threw themselves upon 
their rough couches, that they might wake fresh 
with the morning. Fatigue and brandy in a few 
minutes made them deep slumbcrers, but I could not 
sleep. I flung a log upon the fire, and paced the 
hall in deep communion with my own thoughts. 
The rubicon was passed. Farewell my father, 
farewell my step-country, farewell literary inven- 
tion, maudlin substitute for a poetic life, farewell 
effeminate arts of morbid civilization ! From this 
moment I ceased to be a boy. I was surrounded 
by human beings, bold and trusty, who looked only 
to my command, and I was to direct them to 
danger, and guide them through peril. No child's 
game was this, no ideal play. W^e were at war, 
and at war with mankind. 

I formed my plans, I organized the whole system. 
Action must be founded on knowledge. I would 
have no crude abortive eflorts. Our colossal thoughts 
should not degenerate into a frolic. Before we com- 
menced our career of violence, I was determined 
that I would have a thorough acquaintance with 
the country. Every castle and every farmhouse 
should be catalogued. I longed for a map, that I 
might muse over it like a general. I looked upon 
our good arms with complacency. I rejoiced that 
most of us were cunning of fence. I determined 
that they should daily exercise with the broadsword, 
and that each should become a dead shot with his 
rifle. In the perfection of our warlike accomplish- 
ments, I sought a substitute for the weakness of our 
numbers. 

The morning at length broke. I was not the 
least fatigued. I longed to commence my arrange- 
ments. It grew very cold. I slept for an hour. I 
was the first awake. I determined in future to have 



380 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



a constant guarJ. I rousetl Palilcn. He looked 
fierce in his sleep. 1 rejoiced in his determined 
visage. I appointed him my lieutenant. I im- 
pressed upon him how much I depended upon his 
energy. We ligiited an immense lire, arranged 
the chamber, and prepared their meal before any 
woke. I was determined that their resolution 
should be su]iported by the comfort which they 
found around tliem. I felt that cold and hunger 
are great sources of cowardice. 

They arose in high spirits. Every thing seemed 
delightful. The morn ajipeared only a continua- 
tion of the enjoyment of the evening. When they 
were emboldened by a good meal, I developed to 
them my plans. I ordered Ulric de Brahe to be 
first on guard, a duty from which no one was to be 
exempt but Pahien and myself. The post was the 
tower, which had given me the fa-st earnest of their 
fealty in assembling. No one could now approach 
the castle without being perceived, and we took 
measures that the guard should be perfectly con- 
cealed. Parties were then ordered out in diHerent 
directions, who were all to bring their report iiy the 
evening banquet. Pahien alone was to repair to a 
more distant town, and to be absent four days. He 
took his cart, and we contrived to dress him as like 
a peasant as our wardrobe would permit. His 
purpose was to obtain different costumes, which 
were necessary for our enterprise. I remained with 
two of my men, and worked at the interior arrange- 
ments of our dwelling. 

Thus passed a week, and each day the courage 
of my band became more inflamed. They panted 
for action. We were in want of meal. I determined 
to attack a farmer's grange on the ensuing eve, and 
I resolved to head the enterprise myself. I took 
with me Uliic and three others. We arrived an 
hour before sunset at the devoted settlement. It 
had been already well reconnoitred. Robberies in 
this country were unknown. We had to encounter 
no precautions. We [lassed the door of the gra- 
nary, rifled it, stored our cart, and escaped without 
a dog barking. We returned two hours before 
midnight, and the excitement of this evening I 
never shall forget. All were bursting with mad 
enthusiasm. I alone looked grave, as if every 
thing depended upon my mind. It was astonishing 
the influence, that this assumption of seriousness, 
in the midst of their wild mirth, already produced 
upon my companions. I was indeed their chief 
They placed in me unbounded confidence, and 
almost viewed me as a being of another order. 

I sent off Pahien the next day in the disguise of 
a pedlar to a neighbouring village. The robbery 
was the topic of universal conversation. Every- 
body was astounded, and no one was suspected. I 
determined, however, not to hazard in a hurry 
another enterprise in the neighbourhood. We 
wanted nothing except wine. Our guns each day 
procured us meat, and the farmer's meal was a 
plentiful source of bread. Necessity developes 
much talent. Already one of our party was pro- 
nounced an excellent cook; and the last fellow in 
the world we should ever have suspected, put an 
old oven into perfect order, and turned out a most 
ingenious mechanic. 

It w;is necessary to make a ^diversion in a distant 
part of the forest. I sent out my lieutenant with a 
strong party. They succeeded in driving home 
from a very rich farm four fine cows in milk. Tnis 
was a great addition to our luxuries, and Pahien, 



remaining behind, paid in disguise an observatory 
visit to another village in the vicinity, and brought 
us home the gratifying intelligence, that it was settled 
that the robbers were a party from a town far away 
on the other side of the forest. 

These causes of petty plundering prepared my 
band for the deeper deeds which I always contem- 
plated. Parties were now out for days together. 
We began to be familiar with every square mile of 
country. Through this vast forest-land, but much 
removed from the castle, ran a high road on which 
there was great tratTic. One evening, as Ulric and 
myself were prowling in this neighbourhood, we 
perceived a band of horsemen approaching. They 
were cloth-merchants, returning from a great fair, 
eight in number, but only one or two armed, and 
merely with pistols. A cloth-merchant's pistol, 
that had been probably loaded for years, and was 
borne, in all likelihood, by a man who would trem- 
ble at its own fire, did not appear a very formida 
ble weapon. The idea occurred to both of us si- 
nudtaneously. We put on our masks, and one of 
us ran out of each side of the road, and seized the 
bridle of the foremost horseman. I never saw a 
man so astonished in my life. He was, perhaps, 
even more astonished than afraid. But we gave 
them no time. I can scarcely describe the scene. 
There was dismounting, and the opening of the 
saddle-bags, and the clinking of coin. I remember 
wishing them good-night in the civilest tone possi- 
ble, and then we were alone. 

I stared at Ulric, Ulric utared at me, and then 
we burst into a loud laugh, and danced about the 
road. I quite lost my presence of mind, and re- 
joiced that no one but my favourite friend was 
present to witness my unheroic conduct. We had 
a couple of forest ponies, that we had driven home 
one day from a friendly farmer, tied up in an ad- 
joining wood. We ran to them, jumped on, and 
scampered away without stopping for five or six 
hours, at least I think so, for it was an hour after 
sunset before the robbery was committed, and it 
was the last ho"r of the moon before we reached 
our haunt. 

" The ca]itaui is come, the captain is come," was 
a sound that always summoned my band ; fresh 
faggots were thrown on the fire, beakers of wine 
and brandy placed on the tables. I called for 
Pahien and my pipe, flung myself on my seat, and 
dashing the purses upon the board, " Here," I said, 
" my boys, here is our first gold." 



This affair of the cloth-merchants made us quite 
mad. Four parties were stopped in as many (lays. 
For any of our companions to return without 
booty, or what was much more prized, without an 
adventure, was considered flat treason. Our whole 
band was now seldom assembled. The travellers 
to the fair were a never-failing source of prolit. 

Each day we meditated bolder exploits, and un- 
derstanding that a wedding was about to take 
[)lacc at a neig'ibouring castle, I resolved to sur- 
prise the revellers in their glory, and capture the 
bride. 

One evening, as seated in an obscure comer of 
the hall, I w-as maturing my plans for this great 
achievement, and most of my companions were 
assembled at their meal, Pahien unexpectedly re- 
turned. He was evidently much fatigued. He 



CONTARIxNI FLEMING. 



381 



panted for breath, he was covered with sweat and 
dirt, his dress was torn and soiled, he reached the 
table with staggering steps, and seizing a mighty 
dask of Rhenish, emptied it at a draught. 

"Where is the captain!" he anxiously in- 
quired. 

I advanced. He seized me by the arm, and led 
me out of the chamber. 

"A strong party of police and military have en- 
tered the forest. They have taken up their quar- 
ters at a town not ten miles olf. Their orders to 
discover our band are peremptory. Every spot is 
to be searched, and the castle will be the first. Not 
daring to return by our usual route, I have fought 
my way through the uncut woods. You must 
decide to-night. What will you do V 

" Their strength 1" 

" A company of infantry, a party of rangers, 
and a sufficiently stout body of police. Resistance 
is impossible." 

" It seems so." 

" And escape, unless we fly at once. To-mor- 
row wc shall be surromided." 

" The devil !" 

" I wish to heaven we were once more in your 
rooms, Fleming !" 

" Why, it would be as well ! But, for Heaven's 
sake, be calm. If we quaver, what will the rest 
do ? Let us summon our energies. Is conceal- 
ment impossible ] The dungeons ?" 

" Every hole will most assuredly be searched." 

"An ambush might destroy them. We must 
fight if they run us to bay." 

" Poh !" 

" Blow up the castle, then !" 

" And ourselves 1 

"Well?" 

" Heavens ! what a madman you are ! It was 
all you, Fleming, that got us in this infernal scrape. 
Why the devil should we become robbers, whom 
society has evidently intended to be robbed 1" 

"You are poignant, Pahlen. Come, let us to 
our friends." I took him by the ai'm, and we en- 
tered the hall together. 

" Gentlemen," I said, " my lieutenant brings im- 
portant intelligence. A strong party of military 
and. police have entered the forest to discover and 
secure us. They are twenty to one, and therefore 
too strong for open combat; the castle cannot 
stand an hour's siege, and ambush, although it 
might prove successful, and gain us time, will 
eventually only render our escape more difficult, 
and our stay here impossible. I propose, therefore, 
that we should disperse for a few days, and before 
our departure, take heed that no traces of recent 
residence are left in this building. If we succeed 
in baffiing their researches, we can again assemble 
here, or, which I conceive will be more prudent 
and more practicable, meet once more only to ar- 
range our plans for our departure to another and a 
more distant country. We have ample funds, we 
can purchase a ship. Mingling with the crew as 
amateurs, we shall soon gain sufficient science. A 
new career is before us. The Baltic leads to the 
Mediterranean. Think of its blue waters, and 
beaming skies, its archipelagoes, and picturesque 
inhabitants. We have been bandits in a northern 
forest, let us now become pirates on a southern sea !" 

No sympathetic cheer followed this eloquent ap- 
peal. There was a deep, dull, dead, dismal silence. 
' watched them narrowly. All looked with fixed 



eyes upon the table. I stood with folded arms. 
The foot of Pahlen nervously patting against the 
ground was the only sound. At length, one by 
one, each dared to gaze upon another, and tried to 
read his fellow's thoughts. They could, without 
difficulty, detect the lurking, but terrible alarm. 

" Well, gentlemen," I said, " time presses, I still 
trust I am your captain 1" 

" ! Flemnig, Fleming," exclaimed the cook, 
with a broken voice and most piteous aspect, and 
dropping my title, which hitherto had been scrupu- 
lously observed, " How can you go on so ! It is 
quite dreadful !" 

There was an assenting murmur. 

" I am sure," continued the artiste, whom I 
always knew was the greatest coward of the set, " I 
am sure I never thought it would come to this, 
I thought it was only a frohc. I have got led on, 
I am sure I do not know how. But you have such 
a way ! W^hat will our fathers think ] Robbers ! 
How horrible ! And then suppose we are shot! 
0, Lord I what will our mothers say ! And after 
all we are only a parcel of boys, and did it out of 
fun. 0! what shall I do?" 

The grave looks with which this comic ebullition 
was received, proved that the sentiments, however 
unilignificd in their delivery, were congenial to the 
band. The orator was emboldened by not being 
laughed at for the first time in his life, and pro- 
ceeded — 

" I am sure I think we had better give ourselves 
up, and then our families might get us through. 
We can tell the truth. We can say we only did it 
for fun, and can give up the money, and as much 
more as they like. I do not thmk they would 
hang us. Do you 1 Oh !" 

"The- devil take the hindmost," said the young 
Count Bornhoim, rising, " I am olT. It will go 
hard if they arrest me, because I am out sporting 
with my gun, and if they do, I will give them 
my name, and then I should like to see them 
stop me." 

'■ That will be best," all eagerly exclaimed, and 
rose. " Let us all disperse, each alone with hia 
gun." 

" Let us put out the fire," said the cook ; " they 
may see the light." 

" What, without windows?" said Bornhoim. 

" O ! these police see every thing. What shall 
I do with the kettles ? We shall all get detected. 
To tliink it should come to this ! Shot ! perhaps 
hmig! Oh!" 

" Throw every thing down the well," said Pah- 
len, " money and all." 

Now I knew it was over. I had waited to hear 
Pahlen's voice, and I now saw it was all up. I 
was not sorry. I felt the inextricable difficulties in 
which we were involved, and what annoyed me 
most was, that I had hitherto seen no mode of 
closing my part with dignity. 

" Gentlemen," I said, " as long as you are still 
within these walls, I am still your captain. You 
desert me, but I will not disgrace you. Fly then, 
fly to your schools and homes, to your affectionate 
parents and your dutiful tutors. I should have 
known with whom I leagued myself. I at least 
am not a boy, and although now a leader witnout 
followers, I will still, for the honour of my race, and 
of the world in which we breathe, I will still believe 
that I may find trustier bosoms, and pursue a more 
eminent career." 



382 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



nric de Crahe rushcil forward and placed him- 
Belf by my side, — " Fleming," he said, " I will 
never desert you !" 

I pressed his hand with the warmth it deserved, 
but the feeling of solitude had come over me. I 
•wished to be alone. " No, Ulric," I replied, " we 
must part. I will lie no one to my broken fortunes. 
And my friends all, lot us not part in bitterness. 
Excuse me if, in a moment of irritation, I said 
aught that was unkind to those I love, depreciating 
to those whose conduct I have ever had cause to 
admire. Some splendid hours wc have passed to- 
gether, some brief moments of gay revel, and glo- 
rious daring, and sublime peril. We must part. I 
will believe that our destiny, and not our will, se- 
parates us. My good sword," I exclaimed, and I 
drew it from my scabbard, " in future you shall 
belong to the bravest of the brave," and kissing it 
I presented it to Pahlen. " And now one brim- 
ming cup to the past. Pledge me all, and, in spite 
of every danger, with a merry face." 

Each man quaffed the goblet till it was dry, and 
performed the supernaculum, and then I walked 
to a distant part of tire hall, whispering, as I passed 
Pahlen, " See that every thing necessai-y is done." 

The castle well was the general receptacle for all 
our goods and plunder. In a few minutes the old hall 
presented almost the same appearance as on our ar- 
rival. The fire was extinguished. Every thing dis- 
appeared. By the light of a solitary torch, each 
man took liis rifle, and his knapsack, and his cloak, 
and then we were about to disperse. I shook hands 
with each. Ulric de Brahe lingered behind, and 
once more whispered his catnest desire to accom- 
pany me. But I forbade him, and he quitted me 
rather irritated. 

I was alone. In a few minutes, when I believed 
that all had gone forth, I came out. Ere I departed, 
I stopped before the old castle, and gazed upon it 
in the gi-ay moonlight. The mighty pines rose tall 
and black into the dark blue air. AH was silent. 
The beauty and the stillness blended with my tu- 
multuous emotions, and in a moment I dashed into 
poetry. Forgetting the imminent danger in which 
my presence in this spot, even my voice, might 
involve me, I poured forth my passionate farewell 
to the wild scene of my wilder life. I found a fierce 
solace in this expression of my heart. I discovered 
a substitute for the excitement of action in the ex- 
citement of thought. Deprived of my castle and 
my followers, I lied to my ideal world for refuge. 
There I foiuid them — a forest far wilder and more 
extensive, a castle far more picturesque and awful, 
a band inlinitely more courageous and more true. 
My imagination supported me under my whelm- 
ing mortification. Crowds of characters, and inci- 
dents, and passionate scenes, clustered to my brain. 
Again I acted, again I gave the prompt decision, 
again I supplied the never-failing expedient, again 
we revelled, fought, and plundered'. 

It was midnight, when wrapping himself in his 
cloak, and making a bed of fern, the late Lord of 
Jonsterna betook himself to his solitary slumber 
b(>nrath the wide canopy of heaven. 

VI. 

I Hosr, with the sun, and the first thought that 
occurred to me was to write a tragedy. The castle 
in lh(! forest, the Protean Pahlen, the tender-hearted 
Ulric, the craven cook, who was to be the traitor to 



betray the all-interesting and marvellous hero, 
myself — here was material. What soliloquies, 
what action, what variety of character ! I threw 
away my cloak, it wearied me, and walked on, 
waving my arm, and spouting a scene, I longed fir 
tlie moment that I could deliver to an imperishable 
scroll these vivid creations of my fancy. I deter- 
mined to make my way to the nearest town, and 
record these strong conceptions, ere the fire of my 
feelings died away. I was suddenly challenged by 
the advanced guard of a party of soldiers. They 
had orders to stop all travellers, and bring them to 
their commanding ofliicer. I accordingly repaired 
to their chief 

I had no fear as to the result. I should affect to 
be a travelling student, and in case of any difficulty, 
I had determined to confide to the officer my name. 
B«t this was unnecessary. I went through my ex- 
amination with such a confident air that nothing 
was suspected, and I was permitted to proceed. 
This was the groundwork for a new incident, and 
in the third act I instantly introduced a visit in 
disguise to the camp of the enemy. 

I refreshed myself at a farmhouse, where I found 
some soldiers billettcd. I was amused with being the 
subject of their conversation, and felt my imjior- 
tance. As I thouglit, however, it was but prudent 
to extricate myself from the forest without any un- 
neces.sary loss of time, I took my way towards its 
skirts, and continued advancing in that direction 
for several days, until I found myself in a country 
with which I was unacquainted. I had now gained 
the open country. Emerging from the straggling 
woodland one afternoon, about an hour before sun- 
set, I found myself in a highly cultivated and beau- 
tiful land. A small, but finely formed lake spread 
before me, covered with wild fowl. On its oprio- 
site side rose a gentle acclivity, richly wooded, and 
crowned by a magnificent castle. The declining sun 
shed a beautiful warm light over the proud building, 
and its park, and gardens, and the surrounding land, 
which was covered with orchards, and small lields 
of tall golden grain. 

The contrast of all this civilization and beauty 
with the recent scene of my savage existence, was 
very striking. I leaned in thought upon my rifle, 
and it occurred to me that also, in my dark work, 
although indeed its characteristic was the terrible, 
there too should be something sunny, and fresh, 
and fair. For if in nature, and in life, man finds 
these changes so delightful, so also should it be in 
the ideal and the poetic. And the thought of a 
heroine came into my mind. And while my heart 
was softened by the remembrance of woman, and 
the long repressed waters of my passionate affec- 
tions came gu.shing through the stern rocks that 
had so long beat them away, a fanciful and spark- 
ling equipage appeared advancing at a rapid pace 
to the castle. A light and brilliant carriage, drawn 
by four beautiful gray horses, and the chasseur in a 
hussar dress, and the caracoling outriders, announ- 
ced a personage of distiiiction. They advanced, 
the road ran by my feet. As they apjiroached, I 
perceived that there was only a lady in the carriage^ 
I could not distinguish much, but my heart was 
prophetic of her charriis. The carriage was within 
five yards of me. Never had I beheld so beautiful 
and sumptuous a creature. A strange feeling cama 
over mo, the carriage and the riders suddenly stopped, 
and its mistress, starting from her seat, exclaimcti 
almost shouted, "Contarini ! surely Contarini '" 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



333 



vir. 

I iirsHF.n forward, I seized her. extended hand, 
die voice called back the sweetness of the past, my 
memcjry struggled through the mist of many years 
— " Christiana !" 

I had seen her once or twice since the golden age 
of our early loves, but not of late. I had heard 
too, that she had married, and heard it with a pang. 
Her husband, Count Norberg, I now learned, was 
the lord of the castle before us. I gave a hurried 
explanation of my presence — a walking tour, a 
sporting excursion, any thing did, while I held her 
sweet hand, and gazed upon her sparkling fiicc. 

I gave my gun and knapsack to an attendant, 
and jumped into the carriage. So many questions 
uttered in so kind a voice, I never felt happier. Our 
drive lasted only a few minutes, yet it was long 
enough for Christiana to tell me, a thousand times, 
how rejoiced she was to meet me, and how deter- 
mined that I should be her guest. 

We dashed through the castle gates. We alighted. 
I led her tlirough the hall, up the lofty stair- 
case, and into a suit of saloons. No one was there. 
She ran with me up stairs, would herself point out 
to me' my room, and was wild with glee. " I have 
not time to talk now, Contarini. We dine in 
an hour. . I will dress as fast as I can, and then 
we shall meet in the drawing-room." 

I was alone, I threw myself into a chair, and ut- 
tered a deep sigh. It even surprised me, for I felt 
at this moment very happy. The servant entered 
with my limited wardrobe. I tried to make myself 
look as nuich like a man of the world, and as little 
like a bandit as possible ; but I was certainly more 
picturesque than splendid. When I had dressed, 
I forgot to descend, and laaned over the mantel- 
piece, gazing on the empty stove. The remem- 
brance of my boyhood overpovsrered me. I thought 
of the garden in which we had first met, of her 
visit to me iu the dark, to solace my despair; I 
asked myself why, in her presence, every thing 
seemed beautiful, and I felt happy ] 

Some one tapped at the door. '-Are you ready ?" 
said the voice of voices. I opened the door, and 
taking her hand, we exchanged looks of joyful 
love, and descended together. 

We entered the saloon; she led me up to a 
middle-aged but graceful personage ; she introduced 
me to her husband, as the oldest and dearest of hrr 
friends. There were several other gentlemen in 
the room, who had come to enjoj tlie chase with 
their host, but no ladies. We dined at a rounil 
table, and I was seated by Christiana- The con- 
versatioa ran almost entirely on the robbers, of 
whom -I heard the most romantic and ridiculous 
accounts. I asked the countess how she should 
like to be the wife of a bandit chief] 

" I hardly know what I should do," she answered 
playfully, " were I to meet with some of those in- 
teresting ruifians of whom vs^e occasionally read ; 
but I fear in this age of reality, these sentimental 
heroes would be diHicult to discover." 

" Yes, I have no doubt," said a young nobleman 
opposite, "that if we could detect this very captain, 
of wnom we have daily heard such interesting de- 
tails, we should find him to be nothing better than 
a decayed innkeeper, or a broken subaltern at the 
best." 

" You think so 1" I replied. "In this age we 
are as prone to disbelieve in the extraordinary, as 



we were once eager to credit it. I differ with you 
about the subject of our present discussion, nor do 
I believe him to be by any means a common cha- 
racter." 

My remark attracted general observation. I spoke 
in a confident, but slow and serious tone. I wished 
to impress on Christiana that I was no longer a 
child. 

" But may I ask on what grounds you hav 
formed your opinion 1" said the count. 

" Principally upon my own observation," I re- 
plied. 

" Your own observation !" exclaimed my host. 
" What ! have you seen him V 

" Yes." , 

They would have thought me joking had I not 
looked so grave, but my serious air ill accorded 
with their smiles. 

" I was with him in the forest," I continued, 
" and had considerable conversation with him. I 
even accompanied him to his haunt, and witnessed 
his assembled band." 

" Are you serious !" all exclaimed. The countess 
was visibly interested. 

" But were you not very much frightened V' she 
inquired. 

" Why should I be frightened 1" I answered ; 
" a solitary student olTered but poor prey. He 
would have passed me unnoticed, had I not sought 
his acquaintance, and he was a sufficiently good 
judge of human nature speedily to discover that I 
was not likely to betray him." 

" And what sort of a man is he !" asked the 
young noble. " Is he young V 

" Very." 

" Well ! I think this is the most extraordinary 
incident that ever happened V observed the count 

" It is most interesting," added the countess. 

" Whatever may be his rank or appearance, it is 
all up with him by this time," remarked an old 
gentleman. 

" I doubt it," I replied, mild, but firm. 

" Doubt it ! I tell you what, if you were a little 
older, and knew this forest as well as I do, you 
would see that his escape is impossible. Never 
were such arrangements. There is not a square 
foot of ground that will not be scoured, and stations 
left on every cross-road. I was with the com- 
manding officer only yesterday. He cannot es- 
cape." 

" He cannot escape," echoed a hitherto silent 
guest, who was a great sportsman. " I will bet any 
sum he is talvcn before the week is over." 

"If it would not shock our fair hostess. Count 
Prater," I rejoined, " rest assured you should for- 
feit your stake." 

My host and his guests excliangcd looks, as 
if to ask each other who was this very young man 
who talked with such coolness on such very ex- 
traordinary subjects. But they were not cogni- 
zant of the secret cause of this exhibition. I 
wished to introduce myself as a man to ' the 
countess. I wished her to associate my name 
with something of a more exalted nature than 
our nursery romance. I did not, indeed, desire 
that she should conceive that I was less sensible 
to her influence, but I was determined that she 
should feel her influence was exercised over no 
ordinary bemg. I felt that my bold move had 
already in part succeeded. I more than once 
caught her eye, and read the blended feelings of 



384 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



nstonishmeiit and interest with which she Hstened 
to me. 

" Well ! perhaps he may be taken in a week," 
said the betting Coinit Prater; " it would be an- 
noying to lose my wager by an hour." 

" Say a fortnight, then," said the young noble- 
man. 

" A fortnight, a year, an age, what you please," 

observed. 

"You will bet, then, that he will not be taken 1" 
asked Count Prater, eagerly. 

" I will bet that the expedition retires in despair," 
I replied. 

"Well! what shall it be?" asked the count, 
feeling he had an excellent bet, and yet fearful, 
from my youthful appearance, our host might deem 
it but delicate to insure its being a light one. 

" ! what you please," I replied ; " I seldom 
bet, but when I do, I care not how high the stake 
may be." 

" Five, or fifty, or, if you please, five hundred 
dollars ?" suggested the count. 

" Five thousand, if you like." 

" We are very moderate men here, baron," said 
our host with a smile, "you university heroes 
frighten us." 

"Well, then," I exclaimed, pointing to the count- 
ess's left arm, " you see this ruby bracelet ] the loser 
shall supply its fellow." 

" Bravo !" said the young nobleman, and Prater 
was forced to consent. 

A great many questions were now asked about 
the robbers, as to the nature and situation of their 
haunt, their numbers, their conduct. To all these 
queries I replied with as much detail as was safe, 
but with the air of one who was resolved not in any 
way to compromise the wild outlaws who had 
recognised his claim to be considered a man of 
honour. 

In the evening, the count, and his friends sat 
down to cards, and I walked up and down the saloon 
in conversation with Christiana. I found her manner 
to me greatly changed since the morning. She was 
evidently more constrained. Evidently she felt 
that, in her previous burst of cordiality, she had for- 
gotten that time might have changed me more than 
it had her. I spoke to her little of home. I did not 
indulge in the details of domestic tattle. I sur- 
prised her by the v\'ild and gloomy tone in which 
I mentioned myself 'and my fortunes. I mingled 
with my reckless prospect of the future, the bitterest 
sarcasms on my present lot, and when I almost 
alarmed her by my malignant misanthropy, I darted 
into a train of gay nonsense, or tender reminiscen- 
ces, and piqued her by the easy and rapid mode in 
which my temper seemed to shift from morbid sen- 
sibility to callous mockery. 

VIII. 

I HETiJiEi) to my room, I wrote a letter to my 
ervant at the university, directing him to repair to 
Norberg Castle with my horses and wardrobe. The 
fire blazed brightly, the pen was fresh and brisk, the 
idea rushed into my head in a moment, and I com- 
menced my tragedy. I had already composed the 
first scene in my head. The plot was simple, and 
had been finally arranged while walking up and 
down the room with the countess. A bandit chief 
falls in love with the wife of a rich noble, the gov- 
ernor of the province, which is the scene of his ra- 



vages. I sat up nearly allnight in fervid composition. 
I wrote with greater facility than before, because 
my experience of life was so much increased that 
I had no dilhculty in making my characters think 
and act. There was indeed little art in my creation, 
but there was much vitality 

I rose veiy late, and found the chase liad long 
ago called forth my fellow-guests. I could always 
find amusement in musing over my next scene, and 
I sauntered forth, almost unconscious of what I did. 
I found Christiana in a very fanciful flower-garden. 
She was bending down, tending a favourite plant. 
My heart beat, my spirit seemed lighter, she heard 
my step, she raised her smiling face, and gave me 
a flower. 

" Ah ! does not this remind you," I said, ' of a 
spot of early days ] I should grieve if you had for- 
gotten the scene of our first acquaintance." 

" The dear garden-house," exclaimed Christiana, 
with an arch smile. " Never shall I forget it. I 
Contarini, what a little boy you were then !" 

We wandered about together till the noon had 
long passed, talking of old times, and then we 
entered the castle for rest. She was as gay as a 
young creature in spring, but I was grave though 
not gloomy. I listened to her musical voice. I watched 
the thousand ebullitions of her beaming grace. I 
could not talk. I could only assent to her cheerful 
observations, and repose in peaceful silence, full 
of tranquil joy. The morning died away, the hunt- 
ers returned, we reassembled again to talk over the 
day's exploits, and speculate on the result of my bet 
with Count Prater. 

No tidings were heard of the robbers; nearly 
every observation of yesterday was repeated. It 
was a fine specimen of rural conversation. They 
ate keenly, they drank freely, and I rejoiced when 
they were fairly seated again at their card-table, 
and I was once more with Christiana. 

I was delighted when she quitted the harp, and 
seated herself at the piano. I care little for a melo- 
dious voice, as it gives me no ideas, but instrumental 
music is a true source of inspiration, and as Chris- 
tiana executed the magnificent overture of a great 
German master, I moulded my feelings of the morn- 
ing into a scene, and when I again found myself in 
my room, I recorded it with facility, or only with a 
degree of difficulty with which it was exhilarating 
to contend. 

At the end of three days my servant arrived, and 
gave me the first information that myself and my 
recent companions were expelled, for whicli I cared 
as little as for their gold medal. 

1'hree weeks flew away, distinguished by no par- 
ticular incident, except the loss of his gage by Count 
Prater, and my manifold care that he should redeem 
it. The robbers could not in any manner be traced, 
although Jonsterna afforded some indications. The 
wonder increased, and was universal, and my ex- 
ploits afforded a subject for a pamphlet, the cheap- 
ness of whose price the publisher earnestly impressed 
upon us could only be justified by its extensive cir- 
culation. 

Three weeks had flown away, three sweet weeks, 
and flown away in the almost constant presence of 
Christiana, or in scarcely less delightful composi- 
tion. My tragedy was finished. I resolved to return 
home, I longed to bring my reputation to the test, 
yet I lingered about Christiana. 

I lingered about her as the young bird about the 
first sunny fruit his inexperienced love dare not 



C N T A R I N I F L E M I N G. 



385 



ttiuch. I was ever wiMi her, and each day grew 
more silent. I joined her e.xliausted by composi- 
tion. In her presence I sought refreshing solace, 
renewed inspiration. I spoke little, for one feeling 
alone occupied my being, and even of that I was 
not cognizant, for its nature to me was indefinite 
and indistinct, although its power was constant and 
irresistible. But I avenged niyself for this strange 
silence when I was once more alone, and my fervid 
page teemed with the imaginary passion, of whose 
reality my unpractised nature was not yet con- 
vinced. 

One evening, as we were walking together in the 
saloon, and she was expressing her wish that I 
would remain, and her wonder as to the necessity 
of my returning, which I described as so impera- 
tive, suddenly and in the most unpremeditated 
manner, I made her the confidant of my literary 
secret. I was charmed with the temper in which 
she received it, the deep and serious interest which 
she expressed in my success. " Do you know," she 
added, " Contarini, you will think it very odd, but I 
have always believed you were intended for a poet.'' 
My sparkling eye, sparkling with hope and affec- 
tioii, thanked her for her sympathy, and it was 
agreed that on the morrow I should read to her my 
production. 

I was very nervous when I commenced. Tliis 
was the first time that ray composition had beert 
submitted to a human being, and now this submis- 
sion was to take place in the presence of the author, 
through the medium of his voice. As I proceeded, 
I grew rather more assured. The interest which 
Christiana really found, or affected to find, encou- 
raged me. If I hesitated, she said, "beautiful!" 
whenever I paused, she exclaimed, " interesting !" 
My voice grew firmer, the interest which I myself 
took banished my false shame. I grew excited, my 
modulated voice impressed my sentiments, and my 
action sometimes explained them. The robber 
scene was considered wonderful, and full of life and 
nature. Christiana marvelled how I could have in- 
vented such extraordinary things and characters. 
At length I came to my heroine. Her beauty was 
described in an elaborate, and far too poetic passage. 
It was a perfect fac-simile of the countess. It was 
ridiculous. She herself felt it, and looking up, 
smiled with a faint blush. 

I had now advanced into the very heart of the 
play, and the scenes of sentiment had commenced. 
I had long since lost my irresolution. The encou- 
ragement of Christiana, and the delight which I 
really felt in my writing, made me more than bold. 
I really acted before her. She was susceptible. All 
know how very easy it is for a very indifferent 
drama, if well performed, to soften even the callous. 
Her eyes were sOtTused with tears, my emotion was 
also visible. I felt like a man brought out of a 
dungeon, and groping his way in the light. How 
could I have been so bhnd when all was so evident] 
It was not until I had recited to Christiana my ficti- 
tious passion, t'lat I had become conscious of my 
real feelings. I had been ignorant all this time that 
I had been long fatally in love with her. I threw 
away my manuscript, and seizing her hand, " O 
Christiana!" I exclaimed, "what mockery is it 
thus to veil truth 1 Before you is the leader of the 
band of whom you have heard so much. He adores 
you." 

She started, I cannot describe the beautiful con- 
sternation of her countenance. j 
49 



" Contarini," she exclaimed, " are you mad I what 
can you mean 7" 

" Mean !" I poured forth, " is it doubtful ? Yes ! 
I repeat, I am the leader of that band whose ex 
ploits have so recently alarmed you. Cannot you 
now comprehend the story of my visiting then 
haunt ] Was it probable, was it possible, that I 
should have been permitted to gain their secret and 
to retire? The robbers were youth like myself, 
weary of the dull monotony of our false and 
wretched life. We have yielded to overwhelming 
force, but we have baflled all pursuit. For myself 
I quit forever the country I abhor. Ere a year hag 
passed, I shall roam a pirate on the far waves of 
the .'Egean. One tie only binds m.e to this rigid 
clime. In my life I have loved only one being. I 
look upon her. Yes ! yes ! it is you, Christiana. 
On the very brink of my exile, destiny has brought 
us once more together. ! let us never part ! 
Be mine, — be mine ! Share with me my glory, 
my liberty, and my love !" 

I poured forth this rhapsody with impassionate 
haste. The countess stared with blank astonish- 
ment. She appeared even alarmed. Suddenly 
she sprang up and ran out of the room. 

IX. 

I WAS enraged, and I was confused. I do not 
know whether I felt more shame or more irritation. 
My vanity impelled me to remain some time with 
the hope she would return. She did not, and seiz- 
ing my tragedy, I rushed into the park. I met my 
servant exercising a horse. I sent him back to the 
castle alone, jumped on my steed, and in a few 
minutes was galloping along the high road to the 
metropolis. 

It was about one hundred miles distant. When 
I arrived home I found that my father and the baron- 
ess were in the country. I was not sorry to be 
alone, as I really had returned without any object, 
and had not, in any degree, prepared myself to meet 
my father. After some consideration I enclosed 
my tragedy to a most eminent publisher, and I sent 
it him from a quarter whither he could gain no 
clew as to its source. I pressed him for a reply 
without unnecessary loss of time, and he, unUke 
these gentry, who really think themselves far more 
important personages than those by whose wits they 
live, was punctual. In the course of a week he 
returned me my manuscript, with his complimen-ts, 
and an extract from the letter of his principal critic, 
in which my effusion was described as a laboured 
exaggeration of the most unnatural features of the 
German school. The day I received tlas my father 
arrived. 

He was alone, and had merely come up to town 
to transact business. He was surprised to see me, 
but said nothing of my. expulsion, although I felt 
confident he must be aware of it. We dined to- 
gether alone. He talked to me at dinner of indif- 
ferent sul)jccts, of alterations at his castle, and tha 
state of Europe. As I wished to conciliate him, I 
affected to take great interest in this latter topic, 
and I thought he seemed pleased with the earnest 
readiness with which I interfered ni the discussion. 
After dinner he remarked, very quietly filling hi8 
glass, " Had you communicated with me, Conta- 
rini, I could perhaps have saved you the disgrace 
of expulsion." 

I was quite taken by surprise, and looked very 



3S6 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



confused. At last T said, " I fear, sir, I have oc- 
fasioned you too often great mortification, hut I 
sometimes cannot refrain from believing that I may 
yet make a return to you for all your goodness." 

" Every thing depends upon yourself, Contarini. 
You have elected to be your own master. You 
must take the consequences of your courage, or 
your rashness. What are your plans 1 I do not 
know whether you mean to honour me with your 
confidence as a friend. I do not even aspire to the 
authority of a fither." 

" O ! pray, sir, do not say so. I place myself 
entirely at your disposal. I desire nothing more 
ardently than to act under your command. I as- 
sure you that you will find me a ven' different 
personage than you imagine. I am impressed 
with a most earnest and determined resolution to 
become a practical man. You must not judge of 
me by my boyish career. The very feelings that 
made me revolt at the discipline of schools, will 
ensure my subordination in the world. I took no 
interest in their petty pursuits, and their minute 
legislation interfered with my more extended 
views." 

"What views?" asked my father, with a smile. 
I was somewhat puzzled, but I answered, " I 
wish, sir, to influence men." 

"But before you influence others, you must 
leam to influence yourself. Now those who would 
iudge, perhaps imperfectly, of your temperament, 
(Contarini, would suppose that its characteristic 
was a nature so headstrong and imprudent that it 
could not fail of involving its possessor in many 
dangerous, and sometimes even in very ridiculous 
positions." 

I was silent, with my eyes fixed on the ground. 
" I think you have sufficient talents for all that 
i could reasonably desire, Contarini," continued 
my father; "I think you have talents indeed for 
any thing, I mean, that a rational being can desire 
to attain ; but you sadly lack judgment. I think 
that you are the most imprudent person with whom 
I ever was acquainted. You have a great enemy, 
Contarini, a great enemy in yourself. You have 
a great enemy in your imagination. I think if you 
could control your imagination, you might be a 
great man. 

" It is a fatal gift, Contarini; for when possessed 
in its highest quality and strength, what has it ever 
done for its votaries ] What wore all those great 
poets of whom we now tallc so nnich, what were 
they in their lifetime 1 The most miserable of 
their species. Depressed, doubtful, obscure, or in- 
volved in petty quarrels and petty precautions, 
often unappreciated, utterly uninfluential, beggars, 
flatterers of men unworthy even of their recognition 
— what a train of disgustful incidents, what a re- 
cord of degrading circumstances is the life of a great 
poet 1 A man of great energies aspires that they 
should be felt in his lifetime, that his existence 
should be rendered more intensely vital by the con- 
stant consciousness of his multiplied and multiply- 
ing power. Is posthumous fame a substitute for all 
this] Viewed in every light and under evei-y 
feehng, it is alike a mockery. Nay, even try the 
greatest by this test, and what is the result 1 Would 
you sooner have been Homer or Julius Cmsar, 
Shakspearc or Napoleon? No one doubts. Moral- 
ists may cloud truth with every possible adumbra- 
tion of cant, but the nature of our being gives the 
lie to all their assertions. We are active beings, 



and our sympathy, above all otlier sympathies is 
with great action. 

" Remember, Contarini, that all this time I am 
taking for granted that you may be a Homer. I^et 
us now recollect that it is perhaps the most impro- 
bable incident that can occur. The high poetic 
talent, — as if to prove that a poet is only, at the 
best, a wild, although a beautiful error of nature, — 
the high poetic talent is the rarest in creation 
What you have felt is what I have felt myself, ia 
what all men have felt ; it is the consequence of our 
native and inviolate susceptibility. As you advance 
in life, and become more callous, more acquainted 
with man, and with yourself, you will find it, even 
daily, decrease. Mix in society, and I will answer 
that you lose your poetic feeling; for in you, as in 
the great majority, it is not a creative faculty ori- 
ginating in a peculiar organization, but simply the 
consequence of a nervous susceptibility that is 
common to all." 

I suspected very much, that my father had 
stumbled on the unhappy romance of the " W^ild 
Hunter of Rodenstein," which I had left lying 
about my drawers, but I said nothing. He pio- 
ceeded. 

" The time has now arrived which may be consi 
dered a crisis in your life. You have, although very 
young, resolved that society should consider you a 
man. No preparatory situation can now veil your 
indiscretions. A youth at the university may com- 
mit outrages with impunity, which will affix a 
lasting prejudice on a person of the same age, who 
has quitted the university. I must ask you again, 
what are your plans ?" 

" I have none, sir, except your wishes. I feel 
acutely the truth of all you have observed. I assure 
you I am as completely and radically cured of any 
predisposition that I confess I once conceived 1 
possessed for literary invention, as even you could 
desire. I will own to you that my ambition is very 
great. I do not think that I should find life tolera 
I lie unless I were in an eminent position, and con 
sciousthat I deserved it. Fame, although not post- 
humous fame, is, I feel, necessary to my felicity.. 
In a word, I wish to devote myself to affairs — 1 
attend only your commands." 

" If it meet your wishes, I will appoint you my 
private secretary. The post, particularly when 
confirmed by the confidence which must subsist 
between individuals connected as we are, is the 
best school for public affairs. It will prepare you 
for any office." 

" I can conceive nothing more delightful. You 
could not have fixed upon an ap[)ointment moro 
congenial to my feelings. To be your constant 
companion, in the slightest degree to alleviate the 
burden of your labours, to be considered worthy of 
your confidence — this is all that I could desire. I 
only fear that my ignorance of routine may at first 
inconvenience you, but trust me, dear father, that 
if devotion, and the constant exertion of any talents 
I may possess can aid you, they will not be want 
ing. Indeed, indeed, sir, you never shall repeni 
your goodness." 

This same evening I consigned my tragedy to 
the flames. 

X. 

I nEvoTF.n myself to my new pursuits with as 
much fervour as I liad done to the study of Greek. 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



397 



The former secretary initiated me in the mysteries 
of routine business. My father, although he made 
no remark, was evidently j)leased at tlie facility and 
quickness with which I attained this formal, but 
necessary information. Vattel and Martens were 
my private studies. I was greatly interested with 
my novel labours. Foreign policy opened a dazzhng 
vista of splendid incident. It was enchanting to 
be acquainted with the secrets of European cabinets, 
and to control or influence their fortunes. A year 
passed with more satisfaction than any period of 
my former life. I had become of essential service to 
my father. My talent for composition found full exer- 
cise, and afforded him great aid in drawin,g up state 
papers and manifestoes, despatches and decrees. 
We were always together. I shared his entire 
confidence. He instructed me in the cliaracters of 
the public men who surrounded us, and of those 
who were more distant. I was astonished at the 
scene of intrigue that opened on me. I found that 
in some, even of his colleagues, I was ojily to per- 
ceive secret enemies, and in others but necessary 
tools and tolerated encumbrances. I delighted in 
the danger, the management, the negotiation, the 
suspense, the difficult gratification of his high am- 
bition. 

Intent as he was to make me a great statesman, 
he was scarcely less anxious that I should become 
a finished man of the world. He constantly im- 
pressed upon me that society was a politician's great 
tool, and the paramount necessity of cultivating its 
good graces. He afforded me an ample allowance. 
He encouraged mo in a lavish expenditure. Above 
all, he was ever ready to dilate upon the diaracter 
of women, and while he astonislied me by the tone 
of depreciation in which he habitually spoke of them, 
he would even inagnify tlieir influence, and the ne- 
cessity of securing it. 

I modelled my character upon that of my father. 
I imbibed his deep worldliness. With my usual 
impetuosity, I even exaggerated it. I recognised 
self-interest as the spring of all action. I received 
it as a truth, that no man was to be trusted, and no 
womaw^'bc loved. I gloried in secretly believing 
myself^e' most callous of men, and that nothing 
could tempt me to compromise my absorbing self- 
isni. I laid it down as a principle, that all conside- 
rations must yield to the gratification of my ambi- 
tion. The ardour and assiduity with which I ful- 
filled my duties and prosecuted my studies, had 
rendered, me, at the end of two years, a very skil- 
ful poHtician. My great fiult, as a man of affairs, 
was, that I was too fond of patronising charlntans, 
and too ready to give every adventurer credit for 
great talents. The moment a man started a new 
idea, my active fancy conjured up all the great re- 
sults, and conceived that his was equally prophetic. 
But here my father's severe judgment and sharp 
experience always interfered for my benefit, and my 
cure was assisted by hearing a few of my black 
tivvans cackle, instead of chant. As a member of 
society, I was entirely exempt from the unskilful 
affectation of my boyhood. I was assured, arrogant, 
and bitter, but easy, and not ungraceful. The men 
trembled at my sarcasms, and the women repeated 
with wonderment my fantastic raillery. My posi- 
tion in life, and the exaggerated halo with which, 
in my case, as in all others, the talents of emi- 
nent youth were injudiciously invested, made me 
courted by all, especially by the daughters of Eve. 
I was sometimes nearly the victim of liackncyed 



experience — sometimes I trifled with affcctionc, 
which my parental instructions taught me never to 
respect. On the whole, I considered myself as one 
of the most important personages in the country, 
possessing the greatest talents, the profoundest 
knowledge of men and affairs, and the most perfect 
acquaintance with society. When I look back 
upon myself at this period, I liave difficulty in con- 
ceiving a more miamiable character. 

XL 

In the third year of my political life, the prime 
minister suddenly died. Here was a catastrophe I 
Who was to be his successor ] Here was a fruitful 
theme for speculation and intrigue. . Public opinion 
pointed to my father, who indeed, if qualification 
for the post were only considered, had no competi- 
tor ; but Baron Fleming wa.s looked upon by his 
brother nobles with a jealous eye, and although not 
unwilling to profit by his labours, they were chary 
of permitting them too uncontrolled a scope. He 
was talked of as a new man : he was treated as 
scarcely national. The state was not to be placed 
at the disposal of an adventurer. He was not one 
of themselves. It was a fatal precedent, that the 
veins of the prime minister .should be filled with 
any other blood but that of their ancient order. 
Even many of his colleagues did not affect to con- 
ceal their hostility to his appointment, and the 
Count de Moltkc, who was gupipo.sed to possess 
every quality that should adcjcii the character of a 
first minister, was openly announced as the certain 
successor to the vacant office. The Count de Moltke 
w^as a frivolous old courtier, who had gained his 
little experience in long service in the household, 
and, even were he appointed, could only anticipate 
the practicability of carrying on affairs by implicit 
conlldence in his rival. The Count de Moltke was 
a tool. 

Skilful as my father was in controlling and veil 
ling his emotion, the occasion v/as too powerful 
even for his firmness. For the first time in his life 
he sought a confidant, and, firm in the affection of 
a son, he confessed to me, with an agitation which 
was alone sufficient to express his meaning, how 
entirely he had staked liis felicity on this cast. He 
could not refrain from bitterly dilating on the state 
of society, in wliicli secret influence, and the preju- 
dices of a bigoted class, should for a moment per- 
mit one, who had devoted all the resources of a 
high intellect to the welfare of his country, to be 
placed in momentary competition, still more in per- 
manent inferiority with such an ineflkble nonentity 
as the Count de Moltke. 

Every feeling in my nature prompted me to en- 
ergy. I counselled my father to the most active 
exertions, but although subtle, he was too cautiou.s, 
and where he was himself concerned, even timor- 
ous. I had no compunction, and no fear, I would 
.scrui'le at no means which could ensure our end. 
The feeling of society, was in general, in our fa- 
vour. Even among the liighest class, the women 
were usually on tire side of my father. Baroness 
Engel, who was the evening star that beamed un- 
rivalled in all our assemblies, and who fancied her 
self a little Dutchess de Longueville, deUghted in a 
political intrigue. I affected to make her our con- 
fidante. We resolved together that the onlymodo 
was to render our rival ridiculous. I wrote au 
anonymous pamphlet in favour of the appointmerij 



3SS 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



of the Count (Ic Moltkc. It took in cvrryhody, un- 
til in the last page they read my panojTyric of his 
cream cheeses. It was in vain that the Count de 
Moltke, and all his friends, protested that his excel- 
lency had never made a cream cheese in the whole 
course of his life. The story was too probable not 
to be true. He was just the old fool who would 
make a cream cheese. I secured the channel of 
our principal journals. Each morning teemed with 
a diatribe against backstairs influence, the preju- 
dices of a nobility who were behind their age, and 
indignant histories of the maladnihiisti-ation of court 
f ivourifcs. The evening, by way of change, brought 
only an epigram, sometimes a song. 'J'he fashion 
took : all the youth were on our side. One day, in 
imitation of the Tre Giuli, we published a whole 
volume of epigrams, all on cream cheeses. The 
baroness was moreover an inimitable caricaturist. 
The shops were fdlcd with infinite scenes, in which 
a ludicrous old fribble, such as we might fancy a 
rrench marquis before the Kevolution, was ever 
coiHiiiitling something irresistibly ludicrous. In ad- 
dition to ail this, I hired ballad singers, who were 
always chanting in the public walks, and even 
uniier the windows of the palace, the achieve- 
ments of the unrivalled manufacturer of cream 
cheeses. 

In the mean time my father was not idle. He 
had discovered that the Count dc Bragnaes, one of 
the most inlluential nobles in the country, and the 
great sup[)orter of De Moltke, was ambitious of be- 
coming Secretary for Foreign Aifairs, and that De 
Moltke had hesitated in pledging himself to this ar- 
rangement, as he could not perceive how aifairs 
could be carried on if my fiither was entirely dis- 
missed. My father opened a secret negotiation 
with De Bragnaes, and shook before his eyes the 
glittering seals he coveted. De Bragnaes was a 
dolt, but my father required only tools, and felt 
himself ca[)able of fullilling the duties of the wholes 
ministry. This great secret was not concealed from 
me. I opposed the arrangement, not only because 
Dc Bragnaes was absolutely insuiilcient, but be- 
cause I wished to introduce into the cabinet Baron 
Engel. 

The post of chief minister had now been three 
weeks vacant, and the delay was accounted for by 
the illness of the sovereign, who was nevertheless 
in perfect health. All this excitement took place 
at the very season we were all assembled in the 
capital for the j)urposes of society. My fiither was 
everywhere, and each night visible. I contrasted 
the smiling indifierence of his public appearance 
with the agonies of ambition, which it was my 
doom alone to witness. 

I was alone with my father in his cabinet when 
a r^/yal messenger summoned him to the presence. 
1'he king was at a palace about ten miles from the 
city. It did not in any way follow from the invita- 
tion that my father was successful : all that we felt 
assured of was, that the crisis had arrived. Wc 
exchanged looks, but not words. Intense as was 
suspense, business prevented me from attending my 
father, and waiting in the royal antechamber to hear 
llie great result. He departed. 

I had to receive an important deputation, the dis- 
cussion of whose wishes emi)loyed the whole morn- 
ing. It was with extreme dilliculty that I could 
command my attention. Never in my life had I 
felt so nervous. Each moment a messenger enter- 
ed, 1 believed that he was the important one. No 



carriage dashed into the court-yard that did not to 
my fancy bear my father. At last the deputation 
retired, and then came private interviews and ur- 
gent correspondence. 

It was twilight. The servant had lit one burn- 
er of the lamp, when the door opened, and my fa- 
ther stood before me. I could scarcely refrain from 
crying out. I pushed out the astonished waiting- 
man, and locked the door. 

My father looked grave, serious, I thought a littlo 
depressed. " All is over," thought I, .and in an 
instant I began speculating on the future, and had 
created much, when my father's voice called me 
back to the j)resent scene. 

" His majesty, Contarini," said my father in a 
dry, formal marmer, as if he were speaking to one 
who had never witnessed his weakness — " His ma- 
jesty has been graciously pleased to appoint me to 
the supreme office of president of his council; and 
as a further mark of his entire confidence and full 
approbation of my past services, he has thought fit 
to advance me to the dignity of count." 

Was this frigid form that stotxl unmoved before 
me the being whom, but four-and-twenty hours ago, 
I had watched trembling with his high passions 1 
Was this curt, unimpassioned tone, the voice in 
which he should have notified the crowning glory 
of his fortunes to one who had so struggled in 
their behalf! I could scarcely sjieak. I hardly con- 
gratulated him. 

"And your late post, sirl" I at length inquired. 

" The seals of this ofhce will be held by the Ba- 
ron de Bragnaes." 

I shrugged my shoulders in silence. 

" The king is not less aware than myself t?iat 
his excellency can bring but a slight portion of in- 
tellectual strength to the new cabinet ; that he is 
one indeed about to he placed in a position, to dis- 
charge the duties of which he is incapable; but his 
inujesty as well as myself, has unbounded confi- 
dence in the perfect knowledge, the energetic assi- 
duity, and the distinguished talents of the individual 
who will fulfil the duties of under-secretary. He 
will be the virtual head of this great department 
Allow me to be the first to congratulate Count 
Contarini Fleming on his new dignity, and his en 
trance into the service of his sovereign." 

I rushed forward, I seized his hand. " My dear 
f itlier," I said, " I am quite overwhelmed. I dream- 
ed not of tliis. I never thought of myself, I thought 
only of you." 

He pressed my hand, but did not lose his com- 
posure. " We dine together to-day alone," he 
said, " I must now see De Bragnaes. At dinner 
I will tell you all. Nothing will be announced 
till to-morrow. Your friend, Engel, is not for- 
gotten." 

He quitted the chamber. The moment he dis- 
appeared I could no longer refrain from glancing 
in the mirror. Never had I marked so victorious a 
visage. An unnatural splendour sparkled in my 
eye, my lip was impressed with energy, my nostril 
dilated with triumph. I stood before the tall mir- 
ror, and planted my foot, and waved my arm. So 
much more impressive is reality than imagination ! 
Cften, in revcw, had I been an Alberoni, a Kipper- 
da, a Kichelieu ; but never had I felt, when mould- 
ing the destinies of the wide globe, a tithe of (he 
trium])hant exultation which was afforded by the 
consciousness of the simple fact that I was an un- 
der-secretary of stale, 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



389 



XII. 

I HAD achieved by this time what is called a great 
reputation. I do not know that there was any one 
more talked of, and more considered in the country, 
than myself. I was my father's only confidant, 
and secretly his only counsellor. I managed Dc 
Bragnacs admirablj^, and always suggested to hina 
the opinion, which I at the same time requested. 
He was a mere cipher. As for the Count de 
Moitke, he was very rich, with an only daughter, 
and my father had already hinted at, what I had 
even turned in my own mind, a union with the 
wealtliy, although not very pleasing, offspring of 
the maker of cream cheeses. 

At this moment, in the zenith of my popularity 
and power, the Norbergs returned to the capital. 
I had never seen them since the mad morning 
which, with all my boasted callousness, I ever 
blushed to remember, for the count had, immedi- 
ately after my departure, been appointed to a very 
important, although distant government. Nor had 
I ever heard of them. I never wished to. I drove 
their memory from my mind ; but Christiana, who 
had many correspondents, and among them the 
baroness, had, of course, heard much of me. 

Our family was the first they called upon, and, 
in spite of the mortifying awkwardness of the meet- 
ing, it was impossible to avoid it, and tliereforc I 
determined to [)ay my respects tn them immodiate- 
ly. I was careful to call when I knew I could not 
be admitted, and the first interview finally took 
place at our own house. Christiana received me 
with tiie greatest kindness, although with increased 
reserve, which might be accounted for by the time 
that had elapsed since we last met, and the altera- 
tion that had since taken place both in my age and 
station. In all probability, she looked upon my 
present career as a suflicient guaranty that iny head 
was cleared of the wild fancies of my impetuous 
boyhood, and rejoicing in this accomplishment, 
and anticipating our future and agreea!)lo acquaint- 
ance, she might fairly congratulate herself .on the 
excellent judgment which had prompted her to pass 
over in silence my unpardonable indiscretion. 

Her manner put me so completely at my ease 
that, in a moment after my salute, I wondered I 
could have been so foolish as to have brooded over 
it. The countess was unaltered, except that she 
looked perhaps more beautiful. She was a rare 
creation that time loved to spare. That sweet, and 
blooming, and radiant face, and that tall, and 
shapely, and beaming form — not a single bad pas- 
bion had ever marred their light and grace, all the 
treshness of an innocent heart had embahned their 
perennial loveliness. 

The party seemed dull. I, who was usually a 
great talker, could not speak. I dared not attempt 
to be alone with Christiana. I watched her only 
at a distance, and indicated my absorbing mood to 
others only by my curt and discouraging answers. 
When all was over, I retired to my own rooms ex- 
ceedingly gloomy and disj)iritod. 

I was in these days but a wild beast, who thought 
himself a civilized and human being, I was pro- 
foundly ignorant of all that is true and excellent. 
An unnatural system, like some grand violence of 
nature, had transformed the teeming and beneficent 
ocean of my mind into a sandy and arid desert. I 
had not then discovered even a faint adumbration 
of the philosophy of our existence. Blessed by 



nature with a heart that is the very shrine of sen 
sibility, my infamous education had succeeded in 
rendering me the most selfish of my species. 

But nature, as the philosophic Winter impressed 
upon me, is stronger than education, and the j)re- 
sence of this woman, this sudden appearance, amid 
my corrupt, and heartless, and artificial life, of so 
much innocence, and so much love, and so much 
simplicity, they fell upon my callous heart like the 
first rains upon a Syrian soil, and the refreshed 
earth responded to the kindly influence by an in- 
stant recurrence to its nature. 

I recoiled with disgust from the thought of my 
present life ; I fle\v back with rapture to my old as- 
pirations. And the beautiful, for which I had so 
often and so early sighed, and the love that I felt 
indispensable to my panting frame, and the deep 
sympathy for all creation that seemed my being, 
and all the dazzling and extending glory that had 
hovered, like a halo, round my youthful visions — 
they returned — they returned in tlieir might and 
their splendour, and when I remembered what I 
was, I buried my face in my hanils and wept. 

I retired to my bed, but I could not sleep. I 
savv no hope, yet I was not miserable. Christiana 
could never be mine. I did not wish her to be. I 
could not contemplate such an incident. I had 
prided myself on my prolligacy, but this night 
avenged my innate purity. I threw off my ficti- 
tious passions. It was the innocence of Christiana 
that exercised over me a spell so potent. Her un- 
so{)histicated heart awoke in me a passion for the 
natural and the pure. She was not made to be the 
heroine of a hackneyed adventure. To me she was 
not an individual, but a personification of Nature. 
I gazed upon her only as I would upon a beautiful 
landscape, with an admiring symi)athy which en- 
nobles my feelings, invigorates my intellect, and 
calls forth the latiuit poetry of my being. 

The thought darted into my mind in a moment. 
I cannot tell how it came. It seemed inspiration, 
but I responded to it with an eager, and even fierce 
symf)athy. Said I that the thought darted into my 
mind? Let me recall the weak phrase, let me 
rather say, that a form rose before me in the depth 
of the dull night, and that form was myself. That 
form was myself, yet also another. I beheld a 
youth who, like me, had stifled the breathing forms 
of his young creation ; who, like me, in the cold 
wilderness of the world, looked back with a mourn- 
ful glance at the bright gates of the sweet garden 
of fancy he had forfeited. I felt the deep and 
agonizing struggle of his genius and his fate ; and 
my prophetic mind, bursting through all the thou- 
sand fetters that had been forged so cunningly to 
bind it in its cell, the inspiration of my nature, that 
beneficent demon who will not desert those who 
struggle to be wise and good — tore back the curtain 
of the future, and I beheld, seated on a glorious 
throne on a jiroud Acropolis, one to whom a sur- 
rounding and enthusiastic people offered a laurel 
crown. I laboured to catch the fleeting featured 
and the changing countenance of him who sat 
upon the throne. Was it the strange youth, or 
was it indeed myself? 

I jumped out of bed. I endeavoured to be calm. 
I asked myself, soberly, whether I had indeed seen 
a vision, or whether it were but the invisible phan- 
tasm of an ecstatic revery ? I looked round me ; 
there was nothing. The moonbeam was stationary 
on the wall. I opened the window and looked out 

2 ir "X 



390 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



upop the vast, and cold, and silent street. The 
bitterness of the night cooled me. The pulsations 
of my throbbing head subsided. I regained my 
bed, and instantly sank into a sweet sleep. 

The aunt of the Countess Fleming had died, 
and left to my stepdame the old garden-house, 
■vvliich is not perhaps forgotten. As I had always 
continued on the best possible terms with the 
countess, and, indeed, was in all points quite her 
standard of perfection, she had, with great courtesy, 
permitted me to make her recently-acquired man- 
sion my haliitation, when important business occa- 
sionally made me desire for its transaction a spot 
less subject to constant interruption than my oiHce 
and my home. 

To the garden-house I repaired the next morning 
at a very early hour. I was so eager that I ordered, 
as I dismounted, my rapid breakfast, and in a 
few minutes, this being despatched, I locked myself 
up in my room, giving orders not to be disturbed, 
except by a message from my father. 

I took up a pen. I held it in the light. I 
thought to myself what will be its doom, but I said 
nothing. I began writing some hours before noon, 
nor did I ever cease. My thoughts, my passion, 
the rush of my invention, were too quick for my 
pen. Page followed page ; as a sheet was finished 
I threw it on the floor ; I was amazed at the rapid 
and prolific production, yet I could not stop to 
wonder. In half a dozen hours I sank back utterlv 
exhausted, with an aching frame. I rang the bell, 
ordered some refreshment, and walked about the 
room. The wine invigorated me, and warmed up 
my sinking fancy, which however required little 
fuel. I set to again, and it was midnight before I 
retired to my bed. 

The next day I again rose early, and, with a 
bottle of wine at my side, for I was determined not 
to be disturbed, I dashed at it again. I was not 
less successful. This day I finished my first vo- 
lume. 

The third morning I had less inclination to 
write. I read over and corrected what I had com- 
posed. This warmed up my fancy, and in the 
afternoon I executed several chapters of my second 
volume. 

Each day, although I had not in the least lost 
my desire of writing, I wrote slower. It was neces- 
sary for me each day to read my work from the be- 
ginning, before I felt the existence of the charac- 
ters sufficiently real to invent their actions. Never- 
theless, on the morning of the seventh day, the se- 
cond and last volume was finished. 

My book was a rapid sketch of the developement 
of the poetic character. My hero was a youth 
whose mind was ever combatting with his situation. 
Gifted with a highly poetic temperament, it was 
the office of his education to counteract all its en- 
nobling tendencies. I traced the first indication of 
his predisposition, the growing consciousness of 
his powers, his reveries, his loneliness, his doubts, 
his moody misery, his ignorance of his art, his fail- 
ures, his despair. I painted his agonizing and in- 
elfectual eflbrts to exist like those around him. I 
pi-ured forth my own passion, when I described the 
fervour of his love. 

All this was serious enough, and the most sin- 
gular thing is that all this time, it never struck me 
that I was dehncating my own character. But now 
comes the curious part. In depicting the scenes 
of society in which uiy hero was forced to move, I 



suddenly dashed, not only into the most slashing 
satire, but even into malignant personality. All 
the bitterness of my heart, occasioned by my 
wretched existence among their false circles, found 
its full vent. Never was any thing so imprudent. 
Everybody figured, and all parties and opinions 
alike suffered. The same hand that immortalized 
the cream cheeses of poor Count de Moltke, now 
avenged his wrongs. 

For the work itself, it was altogether a most 
crude performance, teeming with innumerable 
faults. It was entirely deficient in art. The prin- 
cipal character, although forcil)ly conceived, for it 
was founded on truth, was not sufficiently develop- 
ed. Of course the others were much less so. The 
incidents were unnatural, the serious characters 
exaggerations, the comic ones caricatures; the wit 
was too often flifipant, the philosophy too often 
forced ; yet the vigour was remarkable, the license 
of an uncurbed imagination not without its charms, 
and, on the whole, there breathed a freshness 
which is rarely found, and which, perhaps, with all 
my art and knowledge, I may never again afford : 
and indeed when I recall the magnificient enthu- 
siasm, the glorious heat, with which this little work 
was written, I am convinced that, with all its errors, 
the spark of true creation animated its fiery page. 

Such is the history of " Manstein," a work which 
exercised a strange influence on my destiny. 

XIII. 

I PEnsoNALT.T intrustcd my novel to the sam» 
bookseller to whom I had anonymously submitteOi 
my tragedy. He required no persuasion to have 
the honour of introducing it to the world, and had 
he hesitated, I would myself have willingly under- 
taken the charge, for I was resolved to undergo 
the ordeal. I swore him to the closest secrecy, 
and, as mystery is part of the craft, I had confi- 
dence that his interest would prompt him to main- 
tain his honour. 

All now being finished, I suddenly and naturally 
resumed my olivious and usual character. The 
pouring forth had relieved my mind, and the strong 
feelings that prompted it having subsided, I felt a 
little of the lassitude that succeeds exertion. That 
reaction, to which ardent and inexperienced minds 
are subject, now also occurred. I lost my confi- 
dence in my effusion. It seemed impossible that 
any thing I had written could succeed, and I 
felt that nothing but decided success could justify 
a person in my position to be an author. I half de- 
termined to recall the rash deposite, but a mixture 
of false shame and lingering hope that I might yet 
be happily mistaken, dissuaded me. I resolved to 
think no more or it. It was an inconsiderate ven- 
ture, but secrecy would preserve me from public 
shame, and as for my private mortification, I should 
at least derive from failure a beneficial conviction 
of my literary incompetency, and increased energy 
to fcillow up the path which fortune seemed to 
destine for my pursuit. Official circumstances oc- 
curred also at this moment, which imperatively 
demanded all my attention, and which indeed 
interested my feelings in no ordinary degree. 

The throne of my royal master had been gua- 
ranteed to him by those famous treaties which, at the 
breaking up of that brilliant vision, the French em- 
pire, had been vainly considered by the great Eu- 
ropean powers as ensuring the peraiaiient settle- 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



391 



ment of Europe. A change of dynasty had placed 
tlie kinj in a delicate position, but by his sage coun- 
cils and discreet conduct the last burst of the revo- 
lutionary storm passed over without striking his dia- 
dem. One of the most distinguished instances of 
the ministerial dexterity of my father was the dis- 
covery of a latent inclination in certain of our 
powerful allies, to favour the interests of the abdi- 
cated dynasty, and ultimately to dispute the suc- 
cession, which, at the moment, distracted by the 
multiplicity of important and engrossing interests, 
they deemed themselves too hastily to have recog- 
nised. In this conjuncture, an appeal to arms on 
our part was idle, and all to which we could trust 
in bringing about a satisfactory adjustment of this 
paramount question, was diploraaUc ingenuity. 
For more than three years, secret, but active nego- 
tiations had been on foot to attain our end, and cir- 
cumstances had now occurred whic-h induced us to 
believe that, by certain combinations, the result 
might be realized. 

I took a very great interest in these negotiations, 
and was the only person out of the cabinet to whom 
they were confided. The situation of the prince 
royal, himself a very accomplished personage, but 
whose unjust unpopularity offered no obstacle to 
the views of his enemies, extremely commanded my 
sympathy: the secrecy, importance, and refined diffi- 
culty of the transactions called forth all the play of 
my invention. Although an affair which, accord- 
ing to etiquette, should have found its place in the 
Foreign Office, my father, on his promotion, did 
not think it fitting to transfer a business of so deli- 
cate a nature to another functionary, and he con- 
trived to correspond upon it with foreign courts in 
his character of first minister. As his secretary, I 
had been privy to all the details, and I continued 
therefore to assist him in his subsequent proceed- 
ings. 

My father and myself materially differed as to 
the course expedient to be pursued. He flattered 
himself that every thing might be brought about by 
negotiation, in which he was indeed unrivalled, 
and he often expatiated to me on the evident im- 
possibility of the king having recourse to any other 
measures. For myself, when I remembered the 
time that had already passed without in any way 
advancing our desires, and believed, which I did 
most firmly, that the conduct of the great continen- 
tal powers in this comparatively unimportant affair 
was only an indication of their resolution to pro- 
mote the system on which they had based all the 
European relations — I myself could not refrain from 
expressing a wish to adopt a very different and far 
more earnest conduct. 

In this state of affairs I was one day desired by 
my father to attend hiin at a secret conference with 
the ambassadors of the great powers. My father 
flattered himself that he might this day obtain his 
long-desired end, and so interested was the mo- 
narch in the progress, as well as the result, of our 
conslutations, that he resolved to be present him- 
self, although incognito. 

The scene of the conference was the same palace 
whither my father had been summoned to receive 
the notification of his appointment as first minister. 

I can well recall the feelings with which, on the 
morning of the conference, I repaired to the palace 
with my father. We were muffled up in our pe- 
Ibses, for the air was very sharp, but the sun was 
not without influence, and shone with great bril- 



liancy. There are times when I am influenced by 
a species of what I may term happy audacity, for it 
is a mixture of recklessness and self-confidence 
which has a very felicitous effect upon the animal 
spirits. At these moments, I never calculate con- 
sequences, yet every thing seems to go right. I 
feel in good fortune — the ludicrous side of every 
thing occurs to me, — I think of nothing but gro- 
tesque images, — I astonish people by bursting into 
laughter, apparently without a cause. Whatever 
is submitted to me I turn into ridicule. I shrug 
my shoulders and speak epigrams. 

I was in one of these moods to-day. My fither 
covdd not comprehend me. He was very serious, 
but instead of sympathizing with all his grave hopes 
and dull fears, I did nothing but ridicule their ex- 
cellencies, whom we were going to meet, and per- 
form to him an imaginary conference, in which he 
also figured. 

V/e arrived at the palace. I became a little so- 
bered. My father went to the king. I entered a 
large Gothic hall, where the conference was to 
take place. It was a fine room, hung with trophies, 
and principally lighted by a large Gothic window. 
At the farther end, near the fire, and portioned off 
by a large Indian screen, was a round table, covered 
with green cloth, and surrounded by seats. The 
Austrian minister arrived. I walked up and down 
the hall with him for some minutes, ridiculing di- 
plomacy. He was one of those persons who believe 
you have a direct object in every thing you say, 
and my contradictory opinions upon all subjects 
were to him a fruitful source of puzzled meditation. 
He thought I was one whose words ought to be 
marked, and I believe that my nonsense has often 
occasioned him a sleepless night. The other minis- 
ters soon assembled, and in a few minutes, a small 
door opened at the top of the h;ill, and the king and 
my fattier appeared. We bowed, and took our 
seats, I, being secretary, seated myself at the desk, 
to take notes for the drawing up of the protocols. 

We believed that the original idea of considering 
the great treaties as only a guaranty to the indivi- 
dual, and not to his successors, originated at Vienna. 
Indeed, it was the early acquaintance of my father 
with the Austrian minister that first assisted him 
in ascertaining this intention. We believed that 
the Russian cabinet had heartily entered into this 
new reading, that Prussia supported it only in de- 
ference to the court of St. Petersburgh, and that 
France was scarcely reconciled to the proposed 
derangement by the impression that it naturally 
assisted those principles of government by a recur- 
rence to which the cabinet of Versailles then be- 
gan to be convinced they could alone maintain 
themselves. 

Such had been our usual view of the state of 
opinion with respect to this question. It had been 
the object of my father to induce the French court 
to join with that of St. James's in a strong demon- 
stration in favour of the present system, and to 
indicate, in* the event of that demonstration being 
fruitless, the possibility of their entering with the 
king into a tripartite party treaty, framed in pursu- 
ance of the spirit of the invalidated one. He 
trusted that to-day this demonstration would be 
made. 

We entered into business. The object of our 
opponents was to deny that the tendency of certain 
acts, of which we complained, was inimical to the 
present dynasty, but to refrain from proving their 



392 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



sincerity, by asf?enting to a new guaranty, on the 
plea tliat it was unnecessary, since the treaties 
must express all that was intended. Hours were 
wasted in multiplied discussions as to the meaning 
of particular clauses in particular treaties, and as to 
precedents to justify particular acts. Hours. were 
wasted, for we did not advance. At length my fa- 
ther recurred to the sinrit, rather tlian the letter of 
the affair, and in urging the necessity for the peace 
of Europe and other high causes, that this aflair 
should be settled without delay, he gave an excel- 
lent opportunity for the friends he had anticipated 
to come forward. They spoke, but indeed it was 
very vague and unsatisfactory. I marked the lip 
of the Austrian minister curl as if in derision, and 
the Russian arranged his papers as if all now were 
finished. 

I knew my father well enough by this time to be 
convinced that, in spite of his apparently unaltered 
mien, he was l)itter!y disappointed and annoyed. 
The king looked gloomy. There was a perfect si- 
lence. It was so awkward that the Austrian minister 
inquired of me the date of a particular treaty, merely 
to break the dead pause. I did not immediately 
answer him. 

The whole morning my fancy had been busied 
with the most grotesque images. I had never 
been a moment impressed with the gravity of the 
proceedings. The presence of the king alone pre- 
vented me from constant raillery. When I recol- 
lected the exact nature of the business on which we 
were assembled, and then called to mind the cha- 
racters who took part in the discussion, I could 
scarcely refrain from laughter. " Voltaire would 
soon settle this," I thought, " and send Messieurs 
the Austrian, and the Russian, and the Prussian, 
with their nmstachios, and hussar jackets, and furs, 
to their own country. What business have they 
to interfere with ours V I was strongly impressed 
with the tyrannical injustice and wicked folly of 
the whole transaction. The great diplomatists 
appeared to me so many wild beasts ready to 
devour our innocent lamb of a sovereign, par- 
leying only from jealousy who should first attack 
him. 

The Austrian minister repeated his question as 
to the treaty. " It matters not," I replied ; " let us 
now proceed to business." He looked a little sur- 
prised. "Gentlemen," I continued, "you must be 
quite aware, that this is the last conference his 
majesty can permit us to hold upon a subject which 
ought never to have been discussed. The case is 
very simj)Ie, and demands but little consideration. 
If the guaranty we justly require be not granted, 
his majesty mast have recourse to a popular appeal. 
We have no fear about the result. We are pre- 
pared for it. His majesty will acquire anew, and, 
if possible, a stronger title to his crown, and see 
what you will occasion by your squeamishness to 
uuthenticate the right of a sovereign, who, although 
not the offspring of a dynasty, acquire^ his throne 
not by the voice of the peojjle, and has been con- 
Btantly recognised by all your courts ; you will be 
the direct cause of a most decided democratic 
demonstration in the election of a king by the peo- 
l)lc alone. For us, tbe result has no terrors. Your 
sxcellencies are the best judges whether your royal 
aasters possess any territories in our vicinity 
which mav bcu noculated with our dangerous exam- 
ple." 

I was astcnndcd by my audacity. Not till I had 



ceased speaking had I been aware of what I had 
dared to do. Once I shot a rapid glance at my 
father. His eyes were tixed on the ground, and I 
thought a little pale. As I withdrew my glance, I 
caught the king's fiery eye, but its expression did 
not discourage me. 

It is difficult to convey an idea of the success of 
my boldness. It could not enter the imagination 
of the diplomatists that any one could dare to 
speak, and particularly under such circumstances, 
without instructions and without authority. They 
looked upon me only as the mouthpiece of the royal 
intentions. They were alarmed at our great, and un- 
wonted, and unexpected resolution, at the extreme 
danger and invisible results of our purposes. The 
English and French ministers, who watched every 
turn, made a vehement representation in our favour, 
and the conference broke up with an expression of 
irresolution and surprise in the countenances of our 
antagonists, quite unusual with them; and which 
promised a speedy attainment of the satisfactory 
arrangement which shortly afterwards took place. 

The conference broke up, my father retired with 
the king, and desired me to wait for him in the hall. 
I was alone. I was excited. I felt the triumph 
of success. I felt that I had done a great action. I 
felt all my energies. I walked up and down the 
hall in a frenzy of ambilion, and I thirsted for 
action. There seemed to me no achievement of 
which I was not capable, and of which I was not 
ambitious. In imagination I shook thrones and 
founded empires. I felt myself a being born to 
breathe in an atmosphere of revolution. 

My father came not. Time wore away, and the 
day died. It was one of those stern sublime sun- 
sets, which is almost the only appearance in the 
north, in which nature enchanted me. I stood at 
the window gazing at the burnished masses that, 
for a moment, were suspended, in their fleeting 
and capricious beauty, on the far horizon. I turned 
aside and looked on the rich trees suffused with 
the erimson light, and ever and anon irradiated by 
the dying shoots of a golden ray. The deer were 
stealing home to their bowers, and I watched them 
till their golden and glancing forms gradually lost 
their lustre in the declining twilight. The glory 
had now departed, and all grew dim. A solitary 
star atone was shining in the gi'ay sky, a bright 
and solitary star. 

And. as I gazed upon the sunset, and the star, 
and the dim beauties of the coming eve, my mind 
grew calm. And all the bravery of my late revery 
passed away. And I felt indeed a disgust for all the 
worldliness on which I hail been lately pondering. 
And there arose in my mind a desire to create things 
beautiful as that golden sun, and that glittering 
star. 

I heard my name. The hall was now dark- 
ened. In the distance stood my father. I joined 
him. He placed his arm affectionately in mine, 
and said to me, " My son, you will be prime 
minister of * * * * *; perhaps something greater." 

XIV. 

As we drove home, every thing seemed changed 
since the morning. My father was in high spirits, 
for him, even elated : I, on the contrary, was silent 
and thoughtful. This evening there was a ball at 
the p;rlace,, which, altlnjugli little inclined, I felt 
obliged to attend. 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



393 



T arrived late ; the king was surrounded by a 
brilliant circle, and conversing with his usual fe- 
licitous affability. I would have withdrawn when 
I had made my obeisance, but his majesty advanced 
a step, and immediately addressed me. He con- 
versed with me for some time. Few men possess 
a more captivating address than this sovereign. It 
was difficult at all times not to feel charmed, and 
now I was conscious that this mark of his favour 
recognised no ordinary claims to his confidence. I 
was the object of admiring envy. That night there 
were few in those saloons, crowded with the flower 
of the land, who did not covet my position. I 
alone was insensible to it. A vision of high 
mountains and deep blue lakes mingled with all the 
artificial splendour that dazzled around. I longed 
to roam amid the solitude of nature, and disburthen 
a mind teeming with creative sympathy. 

I drew near a group which the pretty Baroness 
Engel was addressing with more than her usual 
animation. When she caught my eye, she beck- 
oned me to join her, and said, " ! Count Contarini, 
have you read Manstein 1" 

" Manstein," I said, in a careless tone, " what is 
itr' 

" ! you must get it directly. The oddest book 
that ever was written. We are all in it, we are all 
in it." 

" I hope not." 

" 0, yes ! all of us, all of us. I have not had 
time to make out the characters, I read it so quickly. 
My man only sent it to me this morning. I must 
get a key. Now you, who are so clever, make me 
one." 

" I will look at it, if you really recommend me." 

" You must look at it. It is the oddest book 

that was ever written. Immensely clever, I assure 

you, immensely clever. I cannot exactly make it 

out." 

" That is certainly much in its favour. The ob- 
scure, as you know, is a principal ingredient of the 
sublime." 

" How odd you are ! But really, now, Count 
Contarini, get Manstein. Every one must read it. 
As for your illustrious principal. Baron deBragnaes 
— he is really hit off to the life."' 

" Indeed I" I said, with concealed consternation. 
" O ! no one can mistake it. I thought I should 
have died with laughing. But we are all there. I 
am sure I know the author." 

" W'ho is iti who is it?" eagerly inquired the 
group. 

" I do not hnniv, mind," observed the baroness. 
" It is only conjecture, merely a conjecture. But I 
always find out evei-ybody." 

" I that you do," said the group. 
" Yes, I find them out by the style." 
" How clever you arc !" exclaimed the group, 
"but who is if!" 

" 0, I shall not betray him. Only I am quite 
convinced I know who it is." 

" Pray, pray, tell us," entreated the group. 
" You need not look around, Matilda, he is not 
here. A friend of yours, Contarini. I thought 
that young Moskoffsky was in a great hurry to run 
off to St. Petersburg. And he has left us a legacy. 
We are all in it, I assure you," she exclaimed, to 
the one nearest, in an under, but decisive tone. 

I breathed again. " Young Moskoffsky ! To be 
sure il is," I observed, with an air of tlioughtful 
con viol ion. 

50 



" To be sure it is. Without reading a line, 1 
have no doubt of it. I suspected that he meditated 
something. I must get Manstein directly, if it be 
by young Moskoffsky. Any thing that young 
Moskoffsky writes must be worth reading. What 
an exceffent letter he writes ! You are my oracle, 
Baroness Engel ; I have no doubt of your discrimi- 
nation ; but I suspect that a certain correspondence 
with a brilliant young Muscovite has assisted you 
in your discovery." 

" Be contented," rejoined the baroness, with a 
smile of affected mystery and pique, " that there is 
one who can enlighten you, and be not curious as 
to the source. Ah ! there is Countess Norberg — 
how well she looks to-night !" 

I walked away to salute Christiana. As I moved 
through the elegant crowd, my nervous ear con- 
stantly caught half phrases, which often made me 
linger. " Very satirical — very odd — very personal 
— very odd, indeed — what can it all be about ■? 
Do you know 1 No, I do not — do you ] Baroness 
Eui^el — all in it — must get it — very witty — very 
flippant. Who can it be? Young Moskoffsky. 
Read it at once without stopping — never read any 
thing so odd — ran off" to St. Petersburgh — always 
thought him very clever. W^ho can the Duke of 
Twaddle mean 1 Ah ! to be sure — I wonder it did 
not occur to me." 

I joined Christiana. I waltzed with her. I was 
on the point, once or twice, of asking her if she 
had read " Manstein," but did not dare. After the 
dance we walked away. Mademoiselle de Moltke, 
who, although young, was not charming, but very 
intellectual, and who affected to think me a great 
genius, because I had pasquinaded her father, 
stopped us. 

" My dear countess, how do you do 1 You look 
most delightfully to-night. Count Contarini, have 
you read Manstein ? You never read any thing ! 
How can you say so ] but you always say such 
things. You must read Manstein. Everybody 
is reading it. It is full of imagination, and very 
personal — very personal, indeed. Baroness Engel 
says we are all in it. You are there. You are 
Horace de Beaufort, who thinks every thing and 
everybody a bore — exactly like you, count, exactly 
— what I have always said of you. Adieu! mind 
you get Manstein, and then come and talk it over 
with me. Now do, that's a good creature I" And 
this talkative Titania tripped away. 

" You are wearied, Christiana, and these rooms 
are insuft"erably hot. You had better sit down." 

We seated ourselves in a retired part of the 
room. I observed an unusual smile upon the face 
of Christiana. Suddenly she said, with a slight 
flush, and not without emotion, " I shall not betray 
you, Contarini, but I am convince'd that you are 
the author of Manstein." 

I was very agitated — I could not immediately 
speak. I was ever different to Christiana to what 
I was to other people. I could not feign to her. 
I could not dissemble. My heart always opened 
to hei-, and it seemed to me almost blasphemy to 
address her in any other language but truth. 

"You know ms better than all others, Chris- 
tiana. Indeed, you alone know me. But I would 
sooner hear that any one was considered the author 
of Manstein than myself." 

" You need not fear that I shall be indiscreet, but 
rest assured it cannot long be a secre*." 

"Indeed !" I said: " why not 1" 



394 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" O ! Contarini, it is too like," 

" Like whom V 

" Nay ! you affect ignorance." 

"Upon my honour, Christiana, I do not. Have 
the kindness to believe that there is at least one 
person in the world to whom I am not affected. 
If you mean that Manstein is a picture of myself, 
I can assure you most solemnly that I never less 
thought of myself than when I drew it. I thought 
it was an ideal character." 

" It is that very circumstance that occasions the 
resemblance ; for you, Contarini, whatever you 
may appear in this room, you are an ideal cha- 
racter." 

*' You'Jiave read it1" I asked. 

" I have read it," she answered, seriously. 

"And yoH do not admire it? I feel you do 
not. Nay f conceal nothing from me, Christiana. 
1 can bear truth." 

" I admire its genius, Contarini. I wish that I 
could speak with equal approbation of its judgment. 
It will, I fear, make you many enemies." 

" You astonish me, Christiana, I do not care 
for enemies. I care for nobody but for you. But 
why should it make me enemies?" 

" I hope I am mistaken. It is very possible I am 
mistaken. I know not why I talk upon such sub- 
jects. It is foolish — it is impertinent ; but the in- 
terest, the deep interest I have always taken in 
you, Contarini, occasions this conversation, and 
must excuse it." 

" Dear Christiana, how good, how very good 
you are !" 

" And all these people whom you have ridiculed 
— surely, Contarini, you have enough already who 
envy you — surely, Contarmi, it was most impru- 
dent !'' 

"People ridiculed! I ijever meant to ridicule 
any person in particular. I wrote with rapidity. 
I wrote of what I had seen and what I felt. There 
:s nothing but truth in it." 

" You are not in a position, Contarini, to speak 
truth." 

" Then I must be in a very miserable position, 
Christiana." 

" You are what you arc, Contarini. All must 
admire you. You are in a very envied, I will hope, 
a very enviable position." 

"Alas! Christiana, I am the most miserable fel- 
low that breathes upon this broad world." 

She was silent. 

" Dearest Christiana," I continued, " I speak to 
you as I would speak to no other person. Think 
not that I am one of those who deem it interesting 
to be considered unhappy. Such trifiing I despise. 
What I say to j'ou I would not conf'ss to another 
human being. Among these people my vanity 
would be injured to be considered miserable. But 
I am unhappy, really tmhappy, most desolately 
wretched. Enviable position ! But an hour since 
I was meditating how I could extricate myself from 
it! Alas! Christiana, I cannot ask you for coun- 
sel, for I know not what I desire, what I could 
wish ; but I feel — each hour I feel more keenly, 
and never more keenly than when I am with you, 
that I was not made for this life, nor this life for me." 

'* I cannot advise you, Contarini. What — what 
can I advise? But I am unhappy to find that you 
are. I grieve, I grieve deeply, that one ap|)arently 
with all that can make him happy, should still miss 
felicity. You are yet very young, Contarini, and 



I cannot but believe that you will still attain all you 
desire, and all that you deserve." 

"I desire nothing. I know not what I want 
All that I know is, that what I possess I abhor." 

" Ah ! Contarini, beware of your imagination." 

XV. 

The storm that had been apprehended by the 
prescient affection of Christiana surely burst. I do 
not conceive that niy publisher betrayed me. I be- 
lieve internal evidejice settled the alTair. In a fort- 
night it was acknowledged by all that I was the 
author of" Manstein," and all were surprised that 
this authorship could, for a moment, have been a 
question. I can give no idea of the outciy. Every- 
body was in a passion — affected to be painfully 
seTisitive of their neighbours' wrongs. The very 
personality was ludicrously exaggerated. Every- 
body took a delight in detecting the originals of ray 
portraits. Various keys were handed about, all 
different, and not content with recognising the very 
few decided sketches from life there really were, 
and which were sufficiently obvious, and not very 
malignant, they mischievously insisted, that not a 
human shadow glided over my pages which might 
not be traced to its substance, and protested that 
the Austrian minister was the model of an old 
woman. 

Those who were ridiculed insisted that the rid'" 
cule called in question the very first principles of 
society. They talked of confidence violated which 
never had been shared, and faith broken which 
never had been pledged. Never was so much non- 
sense talked about nothing since the days of the 
schoolmen. But nonsense, when earnest, is im- 
pressive, and sometimes takes you in. If you are 
in a hurry, you occasionally mistake it for sense. 

All the people who had read " Manstein," and 
been very much amused with it, began to think 
they were quite wrong, and that it was a very im- 
proper and wicked book, because this was daily 
reiterated in their ears by half a dozen bores, who 
had gained an immortality which they did not de- 
serve. Such conduct, it was universally agreed, 
must not be encouraged. Where would it end 1 
Everybody was alarmed. Men passed me in the 
street vs'ithout notice — I received anonymous letters 
— and even many of my intimates grew cold. As 
I abhor explanations, I said nothing; and although 
I was disgusted with the folly of much that I heard, 
I contradicted nothing, however ridiculously false, 
and felt confident that, in time, the world would 
discover that they had been gulled iato fighting the 
battle of a few individuals whom they despised. I 
found even a savage delight in being an object, for 
a moment, of public astonishment, and fear, and 
indignation. But the affair getting at last trouble- 
some, I fought young De Bragnaes with swords in 
the Deer Park, and having succeeded in pinking 
him, it was discovered that I was more amiable. 
For tiic rest, out of my immediate circle, the work 
had been from the first decidedly successful. 

In all this not very agreeable affair, I was de- 
lighted by the conduct of Christiana. Although 
she seriously disapproved of what was really ob- 
jectionable in "Manstein," and although she was 
of so modest and quiet a temper, that she unwil- 
lingly exercised that infiuence in society to which 
her rank, and fortune, and rare accomplishments 
entitled her, she suddenly became my most active 



C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 



395 



an J violent partisan, ridiculed the pretended wrons? 
and mock propriety that echoed around her, and 
declaring that the author of " Mansteiri" had only 
been bold enough to print that which all repeated, 
tullie<l them on their hypocrisy. Baroness En- 
gel also was faithful, althoun;h a little jealous of 
Ihe zeal of Christiana, and between them they 
faughed down the cabal, and so entirely turned the 
public feeling, that in less than a month it was 
universally agreed that " Manstcin" was a most 
delightful book, and the satire, as they daintily 
phrased it, " perfectly allowable." 

Amid all this tumult my father was silent. 
From no look, from no expression of his, could I 
gain a hint either of his approval or his disappro- 
bation. I could not ascertain even if he had seen 
the book. The Countess Fleming of course read 
it immediately, and had not the slightest concep- 
tion of what it was about. Wlien she heard it was 
by me, she read it again, and was still more puz- 
zled, but told me she was delighted. When the 
uproar took place, instead of repeating, which she 
often did, all the opinions she had caught, she be- 
came quite silent, and the volumes disappeared 
from her table. The storm blew over, and no bolt 
had shivered me, and the volumes crept forth from 
their jnysterious retirement. 

About two months after the publication of 
" Manstcin," appeared a new number of the great 
critical journal of the north of Europe. One of 
the works reviewed was my notorious production. 
I tore open the leaves with a blended feeling of 
desire and fear, which I can yet remember. I felt 
prepared for the worst. I felt that such grave cen- 
sors, how'ever impossible it was to deny the decided 
genius of the work, and however eager they might 
be to hail the advent of an original mind, — I felt 
that it was but reasonable and just that they should 
disapprove of the temper of the less elevated por- 
tions, and somewhat dispute the moral tendency of 
the more exalted. 

With what horror, with what blank despair, 
with what supreme, appalling astonishment, did I 
find myself, for the fir^4t time in my life, a subject 
of the most reckless, the most malignant, and the 
most adroit ridicule. I was scarified — I was 
scalped. They scarcely condescended to notice 
my dreadful satire except to remark, in passing, 
by-the-by, I appeared to be as ill-tempered as I was 
imbecile. But all my eloquence, and all my fancy, 
and all the strong expression of my secret feehngs 
— these ushers of the court of Apollo fairly 
laughed rae ofl' Parnassus, and held me up to 
public scorn, as exhibiting the most lamentable 
instance of mingled pretension and weakness, and 
the most ludicrous specimen of literary delusion 
that it had ever been their unhappy office to casti- 
gate, and, as they hoped, to cure. 

The criticism fell from my hand. A film floated 
over my vision, my knees trembled. I felt that 
sickness of heart that we experience in our first 
serious scrape. I was ridiculous. It was time to 
die. 

What did it signify ] What was authorship to 
me 1 What did I care for their flimsy fame, — I, 
who yet not of age, was an important functionaiy 
of the state, and who might look to its highest 
confidence and honours. It was really too ludi- 
crous. I tried to laugh. I did smile very bitterly. 
'I'iie insolence of these fellows ! Whj- ! if I could 



not write, surely I was not a fool. I had done 
something. Nobody thought me a fool. On the 
contrary, everybody thought me a rather extraor- 
dinary person. What would they think now 1 I 
felt a qualm. 

I buried my hce in my hands. I summoned 
my thoughts to their last struggle. I penetrated 
into my very soul — and I felt the conviction, that 
literary creation was necessary to my existence, 
and that for it I was formed. And all the beauti- 
ful and dazzling forms that had figured in my 
youthful visions rose up before me, crowned mo- 
narchs, and radiant heroes, and women brighter 
than day, but their looks were mournful, and they 
extended their arms with deprecating anguish, as 
if to entreat me not to desert them. And in the 
magnificence of my emotions, and the beauty of 
my visions, the worldly sarcasms that had lately 
so shaken me, seemed something of another and a 
lower existence, and I marvelled that, for a mo- 
ment, this thin, transient cloud could have sha- 
dowed the sunshine of my soul. And I arose, and 
lifted up my arm to heaven, and waved it like a 
banner, and I swore by the nature that I adored, 
that in spite of all opposition I would be an au- 
thor, ay ! the greatest of authors, and that far 
climes and distant ages should respond to the ma- 
gic of my sympathetic page. 

The agony was past. I mused in cahnness over 
the plans that I should pursue. I determined to 
ride down to my father's castle, and there mature 
them in solitude. Haunt of my early boyhood, 
fragrant bower of Egeria, sweet spot where I first 
scented the bud of my spring-like fancy, willingly 
would I linger in thy green retreats, no more to be 
wandered over by one who now feels that he was 
ungrateful to thy beauty I 

Now that I had resolved, at all costs, to quit my 
country, and to rescue myself from the fatal society 
in which I was placed, my impartial intelligence, 
no longer swayed by the conscious impossibility 
of emancipation, keenly examined and ascertained 
the precise nature and condition of my character. 
I perceived myself a being educated in systematic 
prejudice. I observed that I was the slave of 
custom, and never viewed any incident in relation 
to man in general, but only with reference to the 
particular and limited class of society of which I 
was a member. I recognised myself as selfish and 
afi'ected. I was entirely ignorant of the principles 
of genuine morality, and I deeply felt that there 
was a total want of nature in every thing connected 
with me. I had been educated without any regard 
to my particular, or to my general nature ; I had 
nothing to assist me in my knov/ledge of myself, 
and nothing to guide me in my conduct to others. 
The consequence of my unphilosophical education 
was my utter wretchedness. 

I determined to re-educate myself. Conceiving 
myself a poet, I resolved to pursue a course which 
should develope and perfect my poetic power; and 
never forgetting that I was a man, I was equally 
earnest in a study of human nature to discover a 
code of lawa which sliould regulate my intercourse 
with my fellow-creatures. For both these subUme 
purposes, it was necessary that I should form a 
comprehensive acquaintance with nature in all its 
varieties and conditions ; and I resolved therefore 
to travel. I intended to detail all these feelings to 
my father, to conceal nothing from him, and re- 



396 



D'ISRAELI S NOVELS. 



quest his approbation and assistance. In the event 
of his opposition, I should depart witliout his sanc- 
tion, for to depart I was resolved. 

I remained a week at the castle, musing over 
these projects, and entirely neglecting my duties, 
in the fuliihncnt of which, ever since the publica- 
tion of " Manstein," I had been very remiss. Sud- 
denly, I received a summons from my father to 
epair to him without a moment's delay. 

I hurried up to town, and hastened to his office. 
He was not there, but expecting me at home. I 
found him busied with his private secretary, and 
apparently very much engaged. He dismissed his 
secretary immediately, and then said, " Contarini, 
they are rather troublesome in Norway. I leave 
town instantly for Bergen with the king. I regret 
it, because wv. shall not see eacli other for some 
little time. His majesty has hud the goodness, 
Contai'ini, to appoint you secretary of legation at 
the court of London. Your appointment takes 
place at once, but I have obtained you leave of 
absence for a year. You will spend this attached 
to the legation at Paris. I wish you to be well 
acquainted with the French f)eople before you join 
their neighbours. In France and England you 
will see two great practical nations. It will do 
you good. I am soiry that I am so deeply en- 
gaged now. My chasseur, Lausanne, will travel 
with you. He is the best traveUiiig servant in the 
world. He served me when I was your E<ge. He 
ic one of the few people in whom I. have unlimited 
confidence. He is not only clever, but he is judi- 
cious. You will write to me as often as you can. 
Strclamb," and here he rang the bell, " Strelamb 
has prepared all necessary letters and bills for you." 
Here the functionary entered : " Mr. Strelamb," 
said my father, " while you explain those papers to 
Count Contarini, I will write to the Duke of 
Montfort." 

I did not listen to the private secretary, I was so 
astonished. My father, in two minutes, had finished 
his letter. " This may be useful to you, Contarini. 
It is to an old friend, and a powerful man. I would 
not lose time about your departure, Contarini. Mr. 
Strelamb, is there no answer from Baron Engel !" 

" My lord, the carriage waits," announced a 
servant. 

" I must go. Adieu ! Contarini. Write when 
you arrive at Paris. Mr. Strelamb, see Baron 
Engel to-night, and send me off a courier with his 
answer. Adieu! Contarini." 

He extended me his hand. I touched it very 
slightly. I never spoke. I was thunderstruck. 

Suddenly I started up and rang the bell. " Send 
me Lausanne !" I told the servant. 

Lausanne appeared. Had my astonishment not 
been excited by a greater cause, I might have felt 
considerable suqirise at my father delegating to me 
his confidential domestic. Lausanne was a Swiss, 
about my father's age, with a frame of iron, and all 
the virtues of his mountains. He was, I believe, 
the only person in whom my flither placed implicit 
trust. But I thought not of this then. " Lausainie, 
I understand you are now in my service." 

He bowed. 

" I have no doubt I shall find cause to confirm 
the coiilidence which you have enjoyed in our 
house for more than twenty years. Is every thing 
ready for my departure"!" 

" I had no idea that your excellency had any 
immediate intention to depart." 



"I should like to be off to-night, good Lausanne, 
Ay ! this very hour. When can I go 1" 

" Your excellency's wardrobe must be prepared. 
Your excellency has not given Carl any direc- 
tions." 

" None. I do not mean to take him. I shall 
travel only with you." 

" Your excellency's wardrobe — " 

" May be sufficiently prepared in an hour, and 
Paris must supply the rest. In a word, liausanne, 
can I leave this place by daybreak to-morrow 1 
Think only of what is necessary. Show some of 
your old energy." 

"Your excellency may rest assured," said Lau- 
sanne, after some reflection, " that every thing will 
be prepared by that time." 

"It is well. Is the countess at home 1" 

" The Countess quitted town yesterday on a visit 
to the Countess de Norbcrg." 

" The Countess de Norbcrg ! I should have 
seen her too. Go, Lausanne, and be punctual. 
Carl will give you the keys. The Countess de 
Norbcrg, Christiana ! — Yes ! I should have seen 
her. Ah ! It is as well. I have no friends, and 
my adieus are brief let them not be tutter. Fare- 
well to the father that has no feeling, and thou, tec, 
Scandinavia, stern soil in which I have too long 
lingered — think of me hereafter as of some exotic 
bird, who for a moment lost its way in your cold 
heaven, but now has regained its course, andwiriga 
its flight to a more brillianf earth and a brighter 
sky I" 



PART THE THIRD. 

I. 

On' the eighteenth day of August, one thousand 
eight hundred and twenty-six, I praise the Almighty 
Giver of all goodness, that, standing upon the 
height of Mount Jura, I beheld the whole range of 
the High Alps, with Mont Blanc in the centre, 
without a cloud : a mighty spectacle rarely beheld, 
for, on otherwise cloudless days, these sublime 
elevations are usually veiled. 

I accepted this majestic vision as a good omen. 
It seemed that nature received me in her fullest 
charms. I was for some time so entranced that I 
did not observe the spreading and shining scene 
that opened far beneath me. The mountains, in 
ranges, gradually diminishing, terminated in iso- 
lated masses, whose enormous forms, in deep shade, 
beautifully contrasted with the glittering glaciers 
of the higher peaks, and rose out of a plain covered 
with fair towns and bright chateaux', embosomed 
in woods of chestnut, and vines festooning in 
orchards and corn-fields. Through the centre of 
the plain, a deep blue lake wound its way, which, 
viewed from the height of Jura, seemed like a 
purple girdle carelessly throvi'n upon some imperial 
rol)e. 

I had remained in Paris only a few days, and, 
without offering any exi)lanati/)n to our minister, 
or even signifying my intention to Lausatnie, had 
quitted that city with the determination of reaching 
Venice without delay. Now that it is ])robable I 
may never again cross the mountains, I often regret 
that I neglected this opportunity of becoming more 
acquainted with the French people. My head was 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



397 



then full of fantasies, and I looked upon the French 
as an anti-poetical nation ; but I have since often 
regretted that I neglected this opportunity of be- 
coming acquainted with a race who exercise so 
powerful an influence over civilization. 

I had thought of Switzerland only as of a rude 
barriei between me and the fair object of my de- 
sires. The impression tlmt this extraordinary 
country made upon me was perhaps increased by 
my previous thoughts having so little brooded over 
its idea. It was in Switzerland that I first felt how 
constantly to contemplate sublime creation deve- 
lopes the poetic power. It was here that I first 1)6- 
gan to study nature. Those forests of black gi- 
gantic pines rising out of the deep snows ; those tall 
white cataracts leaping like headstrong youth into 
the world, and dashing from their precijiiccs as if 
allured by the beautiful delusion of their own rain- 
bow mist ; those mighty clouds sailing beneath my 
feet, or clinging to the bosoms of the dark green 
mountains, or boiling up like a spell from the in- 
visible and unfathomable depths.; the fell avalanche, 
fleet as a spirit of evil, terrific when its sound sud- 
denly breaks upon the almighty silence, scarcely 
less terrible when we gaze upon its crumbling and 
pallid frame, varied only by the presence of one or 
two blasted firs; the head of a mountain loosening 
from its brother peak, rooting up, in the roar of its 
rapid rush, a whole forest of pines, and covering 
the earth for miles with elephantine masses ; the 
supernatural ext-ent of landsca[)e that opens to us 
new worlds ; the strong eagles, and the strange 
wild birds that suddenly cross you in your path, and 
stare, and shrieking fly — and all the soft sights of 
joy and loveliness that mingle with these sublime 
and savage spectacles, the rich pastures, and the 
numerous flocks, and the golden bees, and the wild 
flowers, and the carved and painted cottages, and 
the simple manners and the primeval grace — 
wherever I moved, I was in turn appalled or en- 
chanted, but whatever I beheld, new images ever 
sprang up in my mind, and new feelings ever crowded 
on my fancy. 

There is something magical in the mountain air. 

My heart is light, my spirits cheerful, every thing 
is exhilarating. I am in every respect a dilferent 
being to what I am in lowlands. I cannot ev^n 
think, I dissolve into a delicious revery, in which 
every thing occurs to me without ellbrt. Whatever 
passes before me gives birth in my mind to a new 
character, a new image, a new train of fancies. I 
sing, I shout, I compose aloud, but without premedi- 
tation, without any attempt to guide my imagina- 
tion by my reason. How often, after journeying 
along the wild mule-track, how often, on a sunny 
day, have I suddenly thrown myself upon the turf, 
revelled in my existence, and then as hastily jumped 
up and raised the wild birds with a wilder scream. 
I think that these involuntary bursts must have 
been occasioned by the unconscious influence of 
extreme health. As for myself, when I succeed 
in faintly recalling the rapture which I have expe- 
rienced in these solitary rambles, and muse over the 
flood of fancy which then seemed to pour itself over 
my whole being, and gush out of every feeling and 
every object, I contrast with mortification those 
warm and pregnant hours with this cold record of 
my maturer age. 

I remember that when I flrst attempted to write, 
I had a great desire to indulge in simile, and that I 
oever could succeed in gratifying my wish. This 



inability, more than any other circumstance, con 
vinced me that I was not a poet. Even in " Man- 
stein," Vv'hich was written in a storm, and without 
any reflection, there are, I believe, few images, and 
those probably are all copied from books. That 
which surprised and gratified me most, when roving 
about Switzerland, was the sudden developement 
which took place of the faculty of illustrating my 
thoughts and feelings. Every object that crossed 
me in some way associated itself with my moral 
emotions. Not a mountain, or lake, or river, not 
a tree, or flower, or bird, that did not blend with 
some thought, or fancy, or passion, and become the 
lively personification of conceptions that lie sleeping 
in abstraction. 

It is singular that, with all this, I never felt any 
desire to write. I never thought of writing. I 
never thought of the future, or of man, or fame. I 
was content to exist. I began I'rom this moment to 
suspect, what I have since learned firmly to believe, 
that the sense of existence is the greatest happiness, 
and that deprived of every worldly advantage, which 
is supposed so necessary to our felicity, life, pro- 
vided a man be not immured in a dungeon, must 
nevertheless be inexpressibly delightful. If, in strik- 
ing the balance of sensation, misery were found to 
predominate, no human being would permit himself 
to exist ; but however vast may be the wretched- 
ness occasioned to us by the accidents of life, the 
certain sum of happiness, which is always supplied 
by our admirably contrived being, ever supports us 
under the burden. Those who are sufficiently in- 
terested with my biography to proceed with it, will 
find, as they advance, that this is a subject on which 
I am qualified to oiler an opinion. 

I returned from these glowing rambles to my 
head-quarters, which was usually Geneva. I re- 
turned like the bees laden with treasure. I mused 
over all the beautiful images that had occurred to 
me, and all the new characters that had risen in my 
mind, and all the observations of nature which 
hereafter would perhaps permit me to delineate 
what was beautiful. For the moment that I mingled 
again with men I wished to influence them. But 
I had no immediate or definite intention of appeal- 
ing to their sympathies. Each hour I was more 
conscious of the long apprenticeship that was ne- 
cessary in the cunning craft for which, I conceived, 
I possessed a predisposition. I thought of " Man- 
stein'' as of a picture painted by a madman in the 
dark, and when I remembered that crude perform- 
ance, and gazed upon the beauty, and the harmony, 
and the fitting parts of the great creations around 
me, my cheek has often burned even in solitude. 

In these moments rather of humility than despond- 
ence, I would fly for consolation to the blue waters 
of that beautiful lake, whose shores have ever been the 
favourite haunt of genius, the fair and gentle Leman. 

Nor is there indeed in nature a sigi:i more lovely 
than to watch at decline of day the last embrace of 
the sun lingering on the rosy glaciers of the White 
Mountain. Soon, too soon the great luminary dies, 
the warm peaks subside into purple, and then die 
into a ghostly white; but soon, ah ! not too soon, 
the moon springs up from behind a mountain, flings 
over the lake a stream of light, and the sharp gla- 
ciers glitter lilie silver. 

I have often passed the whole night upon these 

enchanted waters, contemplating their beautiful 

variety ; and, indeed, if any thing can console one 

for the absence of the moon and stars, it would bo 

8L 



398 



D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. 



^reat 



to watch the lightning, on a dark night, on tliis 1 other one of myself. And my guide turned his 

superb lake. It is incessant, and sometimes in four head, and pointing to the pamtings, said, " You 

or five ditferent places at the same time. In the 

morning, Leman loses its ultramarine tint, and is 

covered with the shadows of mountains and clia- 

teaux. 

In mountain valleys it is very beautiful to watch 

the effect of the rising .-ind setting of the sun. The 

high peaks are lirst illumined, the soft yellow light 

then tips the lower elevations, and the bright golden 

showers soon bathe the whole valley, except a dark 

streak at the bottom, which is often not visited by 

sunlight. The etli^ct of sunset is perhaps still more 

lovely. The. highest peaks are those which the 

sun loves most. One by one, the mountains, rela- 
tively to their elevations, steal into darkness, and 
the rosy tint is often suHused over the peaks and 
glaciers of Mont Blanc, while the whole world 
below is enveloped in the darkest twilight. 

What is it that makes me long to dwell upon 
these scenes, which, with all their loveliness, I have 
never again visited 1 Is it indeed the memory of 
their- extreme beauty, or of the happy hours they 
afforded me, or is it because I am approaching a 
period of my life which I sometimes feel I shall 
never have courage to delineate ? 



II. 

The thunder roared, the flashing lightning re- 
vealed only one universal mist, the wind tore up 
the pines by their roots, and flung them down into 
the valley, the rain descended in inundating gusts. 

When once I had resolved to quit Geneva, my 
desire to reach Venice returned upon me in all its 
original force. I had travelled to the foot of the 
Simplon without a moment's delay, and now I had 
tlie mortification to be detained there in a wretched 
mountain village, intersected by a torrent whose roar 
was deafening, and with large white clouds sailing 
about the streets. 

The storm had lasted three days ; no one had 
ever heard of such a storm at this time of the year; 
it was quite impossible to pass ; it was quite im- 
possible to say when it would end, or what v/ould 
happen. The p?)or people only hoped that no evil 
was impending over the village of Brigg. As for 
myself, when, day after day, I awoke only to find 
the thunder more awful, -the lightning more vivid, 
and the mist more gloomy, I began' to believe that 
my two angels were combatting on the height of 
Simplon, and that some suy)ernatura!, and perhaps 
beneficent power, would willingly prevent me from 
entering Italy. 

I retired to bed, I flung my cloak upon a chair 
opposite a blazing wood-tire, and I soon fell asleep. 
] dreamed that I was in the vast hall of a palace, 
and that it was full of reverend and bearded men in 
rich dresses. They were seated at a council table, 
upon which their eyes were fixed, and I, who had re- 
cently entered, stood aside. And suddenly their 
president raised his head, and observed me, and 
l)eckoncd to me with much dignity. And I ad- 
vanced to him, and he extended to me his hand, 
and said, with a gracious smile, " You have been 
bnff expeclcd." 

The council broke up, the members dispersed, 
and by his desire, I followed the president. And 
we entered another chamber, which was smaller, 
but covered with i)icturcs, and on one side of the 
door was a portrait of Julius Csesar, and on the 



ee you. have been long expected. There is a ^ 
reseinbkince between you and your imcle^^ 

And my companion suddenly disappeared, and 
being alone, I walked up to a large window, but I 
could distinguish nothing, except when the light- 
ning revealed the thick gloom. And the thunder 
rolled over the palace. And I knelt down and 
prayed, and suddenly the window was irradiated, 
and the bright form of a female appeared. Her fair 
hair reached beneath the waist, her countenance 
was melancholy, yet seraphic. In her hand she 
held a crucifix. And I said, " O blessed .Magdalen, 
have you at last retupned 1 I have been long wan- 
dering in the wilderness, and methought you had 
forgotten me. And indeed I am about again to go 
forth, but Heaven frowns upon my pilgrimage." 
And she smiled and said, ^^Sunshirie succeeds to 
storm. You have been Ions:: expected^' And as 
she s[)oke, she vanished, and I looked again through 
the window, and beheld a beautiful city very fair in 
the sun. Its marble palaces rose on each side of a 
broad canal, and a multitude of boats skimmed 
over the blue water. And I knew where I was. 
And I descended from the palace to the brink of the 
canal, and my original guide saluted me, and, in his 
cooipafty, I entered a gondola. 

A clap of thunder broke over the very house, and 
woke me. I jumped up in my bed. I stared. I 
beheld sitting in my reom tlie same venerable per- 
sonage in whose presence I had, the moment before, 
found myself. The embers of the fire shot forth a 
faint and flickering light. I felt that I had been 
asleep. I felt that I had dreamed. I even rcmem 
bered where I was. I was not in any way confused. 
Yet before me was this mysterious companion, gazi- 
ing upon me with the same gracious dignity with 
which he had at first beheld me in the palace. I 
remained sitting up in my bed, staring with start- 
ing eyes, and open mouth. Gradually his image 
became fainter and fainter. His features molted 
away, his form also soon dissolved, and I disco- 
vered only the empty chair and hanging cloak. 

I jumped out of bed. The storm still raged. A 
bell was tolling. Nothing is more awful than a 
bell tolling in a storm. It was about three hours 
past midnight. I called Lausanne. 

" Lausanne,"' I said, " I ani resolved to cross tha 
mountain by sunrise, come what come may. Offer 
any rewards, make what promises you please — but 
I am resolved to cross — even in the teeth of au 
avalanche." Although I am a person easily 
managed in little matters, and especially by servants, 
I spoke in a tone which Lausanne sufficiently knew 
mo to feel was decisive. He was not one of those 
men who make or imagine ilitliculties, but, on the 
contrary, fruitful m discovering expedients, yet he 
seemed not a. little surprised, and slightly hesitated 
"Lausanne," I said, "if yoji think it too. danger- 
ous to venture, I release you tVom your duty. Bat 
cross the moimtain, and in two or three hours, I 
shall, even if I cross it alone." 

He quitted the .-oom. I threw a fresh log upon 
the fire, and repeated to myself, " / have been long 
expected." 

III. 

Bf.t-otie six o'clock, all was prepared. Besides 
the postilions, Lausanne engaged several guides. I 
think we must have been about six hours ascend 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



399 



ing. certainly not more, and this does not much 
exceed the usual course. I had occasion on this, 
as I have since at many other conjunctures, to ob- 
serve what an admirable animal is man when thrown 
upon his own resources in danger. The coolness, 
the courage, the perseverance, the acuteness, and 
the kindness witli which my companions deported 
themselves, were as remarkable as they were delight- 
ful. As for myself, I could do nothing but lean 
back in the carriage, and trust to their experience 
and energy. It was indeed awful. We were almost 
always enveloped in mist, and if a violent gust, for 
a moment, dissipated the vapour, it was only to 
afford a glimpse of the precipices on whose very 
brink we were making our way. Nothing is more 
terrific than the near roar of a cataract in the dark. 
It is horrible. As for myself, I will confess that I 
was more than once fairly fi-ightened, and when the 
agitated shouts of my companions indicated the 
imminence of the impending danger, I felt very 
much like a man who had raised the devil that he 
cannot lay. 

The storm was only on the lower part of the 
mountain. As we ascended, it became clearer. 
The scene was perfect desolation. At length we 
arrived at a small table-land, surrounded by slight 
elevations, the whole covered with eternal snows. 
Cataracts were coursing down these hills in all 
directions, and the plain was covered with the 
chaotic forms of crumbled avalanches. The .sky 
was a- thick dingy white. My men gave a loud 
shout of exultation, and welcomed me to the sum- 
mit of Simplon. 

Here I shook hands, and parted with my faithful 
guides. As I was drinking a glass of brandy, and 
enveloping myself in my furs, the clouds broke 
towards Italy, and a beautiful streak of blue sky 
seemed the harbinger of the Ausonian Heaven. I 
felt in high spirits, and we dashed down the descent 
with an ease and rapidity that pleasantly reminded 
me, bv tlie contrast, of our late labour. 

A dashing descent down one of the High Alps is 
a fine thing. It is very exciting to scamper through 
one of those sublime tunnels, cut through solid 
rocks six thousand feet above the ocean, — to whirl 
along those splendid galleries over precipices whose 
terminations are invisible, — to gallop through passes, 
as if yovi were flying from the companions of the 
avalanches, which are dissolving at your feet, — to 
spin over bridges spanning a roaring and rushing 
torrent, and to dash through narrow gorges backed 
with eternal snows peeping over the nearer and 
blacker background. 

It was a sudden turn. Never shall I forget it. I 
called to Lausanne to stop, and notwithstanding 
the difficulty, they clogged the wheels with stones. 
It was a sudden turn of the road. It came upon 
me like a spirit. The quick change of scenery 
around me had disturbed my mind, and prevented 
me from dwelling upon the idea. So it came upon 
me unexpectedly, most, most unexpectedly. Ah ! 
why did I not then die ! I was too happy. I stood 
up to gaze for the first time upon Italy, and the 
tears stole down my cheek. 

Yes ! yes! I at length gazed upon those beauti- 
ful and glittering plains. Yes ! yes ! I at length 
beheld those purple mountains, and drank the balmy 
breath of that fragrant and liquid air. After such long- 
ing, after all the dull misery of my melancholy life, 
was this great boon indeed accorded me ! Why, why 
did I not then die 1 I was indead, indeed too happy ! 



IV. 

I AWOKE, I asked myself, " Am I indeed in 
Italy 1" I could scarcely refrain from shouting with 
joy. While dressing, I asked many questions of 
Lausanne, that his answers might assure me of this 
incredible happiness. W^hen he left the room, I 
danced about the chamber like a madman. 

" Am I indeed in Italy V My morning's journey 
was the most satisfactory answer. Although, of 
late, the business of my life had been only to ad- 
mire nature, my progress was nevertheless one un- 
interrupted gaze. 

Those azure mountains, those shining lakes, those 
gardens, and palaces, and statues, those cupolaed 
convents crowning luxuriant wooded hills, and 
flanked by a single, but most graceful tree, the un- 
dulation of shore, the projecting headland, the 
receding bay, the roadside uninclosed, yet bounded 
with walnut, and vine, and fig, and acacia, and 
almond-trees, bending down under ♦their bursting 
fruit, the wonderful effect of light and shade, the 
trunks of every tree looking bl<ick as ebony, and 
their thick foliage, from the excessive light, quite 
thin and transparent in the sunshine, the white 
sparkling villages, each with a church with a tsdl 
thin tower, the large melons trailing over the marble 
wall, — and, above all, the extended prospect, so 
striking after the gloom of Alpine passes, and so 
different in its sunny light from the reflected, un- 
earthly glare of eternal snows, — yes, yes, this indeed 
was Italy ! I could not doubt my felicity, even if 
I had not marked, with curious admiration, the 
black eyes and picturesque forms that were flashing 
and glancing about me in all directions. 

Milan, with its poetic opera, and Verona, gay 
amid the mingling relics of two thousand years, and 
Vicenza, with its Pal'adian palaces and gates of 
t.numph, and pensive Padua, with its studious 
colonnades, I tore myself from their attractions. 
Their choicest memorials only accelerated my pro- 
gress, only made me more anxious to gain the chief 
seat of the wonderful and romantic people, who had 
planted in all their marketplaces the winged lion 
of St. Mark, and raised between Roman amphithe- 
atres and feudal castles, their wild and Saracenic 
piles. 

I was upon the Brenta, upon that river over 
which I had so often mused beneath the rigour of a 
Scandinavian heaven; the Bronta was before me 
with all those villas, which in their number, their 
variety, and their splendour, form the only modern 
creation that can be placed with the Baise of impe- 
rial Rome. I had quitted Padua at a very early 
hour to reach Venice before sunset, ftalfway, the 
horses jibbed on the sandy road, and the carriage 
broke a spring. To pass the time while this acci- 
dent was repairing, Lausanne suggested to me to 
visit a villa at hand, which was celebrated for the 
beauty of its architecture and gardens. It was in- 
habited only by an old domestic, who attended me 
over the building. The vast suite of chambers, and 
their splendid, although ancient decorations, were 
the first evidence I had yet encountered of that do- 
mestic magnificence of the Venetians of which I 
had heard so much. I walked forth into the gar- 
dens alone, to rid myself of the garrulous domestic. 
I proceeded along a majestic terrace, covered with 
Orange trees, at the end of which was a very beauti- 
ful chapel. The door vi-as unlocked, and I entered. 
An immense crucifix of ebony was placed upon iha 



400 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



altar, and partly concealed a picture fixed over the 
holy table. Yet the picture could not escape me. 
O ! no, it could not escape me ; for it was the origi- 
nal of that famous Magdalen that had, so many 
years before, and in so diiferent a place, produced 
so great a revolution in my feelings. I remained be- 
fore it some time, and as I gazed upon it, the history 
of my life was again acted before me. I quitted the 
chapel, revolving in my mind this strange coinci- 
dence, and crossing the lawn I came to a temple 
which a fanciful possessor had dedicated to liis 
friends. Over the portal was an inscription. I raised 
my sight, and read, " Enter ,- you hint been loii^ ex- 
pccfed.'" 

I started, I looked around, all was silent. I turn- 
ed pale ; I hesitated to go in. I examined the in- 
scription again. My courage rallied, and I found 
myself in a small, but elegant banqueting-house, 
furnished, but apparently long disused. I threw 
myself into a seat at the head of the table, and 
full of a rising superstition, I almost expected that 
some of the venerable personages of luy dream 
would enter to share my feast. They came not ; 
half an hour passed away ; I rose, and without 
premeditation, I wrote upon the wall, " If I have 
been long expected, I have at length arrived. Be 
you also obedient to the call," 



As hour before sunset, I arrived at Fusini, and 
beheld, four or five miles out at sea, the towers and 
cupolas of Venice suffused with a rich golden 
light, and rising out of the bright blue waters. Not 
an exclamation escaped me. I felt like a man who 
has achieved a great object. I was full of calm 
exultation, but the strange incident of the morning 
made me serious and pensive. 

As our gondolas glided over the great Lagime, 
the excitement of the spectacle reanimated me. 
The buildings, that I had so fondly studied in books 
and pictures, rose up before me. I knew them all ; 
I required no cicerone. One by one, I caught the 
hooded cupolas of St. Mark, the tall Campanile red 
in the sun, the Moresco palace of the doges, the 
deadly Bridge of Sighs, and the dark structure to 
which it leads. Here my gondola quitted the La- 
gune, and, turning up a small canal, and passing 
under a bridge which connected the quays, stopped 
at the steps of a palace. 

I ascended a staircase of marble, I passed through 
a gallery crowded with statues, I was ushered into 
spacious apartments, the floors of which were mar- 
ble, and the hangings satin. The ceilings were 
painted by Tintoretto and his scholars, and were 
full of TuTkish trophies and triumphs over the 
Ottomite. 'I'he furniture was of the same rich 
material as the hangings ; and the gilding, although 
of two hundred years duration, as bright and bur- 
nished as the costly equipment of a modern palace. 
■ From my balcony of blinds, I looked upon the 
great Lagune. It was one of those glorious sun- 
sets which render Venice, in spite of her degrada- 
tion, still famous. The sky and sea vied in the 
brilliant multiplicity of their blended tints. The 
tall shadows of her Palladian churches flung them- 
selves over the glowing and transparent wave out 
of which they sprang. The quays were crowded 
with joyous groups, and the black gondolas flitted, 
like sea serpents, over the red and rippling waters. 

I hastened to the Place of St. Mark. It was 
crowded and illuminated. Three gorgeous flags 



waved on the mighty staffs w-hich are opposite the 
church in all the old drawings, and which once 
bore the standards of Candia, and Cyprus, and the 
Morea. The coffee-houses were full, and gay 
parties, seated on chairs in the open air, listened to 
the music of military bands, while they refreshed 
themselves with confectionary so rich and fanciful, 
that n excites the admiration and the wonder of all 
travellers, but which I have since discovered in 
Turkey to be oriental. The variety of costume 
was also great. The dress of the lower orders in 
Venice is still unchanged : many of the middle 
classes yet wear the cap and cloak. The Hunga- 
rian and the German military, and the bearded 
Jew, with his black velvet caj) and flowing robes, 
are observed with curiosity. A few days also be- 
fore my amval, the Austrian squadron had carried 
into Venice a Turkish ship and two Greek vessels, 
who had violated the neutrality. Their crews now 
mingled with the crowd. I beheld, for the first 
time, the haughty and turbaned Ottoman, sitting 
cross-legged on his carpet under a colonnade, sip- 
ping his coffee and smoking a long chiboque, and 
the Greeks, with their small red caps, their high 
foreheads, and arched eyebrows. 

Can this be modern Venice, I thought ? Can 
this be the silent, and gloomy, and decaying city, 
over whose dishono\irable misery I have so often 
wept ! Could it ever have been more enchanting 1 
Are not these indeed still subjects of a doge, and 
still the bridegrooms of the ocean 1 Alas ! the 
brilliant scene was as unusual as unexpected, and 
was accounted for by its being the feast-day of a 
fiwourite saint. Nevertheless, I rejoiced at the un- 
accustomed appearance of the city at my entrance, 
and still I recall with pleasure the delusive mo- 
ments, when strolling about the Place of St. Mark 
the first evening that I was in Venice, I for a mo- 
ment mingled in a scene that reminded me of her 
lost ligbt-heartedness, and of that unrivalled gayety 
that so long captivated polished Europe. * 

The rnoon was now in her pride. I wandered 
once more to the quay, and heard for the first time 
a serenade. A juggler was conjuring in a circle 
under the walls of my hotel, and an itinerant opera 
was performing on the bridge. It is by moonlight 
that Venice is indeed an enchanted city. The 
effect of the floods of silver light upon the twink- 
ling fretwork of the Moresco architecture, the per- 
fect absence of all harsh sounds, the never-ceasing 
music on the waters, produce an effect upon the 
mind which cannot be experienced in any other 
city. As I stood gazing upon the broad track of 
brilliant light that quivered over the Lagune, a gon- 
dolier saluted me. I entered his boat, and desired 
him to row me to the Grand Canal. 

The marble palaces of my ancestors rose on 
each side, like a series of vast and solemn temples. 
How sublime were their broad fronts bathed in the 
mystic light, whose softening tints concealed the 
ravages of time, and made us dream only of their 
eternity ! And could these great creations ever 
die! I viewed them with a devotion which I can- 
not believe could have been surpassed in the most 
patriotic period of the republic. How willingly 
would I have given my life to have once more filled 
their mighty halls with the proud retainers of their 
free and victorious nobles ! 

As I proceeded along the canal, and retired from 
the quarter of St. Mark, the sounds of merriment 
gradually died away. The light string of a guita. 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



401 



alone tinkled in the distance, and the lamp of a 
goiidolii, swiftly shooting by, indicati'd some gay, 
perhaps anxious youth, hastening to the rendezvous 
of festivity and love. The course of the canal bent, 
and the moon was hid behind a broad, thick arch, 
which, black, yet sharply defined, spanned the 
breadth of the water. I beheld the famous 
Kialto. 

Was it possible 1 was it true I was I not all this 
time in a revery gazing upon a drawing in De Win- 
t-er's studio 1 Was it not some delicious dream — 
some delicious dres.m, from which, perhaps this 
moment, I was about to be loused to cold, dull life ? 
I struggled not to wake, yet from a nervous desire 
to move, and put the vision to the test, I ordered 
the gondolier to row to the side of the canal, jumped 
out, and hurried to the bridge. Each moment I 
expected that the aich would tremble and part, and 
that the surrounding palaces would dissolve into 
mist, that the lights would be extinguished, and the 
music cease, and that I should find myself in my 
old chamber in my father's house. 

I hurried along, I was anxious to reach the centre 
of the bridge before I woke. It seemed like the 
crowning incident of a dream, which, it is remark- 
able, never occurs, and which, from the very anxiety 
it occasions, onlj' succeeds in breaking our magical 
slumbers. 

I stood upon Rialto ; I beheld on each, side of me, 
rising out of the waters, which they shadowed with 
their solemn image, those colossal and gorgeous 
structures raised from the spoils of the teeming 
orient, with their pillars of rare marbles, and their 
costly portals of jasper, and porphyry, and agate ; 
I beheld them ranged in majestic order, and stream- 
ing with the liquid moonlight. Within these walls 
my fathers revelled ! 

I bowed my head, and covered my face with my 
hands. I could gaze no more upon that fair, but 
melancholy vision. 

A loud but melodious chorus broke upon the air. 
I looked up, I marked the tumultuous waving of 
many torches, and heard the trampling of an ap- 
proachin? multitude. They were at the foot of the 
bridge. They advanced, they approached. A choir 
of priests, bearing in triumph the figure of a saint, 
and followed by a vast crowd carrying lights, and 
garlands, and banners, and joining in a joyful 
hymn, swept by me. As they passed, they sang 
this verse — 

" Wave your banners ! Sound, sound your 
voices! for he has come, he has come ! Our saint 
and our lord ! He has come,, in pride and in 
glory, to gi-eet with love his Adrian bride." 

It is singular, but these words struck me as ap- 
plicable to myself. The dream at the foot of the 
Alps, and the inscription in the garden on the 
Brenta, and the picture in the chapel, there was a 
connexion in all these strange incidents which in- 
.deed harmonized with my early life and feelings.^ 
I fully believed myself the object of an omnipotent 
destiny, over which I had no control. I delivered 
myself up, without a struggle, to the eventful course 
of time. I returned home jiensive, yet prepared 
for a great career, and as the drum of the Hunga- 
rian guard sounded, as I entered the Lagune, I 
could not help fancying that its hurried note was 
ommous of surprise and consternation. I remem- 
bered that when a boy, sauntering with Mussus, I 
believed that I had a predisposition for conspiracies, 
and I could not forget that, of all places in the 
51 



world, Venice was the one in which I should most 
desire to find myself a conspirator. 

I returned to the hotel, but as I was little in- 
clined to slumber, I remained walking up and down 
the gallery, which, on my arrival, amid the excite- 
ment of so many distracting objects, I had but 
slightly noticed. I was struck by its size and its 
magnificence, and as I looked upon the long row 
of statues gleaming in the white moonlight. I could 
not refrain from pondering over the melancholy 
fortunes of the high race who had lost this sump- 
tuous inheritance, commemorating even in its pre- 
sent base uses, their noble exploits, magnificent 
tastes, and costly habits. 

Lausanne entered. I inquired if he knew to 
what family of the republic this building had origi- 
nally belonged 1 

" This was the Palazzo Contarini, sir." 

I was glad that he could not mark my agitation. 

" I thought," I rejoined, after a moment's hesita- 
tion, " I thought the Palazzo Contarini was on the 
Grand Canal." 

" There is a Palazzo Contarini on the Grand 
Canal, sir, but this is the original palace of the 
house. When I travelled with my lord, twenty- 
five years ago, and was at Venice, the Contarini 
family still maintained both establishments." 

" And now 1" I inquired. This was the first 
time that I had ever held any conversation with 
Lausanne ; for although I was greatly pleased with 
his talents, and could not be insensible to his ever- 
watchful care, I had from the first suspected that 
he was a secret agent of my father, and, although 
I thought fit to avail myself of his abilities, I had 
studiously withheld from him my confidence. 

" The family of Contarini is, I believe extinct," 
replied Lausanne. 

" Ah !" Then thinking that something should 
be said to account for my ignorance of that with 
which apparently I ought to have been well ac- 
quainted, I added in a careless voice. " We have 
never kept up any intercourse with our Italian con- 
nexions, which I do not regret, for I shall not enter 
into society here." 

The moment that I had uttered this, I felt the 
weakness of attempting to mystify Lausanne, who 
probably knew much more of the reasons of this 
non-intcrcomse than myself. He was moving away 
when I called him back with the intention of speak- 
ing to him fully upon this subject of my early 
speculations. I longed to converse with him about 
my mother, and my father's youth, about every 
thing that had happened. 

" Lausanne," I said. 

He returned. The moon shone brightly upon 
his imperturbable and inscrutable countenance. I 
saw only my father's spy. A feeling of false shame 
prevented me from speaking. I did not like frankly 
to confess my ignorance upon such delicate s\ibjects 
to one who would, in all probability, affirm his 
inability to enlighten me, and I knew enough of 
him to be convinced that I could not acquire by 
stratagem that which he would not willingly com- 
municate. 

" Lausanne," I said, " take lights into my room. 
I am going to bed." ^ 

VI. 

AxoTUER sun rose upon Venice, and presented 
to me the city whose image I had so early acquired. 
In the heart of a multitude there was stillness. I 
3l 3 



402 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



looked o«t from the balcony on the crowded qua3^s 
of yesterday ; one or tvv'o idle porters were stretched 
in sleep on the scorching pavement, and a solitary 
gondola stole over the gleaming waters. Tliis was 
all. 

It was ihc Villeggiatnra, and the absence of the 
nobility from the city invested it with an aspect even 
more deserted than it would otherwise have possess- 
ed. I cared not for this. For me indeed, Venice, 
silent and desolate, owned a greater charm than it 
could have commanded with all its feeble imitation 
of the worthless bustle of a modern metropolis. I 
congratulated myself on the choice season of the 
year in which I had arrived at this enchanting city. 
I do not think that I could have endured to have 
been disturbed by the frivolous sights and sounds 
of society, before I had. formed a full acquaintance 
with all those marvels of art that command our 
constant admiration, while gliding about the lost 
capital of the doges, and before I had yielded a 
free flow to those feelings of poetic melancholy 
which swell up in the soul as we contemplate this 
memorable tlieatre of human action, wherein have 
been performed so many of man's most famous and 
most graceful deeds. 

If I were to assign the particular quality which 
conduces to that dreamy and voluptuous existence 
which men of high imagination experience in 
Venice, I should describe it as the fceling_ of ab- 
straction, which is remarkable in that city, and 
peculiar to it. Venice is the only city which can 
yield the magical delights of solitude. All is still 
and silent. No rude sound disturbs your reveries ; 
fancy, tbcrefore is not put to flight. No rude sound 
distracts your self-consciousness. This renders ex- 
istence intense. We feel every thing. And we 
feel thus keenly in a city not only eminently beau- 
tiful, not only abounding in wonderful creations of 
art, but each step of which is hallowed groimd, 
quick with associations, that in their more various 
nature, their nearer relation to ourselves, and jier- 
haps tlieir more picturesque character, exercise a 
greater influence over the imagination than the 
more antique story of Greece and Rome. We 
feel all this in a city too, which, although her lustre 
be indeed dimmed, can still count among her 
daughters maidens fairer than the orient pearls with 
which her warriors once loved to deck them. 
Poetry, Tradition, and Love, — these are the graces 
that have invested with an ever-charming cestus this 
aphrodite of cities. 

As for myself, ere the year drew to a close, I 
was so captivated with the life of blended contcni- 
plation and pleasure that I led in this charming city, 
that I entirely forgot my great plan of comprehen- 
sive travel, that was to induce such important 
results, and not conceiving that earth could yield 
me a spot where time could flow on in a more beau- 
tiful and tranquil measure, more exempt from 
worldly anxiety, and more free from vulgar thoughts, 
I determined to become a Venetian resident. So I 
«;uitted the house of my fathers, which its proprie- 
tor would not give up to me, and in which, under 
its present fortune, I could not bear to live, converted 
Lausanne into a major-domo, and engaged a palace 
OB the Grand Canal. 

VII. 

There, is in Venice a very ancient church situate 
m an obscure quarter of the city, whither I was in 



the habit of often resorting. It is full of the tombs 
of Contarinis. Two doges under their fretwork 
canopies, with their hands crossed over their 
breasts, and their heads covered with their caps of 
state, and reposing on pillows, lie on each side of 
the altar. On the platform before the church, as 
you ascend the steps from your gondola, is a colos- 
sal statue of a Contarini, who defeated the Genoese. 
It is a small church, built and endowed by the 
family. To this day there they sing masses for 
their souls. 

One sun.=;hiny afternoon I entered this church, 
and repaired as was my custom to the altar, which, 
with its tombs, was partially screened from the 
body of the building, being lighted by the large 
window in front, which considerably overtopped 
the screen. They were singing a mass in the nave, 
and I placed myself at the extreme side of the altar 
in the shade of one of the tombs, and gazing upon 
the other. The sun was nearly setting, the oppo- 
site tomb was bathed with the soft, warm light 
which streamed in from the window. I remained 
watching the placid and heroic countenance of the 
old doge, the sunlight playing on it. till it seemed 
to smile. The melodious voices of the choir, pray- 
ing for Contarini, came flowing along the roof with 
so much sentiment and sweetness, that I was soon 
wrapped in self-oblivion, and although my eye was 
apparently fixed upon the tomb, my mind wandered 
in delightful abstraction. 

A temporaiy cessation of the music called me to 
myself I looked roimd, and to my surprise beheld 
a female figure kneeling before the altar. At this 
moment, the music recommenced. She evidently 
did not observe me. She threw over her shoulders 
the black veil with which her face had hitherto 
been covered. Her eyes were fixed upon the 
ground ; her hands raised, and pressed together in 
prayer. I had never beheld so beautiful a creature. 
She was very young, her countenance perfectly 
fair, but without colour, or tinted only with the 
transient flush of devotion. Her features were 
very delicate, yet sharply defined. I could mark 
her long eyelashes touching her cheek ; and her 
dark hair, parted on her white brow, fell on each 
side of her face in tresses of uncommon length and 
lustre. Altogether she was what I had sometimes 
fancied as the ideal of a Venetian beauty. As I 
watched her, her invocation ceased, and she raised 
her large daik eyes with an expression of melan- 
choly that I never shall forget. 

And as I gazed upon her, instead of feeling agi- 
tated and excited,^ heaviness crept over my frame, 
and a drowsiness stole over my senses. Enraptured 
by her presence, anxiously desirous to ascertain 
who she might be, I felt to my consternation, each 
moment more difficulty in moving, even in seeing. 
The tombs, the altar, the kneeling suppliant, moved 
confusedly together, and mingled into mist, and 
sinking back on tlie tomb which supported mc, I 
fell, as I supposed, into a deep slumber. 

I dreamed that a long line of Venetian nobles, 
two by two, passed before me, and, as they passed, 
they saluted me, and the two doges were there, and 
as they went by, they smiled and waved their 
bonnets. And suddenly there appeared my father 
alone, and he was dressed in a northern dress, the 
hunting dress I wore in the forest of Jonsterna, and 
he stopped and looked upon me with great severity, 
and I withdrew my eye, for I could not bear his 
glance, and when I looked up again he was not 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



403 



there, but the lady of the altar. She stood before 
ine clinging to a large crucifix, a large crucifix of 
ebony, the same that I had beheld in the chapel in 
the gardens on the Brenta. The tears hung quiver- 
ing on her agitated countenance. I would have 
rushed forward to console her, but I woke. 

I woke, I looked around, I remembered every 
thing. She was not there. It was- twilight, and 
the tombs were barely perceptible. All was silent, 
I stepped forth from the altar into the body of the 
church. A single acolyte was folding up the 
surplices and placing them in a trunk. I inquired 
if he had seen any lady go out. He had seen 
nothing. He stared at my puzzled look, which was 
the look of a man roused from a very vivid dream. 
I went forth ; one of my gondoliers was 13'ing on 
the steps : I asked him also if he had seen any 
lady go out. He assured me that no person had 
come forth except tlie priests. Was there any 
other way ? They believed not. I endeavoured 
to re-enter the church to examme, but it was locked. 

vni. 

If ever the science of metaphysics ceases to be a 
frivolous assemblage of unmeaning phrases, and 
we attempt to acquire that knowledge of our 
nature which is doubtless open to us by the assist- 
ance of facts instead of words ; if ever, in short, 
the philosophy of the human mind be based on 
demonstration instead of dogma, the strange inci- 
dcntjust related, will perhaps not be considered the 
wild delusion of a crack-brained visionary. For 
myself, I have no doubt that the effect produced upon 
me by the lady in the church was a magnetic influ- 
ence, and that the slumber which, at the moment, 
occasioned me so much annoyance, and so much 
astonishment, was nothing less than a luminous 
I trance. 

I knew nothing of these high matters then, and 
I returned to my palace in a state of absolute con- 
fusion. It was so reasonable to believe that I had 
fallen asleep, and that the whole was a dream. 
Every thing was thus most satisfactorily accounted 
for. Nevertheless I could not overcome my strong 
conviction, that the slumber which I could not deny, 
was only a secondary incident, and that I had posi- 
tively, really, absolutely beheld kneeling before the 
altar that identical and transcendent form, that 
in my dream or vision I had marked clinging to tlie 
cross. 

I examined the gondoliers on my return home. 
I elicited nothing. I examined myself the whole 
evening. I resolved that I had absolutely seen her. 
1 attended at the church the next day ; nothing 
occurred. I spoke to the priests, I engaged one to 
keep a constant observation. Nothing ever trans- 
pired. 

The Villeggiatura was over, the great families 
leturned, the carnival commenced. Venice was 
full and gay. There were assemblies every evening. 
The news that a young foreign nobleman had 
come to reside at Venice, of course, quickly spread. 
My establishment, my quality, and, above all, my 
name, ensured me a hospitable reception, although 
I knew not a single individual, and, of course, had 
not a single letter. I did not encourage their at- 
tentions. I went nowhere, except to the opera, 
which opened with the carnival. I have a passion 
for instrumental music, but I admire little the' hu- 
man voice, which appears to me, with ail our ex- 



ertions, a poor instrument. Sense and sentiment 
too are always sacrificed to dexterity and caprice. 
A grand orchestra fills my mind with ideas, — I for- 
get evesy thing in the stream of invention. A 
prima donna is very ravishing, but while I listen, I 
am a mere man of the world, or hardly sufficiently 
well-bred to conceal my weariness. 

The effect of music upon the faculty of inven- 
tion is a subject on which I have long curiously 
observed, and deeply meditated. It is a finer pre- 
lude to creation than to execution. It is well to 
meditate upon a subject under the influence of 
music, but to execute, we should be alone, and 
supported only by our essential and internal strength. 
Were I writing, music would produce the same 
effect upon me as wine. I should, for a moment, 
feel an unnatural energy and fire, but, in a few 
minutes, I should discover that I shadowed forth 
only phantoms, my power of expression would die 
away, and my pen would fall upon the insipid and 
lifeless page. The greatest advantage that a writer 
can derive from music is, that it teaches most ex- 
quisitely the art of developcment. It is in remark- 
ing the varying recurrence of a great comjioser to 
tile same theme, that a poet may learn how to 
dwell upon the phasis of a passion, how to exhibit 
a mood of min(l under all its alternations, and gra- 
dually to pour forth the full tide of feeling. 

The last week of the carnival arrived, in which 
they attempted to compress all the frolic which 
should be diffused over the rest of the forty days, 
which, it must be confessed, are dull enough. At 
Venice, the beauty and the wildness of the carnival 
still lingered. St. Mark's Place was crowded with 
masks. It was even more humorous to oliserve 
these grotesque forms in repose than in action ; to 
watch a monster with a nose a foot long, and 
asses' ears, eating an ice, or a mysterious being 
with a face like a dolphin, refreshing herself with a 
fan as huge as a parasol. The houses were covered 
with carpets and tapestry, every place was illumi- 
nated, and everybody pelted with sweetmeats and 
sugarplums. No one ever seemed to go to bed ; 
the water was covered with gondolas, and every- 
body strummed a guitar. 

During the last nights of the carnival, it is the 
practice to convert the opera-house into a ball- 
room, and on these occasions, the highest orders 
are masked. The scene is indeed very gay and 
amusing, In some boxes, a standing supper is 
alvyays ready, at which all guests are welcome. 
But masked you must be. It is even strict eti- 
qiiette on these occasions for ladies to ramble about 
the theatre unattended, and the great diversion of 
course is the extreme piquancy of the incognito 
conversations, since, in a limited circle, in which 
few are unknown to each other, it is, of course, 
not difficult to impregnate this slight parley with a 
sufficient quantity of Venetian salt. 

I went to one of these balls, as I thought some- 
thing amusing might occur. I went in a domino, 
and was careful not to enter my box, lest I should 
be discovered. As I was sauntering along one of 
the rooms near the stage, a female mask saluted 
me. 

" We did not expect you," she said. 

" I only came to meet you," I replied. 

" You are more gallant than we supposed you 
to be." 

" The world is seldom charitable," I said 

" They say you are in love." • 



404 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" You are the last person to consider that won- 
derful." 

" Really quite chivalric. Why ! they said you 
were quite a wild man." 

" But you, signora, have tamed me." 

" But do you know they say you are in love ?" 

" Well ! doubtless with a charming person." 

" O ! yes, a very charming person. Do you 
know they say you are Count Narcissus, and in 
Jove with yourself?" 

" Do they indeed ! They seem to say vastly 
agreeable things, I think. Very witty, upon my 
honour." 

" O ! very witty, no doubt of that, and you 
should be a judge of wit, you know, because you 
are a poet." 

" You seem to know me well." 

" I think I do. You are the young gentleman, 
are you not, who has quarrelled with his papa 1" 

" That is a very vague description." 

" I can give you some further details." 

" O ! pray spare me, and yourself." 

" Do you know I have written your character 1" 

" Indeed : It is doubtless as accurate as most 
others." 

" ! it is founded upon the best authorities. There 
is only one part imperfect. I wish to give an ac- 
count of your works. . Will you give me a I'lstV 

" I must have an equivalent, and something 
Kiore interesting than my own character." 

" Meet me to-night at the Countess Malbrizzi's." 

" I cannot, I do not know her." 

" Do not you know, that in carnival time, a 
mask may enter any house 1 After the ball, all 
will be there. Will you meet me ? I am now 
engaged." 

This seemed the opening of an adventure which 
youth is not inclined to shun. I assented, and the 
mask glided away, leaving me in great confusion 
and amazement at her evident familiarity with my 
history. 



LX. 



I AKKivED at the steps of the Malbrizzi palace 
amid a crowd of gondolas. I ascended without 
atiy announcement into the saloons, which were 
full of guests. I found, to my great annoyance, 
that I was the only mask present. I felt that I 
had been fairly taken in. I perceived that I was 
an object of universal attention. I had a great 
inclination to make a precipitate retreat. But on 
reflection, I determined to take a rapid survey be- 
fore my departure, and then retire with dignity. 
I^eaning against a pillar, I flattered myself I ap- 
peared qtiite at my ease. 

A lady, whom I had already conjectured to be 
the mistress of the mansion, advanced and ad- 
dressed me. Time had not yet flown away with 
her charms. 

" Signer Mask," she said, " ever welcome, and 
doubly welcome, if a friend." 

" I fear I have no title to admission within these 
walls, except the privilege of the season." 

" I shoul' have thought otherwise," said the 
lady. " if you be one for whom many have in- 
quir(;d." 

" You must mistake me for another. It is not 
(irobable that any one would inquire after me." 

" Shall I tell you your name ?" 



" Some one has pretended to give me that un- 
necessary information already to-night." 

" Well ! I will not betray you, but I am silent 
in the hope that you will, ere midnight, reward me 
for my discretion by rendering it unnecessary. We 
trust that the ice of the north will melt beneath our 
Venetian sun. You understand me V So saying, 
she glided away. 

I could not doubt that this lady was the Countess 
Malbrizzi, and that she was the female mask wno 
had addressed me in the opera-house, ^hc evi- 
dently knew me. I had not long to seeK for the 
source whence she attained this knowledge. The 
son of the Austrian minister at our court, and who 
had himself been attached to the negation, passed 
by me. Hisuncle was Govenv.<r of Venice. Every 
thing was explained. 

I moved away, intending i.<) retire. A group, in 
the room I entered, attracted my attention. Several 
men were standing round a lady apparently en- 
treating her, with the usual compliments and ges- 
ticulations, to play upon the guitar. Her face was 
concealed from me ; one of her suite turned aside, 
and notwithstanding the difference of her rich dress, 
I instantly recognised the kneeling lady of the 
church. I was extremely agitated. I felt the in- 
explicable sensation that I had experienced on the 
tomb. I Vi-as fearful that it might end in as mor 
tifying a catastrophe. I struggled against the feel 
ing, and struggled successfully. As I thus wres- 
tled with my mind, I could not refrain from gazing 
intently upon the cause of my emotion. I felt an 
overwhelming desire to ascertain who she might 
be. I could not take my eyes from her. She im- 
pressed me with so deep an interest, that I entirely 
forgot that any other human beings were present 
It was fortunate that I was masked. My fixed 
stare must have excited great curiosity. 

As I stood thus gazing upon her, and as each 
moment her image seemed mere vividly impressed 
upon my brain, a chain round her neck snapped in 
twain, and a diamond cross suspended to it fell to 
the ground. The surrounding cavaliers were in- 
stantly busied in seeking for the fallen jewel. I 
beheld, for the first time, her tall and complete 
figure. Our eyes met. 

To my astonishment, she suddenly grew pale, 
she ceased conversing, she trembled, and sank into 
a chair. A gentleman extended to her the croi=s, 
she received it, her colour returned, a smile playid 
upon her features, and she rose from her seat. 

The countess passed me. I saluted her. " I 
now wish you to tell me," I said, " not my own 
name, but the name of another person. Will you 
be kindl" 

" Speak." 

" That lady," I said, pointing to the group, " I 
have a very great wish to know who that lady may 
be." 

" Indeed !" said the countess, " I have a great 
wish also that your curiosity should be gratified. 
That is Signora Alceste Contarini." 

" Contarini !" I exclaimed, "how wonderful ! I 
mean to say, how singular ! that is, I did not 
kwow — " 

" That there were any other Contarinis but youi 
excellency, I suppose." 

" It is idle to wear this disguise," I said, taking 
ofiT my mask, and letting my domino shp to the 
ground. " I have ever heard that it w as impossible 



c N T A R I N I Fleming. 



405 



to ei3cape the penetration of the Countess Mal- 
brizzi." 

''My penetration has not been much exercise;! 
to-niglit, count ; but I assure you I feel gratified to 
have been the means of inducing you to enter a 
society, of which the Baroness Fleming was fence 
the brightest ornament. Your mother was my 
friend." 

" You have, indeed, the strongest claim then to 
the respect of her son. But this young lady — " 

" Is your cousin, an orphan, and the last of the 
Contarinis. You should become acquainted. Per- 
mit me to introduce yon." I accompanied her. 
" Alceste, my love," continued the countess, " those 
should not be unknown to each other whom nature 
has intended to be friends. Your cousin, Count 
Contjriiii Fleming, claims your acquaintance." 

" I have not so many relations that I know not 
how to value them," said Alceste, as she extended 
me her hand. The surrounding gentlemen moved 
away. We were alone. '• I arrived so unexpect- 
edly at Venice, that I owe to a chance my intro- 
duction to one whose acquaintance I should have 
claimed in a more formal manner." 

" You are merely, then, a passing visiter 1 We 
heard it was your intention to become a resident." 

*' I have become one. It has been too difficult 
for nie to gain this long-desired haven, again to 
quit it without a very strong cause. But when I 
departed from my country, it was for the under- 
stood purpose of making a very different course. 
My father is not so violent a Venetian as myself, 
and, for aught I know, conceives me now in 
France or England. In short, I have played truant, 
but I hope 5'ou will pardon me." 

" To love Venice is with me so great a virtue," 
she replied, with a smile, " that, I fear, instead of 
feeling all the impro[>riety of your conduct, I sym- 
pathize too much with this violation of duty." 

" Of course you could not know my father. 
You may have heard of him. It has always been 
to me a source of deep regret that he, did not main- 
tain his connexion with my mother's family. I 
inherit something even more Venetian thati her 
name. But the past is too painful for my fother 
to love to recall it. My mother, j'ou know — " 

" I am an or{>han, and can feel all your misfor- 
tune. I think our house is doomed." 

" I cannot think so when I sec you." 

She faintly smiled, but her features settled 
again into an expression of deep melancholy, that 
reminded me of her countenance in the church. 

" I think," I observed, " this is not the first time 
I have had the pleasure of seeing you." 

" Indeed ! I am not aware of our having before 
met." 

" I may be wrong. I dare say you will think 
me very strange. But I cannot believe it was a 
dream, though certainly I was — but really it is too 
ridiculous. You know the church where are the 
fijinbs of Qur family V 

" Yes !" Her voice was low, but quick. I fan- 
cied she was not quite at case. 

"Well! I cannot help believing that we v/ere 
Dnce together before that altar." 

" Indeed ! I have returned to Venice a week. 
I have not visited the church since we came back." 

" O ! this must have been a month ago. It cer- 
tainly is very strange ; I suppose it must have been 
a dream ; I have sometimes odd dreams, and yet — 
it is in consequence of that supposed nieetmg in 



the church that I recognised you this evening, and 
iminediately sought an introduction." 

" I know the church well. To me — I may say 
to us," she added, with a gentle inclination of the 
head, "it is, of course, a spot very interesting." 

" I am entirely Venetian. I have no thought for 
any other country. This is not a new sentiment 
excited by the genius of the place. It was as 
strong amid the forests and snows of the north, as 
strong, I may traly say, when a child, as at this 
moment, when I would peril my life and fortunes 
in her service." 

" You are indeed enthusiastic. Alas ! enthu- 
siasm is little considered here. We are, at least, 
still light-hearted, but what cause we have for 
gayety, the smilcrs perhaps know. It is my mis- 
fortune not to be one of them. And yet resigna- 
tion is all that is left us, and — " 

" And what V I asked, for she hesitated. 

" Nothing," she replied, " no'lhing. T believe I 
was going to addj it is better to forget." 

" Never ! The recollection of the past is still 
glory. I would sooner be a Contarini amid our 
falling palaces, than the mightiest noble of the 
most flourishing of modern empires." 

" What will your father say to such romance 1" 

" I have no father. I have no friend, no relative 
in the world, except yourself. I have disclaimed 
my parentage, my country, my allotted career, and 
all their rights, and honours, and privileges, and 
fame, and fortune. I have, at least; sacrificed all 
these for Venice ; for, trifling as the circumstances 
may be, I can assure you this, merely to find my- 
self a visitant of that enchanting city, I have 
thrown to the winds all the duties and connexions 
of my past existence." 

'• I3ut why bind your lot to the fallen and the 
irredeemable ] I have no choice but to die where 
I was born, and no wish to quit a country from 
which spring all my associations; but you — you 
have a real country, full of real interests to engage 
your affections and exercise your duties. In the 
north you are a man — your career may be active, 
intelligent and useful ; but the life of a Venetian 
is a dream, and you must pass your days like a 
ghost gliding about a city fading in a vision." 

" It is this very character that interests me. I 
have n.o sympathy with reality. What vanity is 
all the empty bustle of common life! It brings to 
me no gratification ; on the contrary, most de- 
grading annoyance. It developes all thS lowering 
attributes of my nature. In the world, I am never 
happy but in solitude; and in solitude so beautiful 
and so peculiar as \^enice, my days are indeed a 
dream, but a dream of long delight. I gaze upon 
the beautiful, and my mind responds to the inspira- 
tion, for my thoughts are as lovely as my visions." 

" Your imagination supports you. I^ is a choice 
gift. I feel too keenly my reality." 

"At least, I cannot imagine that you should 
either feel, or give rise to, any other feelings but 
those that are enchanting." 

" Nay ! a truce to compliments. Let me hear 
something worthier from you." 

" Indeed," I said, seriously, " I was not thinking 
of compliments, nor am I in a mood for such fri- 
volities. Yet I wish not to conceal, that in meet- 
ing you this evening, I have experienced the most 
gratifying incident of my life." 

" I am happy to have met you — if^andeed, it h 
possible to be happy about any thing." 



406 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Dear Alceste — may I call you Alceste ? — why 
should so fair a brow be clouded?" 

" It is not unusually gloomy — my heaven is 
never serene. But, see ! the rooms are nearly 
empty, and I am waited for." 

" But we shall soon meet again 1" 

" I shall be here to-morrow. I reside with my 
maternal uncle. Count Delfini. I go out but little, 
but to-moirow I shall certainly he here." 

" I shall not exist until we again meet. I entreat 
you, fliil not." 

" ! I shall certainly he here ; and, in the mean 
time, you know," she added, with a smile, " you 
can dream." 

" Farewell, dear Alceste ! you cannot imagine 
how it grieves me to part." 

" Adieu ! — ^shall I say Contarini'?" 



X. 



To say that I was in love, that I was in love at 
first sight — these are weak, worldly phrases to de- 
scribe the profound and absorbing passion that 
filled my whole being. There was a mystical ful- 
filment in our meeting, the consciousness of which 
mingled with my adoration, and rendered it quite 
supernatural. This was the Adrian bride that I 
had come to greet. This was the great and wor- 
thy object of so many strange desires, and bewil- 
dering dreams, and dark coincidences. I returned 
to my j)alace^-I threw myself into a chair, and sat 
for hours in mute abstraction. At last, the broad 
light of morning broke into the chamber — I looked 
up, glanced round at the ghastly chandeliers, 
thought of the coining eve, and retired. 

In the evening I hurried to the opera. I did not 
see Alceste. I entered the box of the countess. A 
young man rose as I entered, and retired. " You 
see," I said, " your magic has in a moment con- 
verted nie into a man of the world." 

" I am not the enchantress," said the countess, 
" although I willingly believe you are enchanted," 

" What an agreeable assembly you introduced 
me to last night !" 

" I hope tliiit I shall find you a constant guest." 

" I fear that you will find me too faitliful a vo- 
lar}'. I little imagined, in the morning, that I 
could lay claim to relationship with so interesting 
a person as your charming young friend." 

" Alceste is a great favourite of mine." 

" She is not here, I believe, to-night 1" 

" I think not — Count Delfini's box is opposite, 
and empty." 

" Count Delfini is, I believe, some connexion — " 

" Her uncle. They will be soon, as you are 
perhaps aware, nearer connected," 

"Indeed I" I said. 

" You know that Alceste is betrothed to his son. 
Count Grimani. By-the-by, he quitted the box 
as you entered. You know himl" 

I sank back in my chair — I turned pale. 

" Do you admire this opera 1" I inquired. 

" It is a pretty imitation." 

" Very pretty." 

" Wc shall soon change it," 

" Very soon." 

"They have an excellent opera at St. Peters- 
burg, I understand. You have been there"?" 

' Yes — no-— I understand very excellent. This 
house is very hot." I rose up, bowed, and abruptly 
departed. 



I iTistantly quitted the theatre, covered myself up 
in my cloak, threw myself down in my gondola, 
and groaned. In a few minutes I arrived home. 
I was quite unexpected. I ran up stairs. Lau- 
sanne was about to light the candles. I sent him 
away, I was alone in the large, dark chamber, 
which seemed only more vast and gloomy for the 
bright moon. 

" Thank God !" I exclaimed, " I am alone. Why 
do I not die ! Betrothed ! It is false ; she cannot 
be another's. She is mine; she is my Adrian 
bride. Destiny has delivered her to me. Why 
did I pass the AJps ! Keaveh frowned upon the 
passage. Yet I was expected. I was long expected. 
Poh ! she ?s mine, I would cut her out from the 
heart of a legion. Is she happy 1 Her ' heaven is 
never serene.' Mark that. I will be the luminary 
to dispel these clouds. Betrothed ! Infamous jar- 
gon ! She belongs to me. Why did I not slab 
him! ■ Is there ne'er a bravo in Venice that will do 
the job ] Betrothed ! What a word ! what an 
infamous, what a ridiculous word ! She is mine, 
and she is betrothed to another. Most assuredly, 
if she be only to bo attained by the destruction of 
the city, she shall be mine. A host of Delfinis shall 
not balk me. 

" Now this is no common affair. It shall be 
done, and it shall be done quickly. I cannot doubt 
she loves me. It is as necessary that she should 
love me, as that I should adore her. We are bound 
together by Fate. We belong to each other : ' I 
have been long expected,.' 

" Ah ! were these words a warning or a prophecy"? 
Have I arrived too late I Let it be settled at once, 
this very evening. Suspense is madness. She is 
mine, most assuredly she is mine. I will not admit 
for a moment that she is not mine. That idea 
cannot exist in my thoughts. It is the end of the 
world, it is doomsday for me. Most assuredly, she 
is my Adrian bride, my bride, not my hetruthcd 
merely, but my bride. 

"Let me be calm. I am calm. I never was 
calmer in my life. Nothing shall ruffle, nothing 
shall discompose me. I will have my rights. This 
diificulty will make our future lives more sweet. 
We shall smile at it in each other's arms. Grimani 
Delfini ! If there be blood in that name, it shall flow. 
Sooner than another should possess her, she should 
herself be sacrificed, A solemn sacrifice, a sweet and 
solemn sacrifice, consecrated by my own doom ! I 
would lead her to the altar like Iphigenia. I — 

'O I inscrutable, inexorable destiny, which must 
be fulfilled ! Doom that mortals must endure, and 
cannot direct — lo! I kneel down before thee, and I 
pray ! — Let it end. let it end, let it end at once ! 
This suspense is insanity. Is she not mine ! 
Didst thou not whisper it in the solitude of the 
north, didst thou not conlirm it amid the thunder 
of the Alps, didst thou not reanimate my drooping 
courage, even amid this fair city I so much love, this 
land of long and frequent promise ? And shall it 
not be ! Do I exist, do I breathe, and think, and 
dare — am I a nran, and a man of strong passi(m3 
and deep thoughts — and shall I, like a vile beggar 
upon my kn(!es, crave the rich heritage that is my 
own right 1 If she be not mine, there is no longer 
Venice, no longer human existence, no longer a 
beautiful and everlasting world. Let it all cease; 
let the whole globe crack and shiver ; let all nations 
and all human hopes expire at once ; let chaos come 
again, if this girl be not my bride !" 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



40- 



I determined to go to the Malbrizzi palace. My 
spirit rose as I ascended the stairs. I felt confident 
she was there. Her form was tlie first that occurred 
to me as I entered the saloon. Several persons 
were around her, among them Grimani Delfini. I 
did not care. I had none of the jealousy of petty 
loves. She was unhappy, that was sufficient ; and 
if there were no other v^fay of disentangling the 
mesh, I had a sword that should cut this Gordian 
knot in his best blood. I saluted her. She pre- 
sented me to her cousin. I, smiled upon one who, 
at all events, should be my victim. 

" I hope that we shall make Venice agreeable to 
you, count," said Grimani. 

" There is no doubt," I replied. 

We conversed for some time on indiflerent sub- 
jects. My manner was elated. I entered into the 
spariiling contest of conversation with success. The 
presence of Alceste was my inspiration. I would 
not quit her side, and in time, we were once more 
alone. 

" You arc ever gay," she remarked. 

" My face is most joyful when my heart is most 
gloomy. Happiness is tranquil. Why were you 
not at the opera 1" 

" I go out very little." 

" I went there only to meet you. I detest these 
assemblies. You are always surrounded by a crowd 
of moths. Will you dance?" 

" I have just refused Grimani." 

" I am glad of it. I abhor dancing. I only asked 
you to monopolize your company." 

" And what have you been doing to-day 1 Have 
you seen all our spectacles]" 

" I have just risen. I did not go to bed last 
night. I sat up musing over our strange meeting." 

" Was it so strange?" 

" It was stranger than you imagine." 

"You are mysterious." 

" Every thing is mysterious, although I have been 
always taught the reverse." 

" I believe, too," she remarked, with a pensive 
air and in a serious tone, " that the courses of this 
world are not so obvious as we imagine." 

" The more I look upon you, the more I am 
convinced that yesterday was not our first meeting. 
We have been long acquainted. 

" In dreams?" 

" What you please. Dreams, visions, prophecies, 
I believe in them all. You have often appeared to 
me, and I have often heard of you." 

" Dreams are doubtless very singular." 

"They come from heaven. I could tell you 
stories of dreams that would indeed surprise 
you." 

« Tell me." 

" When I was about to past- the Alps, — but really 
it is too serious a narrative for such a place. Do 
you know the villa of the temple on the Brenta?" 

" Assuredl}', for it is my own." 

" Your own I Then you are indeed mine." 

" What can you mean 1" 

" The temple, the temple — " 

" And did you write upon the wall?" 

"Who else? Who else? But why I wrote 
-that I would tell you." 

" Let us walk to these rooms. There is a ter- 
race, where we shall be less disturbed." 

" And where we have been long expected." 

" Ah !" 



xr. 

"It is wonderful, most wonderful !" and she 
leaned down and plucked a flower. 

" I wish I were that flower," I said. 

" It resembles me more than you, Contarini," and 
she threw it away. 

" I see no resemblance." 

" It is lost." 

I picked it up and placed it in my bosom. 

" it is found," I replied, "and cherished." 

" We are melancholy," said Alceste, "and yet 
we are not happy. Your philosophy— is it quite 
correct?" 

" I am liappy yoii should resemble me, because I 
wish it." 

'' Good wishes do not always bring good fortunes." 

" Destiny bears to us our lot, and destiny is per- 
haps our own will." 

"Alas ! my will is brighter than my doom !" 

" Both should be beautiful, and shall — " 

" talk not of the future. Come, Contarini, 
come, come, avi'ay." 

XII. 

Shall I endeavour to recall the soft transport 
which this night sufl'used itself over my being? I 
existed only for one object; one idea only was 
impressed upon my brain. The next day passed 
in a delicious listlessness and utter oblivion of all 
cares and duties. In the evening, I rose from the 
couch on which I had the whole day reclined mu- 
sing on a single thought, and flew to ascertain 
whether that wizard Imagination had deceived me, 
whether she were, indeed, so wondrous fair and 
sweet, and that this earth could indeed be graced 
by such surpassing loveliness. 

She was not there. I felt her absence as the 
greatest misfortune that had ever fallen upon me. 
I could not anticipate existing four-and-twenty 
hours without her presence. I lingered in expec- 
tation of her arrival. I could hear nothing of her; 
Each moment I fancied she must appear. It seemed 
■impossible that so bitter a doom awaited me, as 
that I should not gaze this night upon her beauty. 
She did not come. I remained to the last, silent 
and anxious, and returned home to a sleepless bed. 

The next morning I called at the Deltiiii palace, 
to which I had received an invitation. Morning 
was an unusual time to call, but for this I did not 
care. I saw the old count and countess, and her 
ladyship's cavalier, who was the most frivolous and 
ancient Adonis I had ever witnessed. I talked 
with them all, all of them with the greatest good 
humour, in the hope that Alceste would at length 
appear. She did not. I ventured to inquire after 
her. I feared she might be unwell. She was 
quite well, but engaged with her confessor. I fell 
into one of my silent rages, kicked the old lady's 
poodle, snubbed the cavalier, and stalked away. 

In the evening, I was careful to be at the Mal- 
brizzi palace. The Delfinis were there, but not 
Alceste. I was already full of suspicions, and had 
been brooding the whole morning over a conspiracy. 
" Alceste is not here," I observed to the countess , 
" is she unwell?" 

" Not at all. I saw her this morning. She was 
quite well. — I suppose Count Grimani is jealous " 

" Hah !" thought I, "has it already come to thati 



408 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Let us begin, then. I feel very desperate. This 
affair must be settled. Fed by her constant pre- 
sence and her smiles, the flame of my passion 
could for a time bum with a calm and steady blaze 
— but I am getting mad again. I sball die if this 
state of things last another day. I have half a 
mind to invite him to the terrace, and settle it at 
once. Let me see, cannot I do more 1" 

I mused a moment, quitted the saloon, called the 
gondola, and told them to row me to the Delfiiii 
palace. 

We glided beneath that ancient pile. All was 
dark, save one opened window, whence proceeded 
the voice of one singing. I knew that voice. I 
motioned to the gondoliers to rest upon Lheir oars. 

" 'Tis the Signora Contarini," whispered Tita, 
who was acquainted with the fomily. 

We floated silently beneath her window. Again 
she sang. 

I marked a rose bedewed with tears, a white and 
virgin rose ; and I said, " O ! rose, why do j'ou 
weep, you are too beautiful for sorrow 1" And she 
answered, "Lady, mourn not for me, for my grief 
comes from Heaven." 

She was silent. I motioned to Tita, who, like 
many of the gondoliers, was gifted with a fine voice, 
to answer. He immediately sang a verse from one 
of the favourite ballads of his city. While he sang, 
I perceived her shadow, and presently I observed 
her in the middle of the apartment. I plucked 
from my breast a flower, which I had borne for her 
to the Malbrizzi palace, and cutting off a lock of my 
hair, I tied it round the rose, and threw it into the 
chamber. 

It fell upon the table. She picked it up, she 
stared at it for some moments, she smiled, she 
pressed it to her lips. 

I could restrain myself no longer. I pushed the 
gondola alongside the palace, clambered up the bal- 
cony, and entered the room. 

She started, she nearly shrieked, but restrained 
herself. 

" You are surprised, Alceste, perhaps you are 
displeased. They are endeavouring to separate us ; 
I cannot live without you." 

She clasped her hands, and looked up to heaven 
with a glance of anguish. 

* Yes ! Alceste," I exclaimed, advancing, " let 
me express what my manner has never attempted 
to conceal ; let me express to you my absolute ado- 
ration. I love you, my Alceste, I love you with a 
passion as powerful as it is pure, a passion which 
I cannot control, a passion which ought not to be 
controlled." 

She spoke not, she turned away her head and 
deprecated my advances with her extended arms. 

" Alceste, I know all. I know the empty, the 
impious ceremony that has doomed you to be the 
bride of a being whom you must abhor. My Al- 
ceste is not happy. She herself told me her heaven 
vvas not serene — the heaven in whose light I would 
forever lie." 

I advanced, I stole her hand, I pressed it to my 
hps. Her face was hidden in her arm, and that 
reclined upon a pillar. 

There was for a moment silence. Suddenly she 
withdrew her hand, and said, in a low, but distinct 
voice, " Contarini, this must end." 

"End! Alceste, I adore you. You — you dare 
not say you do not love me. Our will is not our 
own Destiny has linked us together, and Heaven 



has interposed to consecrate our vows. And shall 
a form, a dull, infamous form, stand between our 
ardent and hallowed loves !" 

" It is not that, Contarini, it is not that, though 
that were much. No, Contarini, I am not yours." 

" Not mine, Alceste ! not mine 1 Look upon 
me. Think who I am, and dare to say you are not 
mine. Am I not Contarini Fleming'! Are not 
you my Adrian bride 1 Heaven has delivered you 
to me." 

" Alas ! alas ! KeaveH keeps me from you." 

" Alceste, you see kneeling before you one who 
is indeed nothing, if fame be what some deem. I 
am young, Alceste, the shadow of my mind has not 
yet fallen over the earth. Yet there is that within 
me, — and at this moment I prophesy, — there is that 
within me which may yet mould the mind and for- 
tunes of my race — and of this heart, capable of 
these things, the fountains are open, Alceste, and 
they flow for you. Disdain them not, Alceste ; 
pass them not by with carelessness. In the 
desert of your life, they will refresh you — yes, 
yes, they can indeed become to you a source of all 
felicity. 

" I love 3'ou with a love worthy of your being : 
I love you a>- none but men like me can love. Blend 
not the thought of my passion with the common- 
place affections of the world. Is it nothing to be 
the divinity of that breathing shrine of inspiration, 
my teeming mind 1 O ! Alceste, you know not 
the world to which I can lead you, the fair and 
glorious garden in which we may wander for- 
ever !" 

" I am lost I" she exclaimed, " but I am yours." 

I caught her in my arms ; yea ! I caught her ir. 
my arms, that dark-eyed daughter of the land I 
loved. I sealed her sweet lips with passionate 
kisses. Her head rested on my breast; and I dried 
with embraces her fast-flowing tears. 

XIIL 

I iiAD quitted Alceste so abruptly that I had 
made no arrangements for our future meeting. Nor 
indeed for some time could I think of any thing 
but my present and overflowing joy. So pa.ssion- 
ately was I entranced with all that had happened, 
so deeply did I muse over all that had been said 
and done, so sweetly did her voice linger in my ear, 
and so clearly did her fond form move before my 
vision, that hours elapsed before I felt again the 
craving of again beholding her. I doubted not that I 
should find her at the Malbrizzi palace. I was 
disappointed, but my disappointment was not bitter 
like the preceding eve. I felt secure in our secret 
loves, and I soon quitted the assembly again to glide 
under her window. All was dark. I waited, 
Tita again sang. No light appeared, no sound 
stirred. 

I resolved to call at the palace, to which I had 
received the usual general invitation. The family 
were out, and at the Pisani palace. I returned to Ma- 
dame Malbrizzi's. I looked about for my young 
Austrian aci]uaintance. I observed him, 1 fell into 
conversation. I inquired if he knew Count Pisani, 
and on his answering in the affirmative, I requested 
him to accompany me there. We soon arrived at 
the Pisani palace. I met the Delfinis, t)ut no Al- 
ceste. I spoke to the countess. I listened to several 
stories about her laj)-dog; I even anticipated her 
ancient cavaher in picking up her glove. I veu- 



C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 



409 



tureil to inquire after Alceste. They believed she 
was not quite well. I quitted the palace, and re- 
paired again to the ina2:ical window. Darkness 
and silence alone greeted me. I returned home, 
more gloomy than anxious. 

In the morning, Lausanne brought me a letter. 
I broke the seal with a trembling hand and with a 
faint blush. I guessed the writer. The words 
seemed traced by love. I read. 

" I renounce our vows, I retract my sacred pledge, 
I deliver to the winds our fatal love. 

" Pity me, Contarini, hate me, despise me, but 
forget me. 

" Why do I write ? Why do I weep T I am 
nothing, O ! I am nothing. I am blotted out of 
this fair creation, and the world that should bring 
me so many joys, brings me only despair. 

" Do not hate me, Contarini, do not hate me. 
Do not hate one who adores you. Yes ! adore 
— for even at this dread moment, when I renounce 
your love, let me, let me pour forth my adoration. 

" Am I insensible ] am I unworthy of the felicity, 
that for an instant we thought might be minel O ! 
Contarini, no one is worthy of you, and yet I fondly 
believe my devotion might compensate for my im- 
perfectness. 

''To be the foithful companion of his life, to be 
the partner of his joy and sorrow, to sympathize 
with his glory, and to solace his grief — I ask no 
more, I ask no more thou Heaven ! Wilt thou not 
smile upon me I Wilt thou, for whom I sacrifice so 
much, wilt thou not pity mel 

"All is silent. There is no sign. No heavenly 
messenger tells me I may be happy. Alas! alas! 
I ask too much, I ask too much. It is too great a 
prize. I feel it, I believe it. My unworthiness is 
great, but I am its victim. 

" Contarini, let this console you. I am unworthy 
of you. Heaven has declared I am unworthy of 
you. Were I worthy of you. Heaven would not 
be cruel. O ! Contarini, let this console you. 
You are destined for higher joys. Think not of 
me, Contarini, think not of me, and I — I will be 
silent. 

" Silent ! and where ? ! world, that I now feel 
that I could love, beautiful, beautiful world — thou 
art not for me, thou art not for me, and Heaven, 
Heaven, to whom I olfer so much, surely, surely, 
in this agony it will su])port me. 

" I must write, although my pen refuse to in- 
scribe my wo ; I must write, although my fast- 
llowing tears bathe out the record of my misery. 
O ! my God ! for one moment uphold me. Let 
" the future at least purchase me one moment of 
present calm ! Let me spare, at least, him ! Let 
me at least, in this last act of my love, testify my 
devotion by concealing my despair. 

" You must know all, Contarini, you must know 
all. You must know all, that you niay not hate 
me. Think me. not light, think me not capricious. 
It is my constancy that is fatal, it is my duty that 
is my death. 

" You love our country, Contarini, you love our 
Italy. Fatal, fatal Italy ! O ! Contarini, fly, fly 
away from us. Cross again those Alps that 
Heaven frowned upon you as you passed. Un- 
happy country ! I am the victim of thy usages, 
who was born to breathe amid thy beauty. You 
know the customs of this land. The convent is 
our school — it leads to the cloister, that is too often 
52 



our doom. I was educated at a Tuscan convent. 
I purchased my release from it, like many of my 
friends, and the price was my happiness, which I 
knew not then how to prize. The day that I 
quitted the convent, I was the betrothed bride of 
Grimani Delfini. I was not then terrified by that, 
the memory of which now makes me shudder. It 
is a common, though an unhallowed incident. 

"I entered that world of which I had thought 
so much. My mind developed with my increased 
sphere of knowledge. Let me he brief. I soon 
could not contemplate without horror the idea 
of being the bride of a man I could not love. There 
was no refuge. I postponed, by a thousand excuses, 
our union. I had rccouise to a thousand expe- 
dients to dissolve it. Vain struggling of a slave! In 
my frenzy, the very day that you entered Italy, I 
returned to Florence on the excuse of visiting a 
friend, and secretly devoted myself to the cloister. 
The abbess, allured by the prospect of attaining 
my property for her institution, became my confi- 
dant, and I returned to Venice only to make in 
secret the necessary preparations for quitting it for 
ever. 

" The Dclfinis were on the Brenta. I repaired 
one dfiy to the villa which you visited, and which, 
though uninhabited, became, from having been the 
favourite residence of my father, a frequent object 
of my visits. As I walked along the terrace, I per- 
ceived for a moment and at a distance, a stranger 
crossing the lawn. I retired into the chapel, where 
I remained more than an hour. I quilted the cha- 
j)el and walked to the temple. I was attracted liy 
some writing on the wall. I read it, and although 
I could ascribe to it no definite meaning, I could 
not help musing over it. I sat down in a chair at 
the head of the table. Whether I were tired by 
the walk, or overpowered by the heat, I know not, 
but an unaccustomed drowsiness crept over my 
limbs, and I fell asleep. I not only fell asleep, but, 
O ! Contarini, I dreamed, and my dream was 
wonderful and strange. 

" 1 found myself alone in the cloisters of a con- 
vent, and I heard afar the solenm chant of an ad- 
vancing procession. It became louder and louder, 
and soon I perceived the rmns advancing, with the 
abbess at their head. And the abbess came for- 
ward to claim me, and to my horror, her counte- 
nance was that of Grimani Delfini. And I strug- 
gled to extricate myself from her grasp, and 
suddenly the stranger of the morning rushed in 
and caught me in his arms, and the cloister melted 
away, and I found myself in a beautiful comitry, 
and I woke. 

"The sun had set. I returned home, pensive 
and wayward. Never had I thought of my un- 
happy situation with more unhappiness. And each 
night the figure of the stranger appeared to me in 
my dreams, and each day I procrastinated my re- 
turn to Florence. And in the agitation which these 
strange dreams produced, I detern)iiied to go and 
pray at the tombs of my fathers. I quitted the villa 
Delfini with a single female attendant, and returned 
to it the same day. I entered the church through 
a private door from the adjoining building, which 
was a house of charity founded by our family. 

" You know the rest, Contarini, you know the 
rest. We met. The stranger of my dreams stood 
before me. My heart before that meeting "' 
already yours, and when you whispered to me th. 
you too — 

2 M 



410 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Wo ! wo ! why are we not happy ! You said 
that Heaven had brought us together. Alas ! Con- 
tarini, Heaven, Heaven has jiarted us. I avoided' 
you, Contarini, I flew from the spell which each 
instant grew stronger. You sought me. I yielded. 
i'es ! I yielded, but long vigils shall atone for that 
fatal word. 

" Go, Contarini, go forth in glory and in pride, 
will pray for you, I will ever think of you, I will 
ever think of my best, my only beloved. All the 
prosperity human imagination can devise, and hea- 
venly love can grant, hover over you ! You will 
be happy, you must be happy. For my sake j'ou 
will be happy — and I' — I am alone, but I am alone 
with my Redeemer, "Alceste. 

" Ere you have received this, I shall have crossed 
tire Apennines — pursuit is hopeless ; and my Con- 
tarini will, I am sure, respect my vow." 

It was read. My spirit was never more hushed 
in my life — I was quite calm. She might be in a 
convent, and it might be necessary to burn the con- 
vent down, and both of us might probably perish irt 
the flames. But what was death to the threatened 
desolation] I sent for Lausanne. "Lausanne," 
1 said, "I have a very high opinion of your talents 
and energy. I have hitherto refrained from putting 
them to the test, for particular reasons. A circum- 
stance has occurred in which I require not only 
their gi'eatest exertion, but devotion and fidelity. 
If you accomplish my wish, you are no longer my 
servant, you are my friend for life. If you fail, it 
matters little, for I shall not survive. But if you 
betray mc, Lausanne — " and I looked through his 
very soul. 

" The consequences may be fatal to me. I under- 
stand you. "When I entered your service, you are 
under a mistake if you consider my fidelity re- 
stricted." 

" It is well ; I place implicit trust in you. Sig- 
nora Contarini has quitted Venice suddenly. Her 
present abode is a secret. She inibrms me that she 
has departed for Tuscany, and is by this time in a 
convent. This may be to mislead me, or to gain 
time — I wish to ascertain it." 

"There will be no difficulty, my lord," said 
Lausanne, with a smile. " There are no secrets in 
Venice to -the rich." 

" It is well. I shall remain in this room until I 
hear from you. I care not how much is expended. 
Away ; and for God's sake, Lausanne, bring me 
good news." 

XIV. 

I WALKED up and down the room without stop- 
ping. Not an idea crossed my mind. In two hours 
Lausanne returned. 

" Well, well?" I exclaimed. 

"There is, I think, little doubt that the signora 
departed for the villa Dclfini. She may now have 
quitted it. I sent Tita to the palace, as he is ac- 
quainted with the household. This is all he could 
elicit." 

" The gondola, the gondola. Rest you here, Lau- 
sanne, and let mc know when I return what ships 
are about to leave the port. Tell the banker I shall 
want money — a considerable sum ; two thousand 
sequins ; and let the bills be ready for my signature. 
And, Lausanne," I added in a low tone, " I may 
'•"(juire a priest. Have your eye upon some fellow 
who will run over the ceremony without asking 



questions. If I be anj' time absent, say I liave gone 
to Trieste." 

My gondoliers skimmed along. We were soon 
at Fusina. I shook my purse to the postillion. The 
horses were ready in an instant. I took Tita with 
me, as he knew the servants. We dashed off at a 
rate which is seldom achieved on those dull, sandy 
roads. We hurried on for three or four hours. I 
told Tita to have his eye for any of the Delfini 
household. As we were passing the gate of the 
villa of the temple, he turned round on the box and 
said, " By the blood of the holy Baptist, your ex- 
cellency, there is the little Maiia, Signora Alceste's 
attendant. She just now entered that side door. I 
knew her by the rose-coloured ribands which I 
gave her last carnival." 

" Did she see usi" 

" I think not, for the baggage would have smiled." 

" Drive back a hundred yards." 

It was sunset. I got out of the carriage, and 
stole into the gardens of the villa unperceived. I 
could see no lights in the builditig. From this I 
inferred that Alceste was perhaps only paying a 
farewell visit to her father's ho\ise. I ran along 
the terrace, I observed no one. I gained the chapel. 
I instinctively trod very lightly. I glanced in at 
the window. I perceived a form kneeling before 
the altar. There was a single candle. The kneel- 
ing figure leaned back with clasped hands. The 
light fell upon the countenance. I beheld the face 
of Alceste Contarini. 

I opened the door gently, but it roused her. I 
entered. 

" I come," I said, " to claim my bride." 

She screamed, she jumped upon the altar, and 
clung to the great ebony cross. It was the same 
figure, and the same attitude, that I beheld in my 
vision in the church. 

"Alceste," I said, "you are mine. There is no 
power in heaven or earth, there is no infernal influ- 
ence that can prevent you from being mine. You 
are as much part of me as this arm with which I 
now embrace you." I tore her from the cross, I 
caiTicd her fainting form out of the chapel. 

The moon had risen. I rested on a bank, and 
watched with blended passion and anxiety her 
closed eyes. She was motionless, and her white 
arms drooped down apparently without life. She 
breathed, yes ! she breathed. That large eye 
o])ened, and darkened into light. She gazed around 
with an air of vacancy. A smile, a faint, sweet 
smile played upon her face. She slightly stretched 
her beautiful frame, as if again to feel her existence, 
and moved her beautiful arms, as if to try whether 
she yet retained power over her limbs. Again she 
smiled, and exclaiming " Contarini !" threw them 
round my neck. 

" O ! my Alceste, my long-promised Alceste, you 
arc indeed mine." 

" I am yours, Contarini. Do with me what you 
like." 

XV. 

We walked to the temple, in order that she 
might compose herself before her journey. I sat 
down in the same chair, but not alone. Alceste 
was in my arm.s. Happiness is indeed tranquil, 
for our joy Was full, and we were silent. At length 
I whispered to lier that we must go. She rose, and 
we were about to leave the temple, when she 
would go back and kiss my inscription. 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



411 



She rememhered the mnid, whom I had forgot- 
ten. I sent Tita to tell his friend that a carriage 
had arrived from Madame Malbrizzi's for his mis- 
tress, who was obliged suddenly to return, and that 
she was to remain behind. I wrapped Alceste in 
my cloak and placed her in my arms in the car- 
riage, and then returned to Venice. 

The gondola glided swiftly to my palace. I car- 
ried Alceste out, and bore her in my arms to her 
apartment. She entreated that I would not, for a 
moment, quit her. 1 was obliged therefore to re- 
ceive Lausanne's report at the door. There was 
no vessel immediately about to depart, but a ship 
had quitted the port that morning for Candia, and 
was still beating about in the oiling. He had him- 
self seen the captain, who was content to take pas- 
sengers, provided they would come out to him. 
This suited my plane. Lausanne had induced the 
captain to lie-to till the morning. A priest, he told 
me, was waiting. 

I broke to Alceste, lying exhausted upon the 
sofa, the necessity of our instant departure, and our 
instant union. She said it was well ; that she 
should never be at ease till she had quitted Venice, 
and that she was ready. I postponed our marriage 
until the night, and insisted upon her taking some 
refreshment, but she could not eat. I gave direc- 
tions to Lausanne to prepare for our instant depar- 
ture. I resolved to talie Tita with me, with whom 
I wiis well pleased. 

I was anxious about the marriage, because, al- 
though I believed it invalid in a Catholic country 
without a dispensation, it would, as I conceived, 
hold good in Protestant law. I was careful of the 
honour of the Contarinis, and at this moment, was 
not unmindful of the long line of northern ances- 
try, which I did not wish my child to disgrace. 

The ingenuity of Lausanne was always remarka- 
ble at conjunctures like the present. The magic of 
his character was his patience. This made him 
quicker and readier, and more successful than all 
other men. He prepared every thing, and antici- 
pated wants of which we could not think. 

Two hours before midnight, I was united, by 
the forms of the Catholic church, to Alceste Con- 
larini, the head of the most illustrious house in 
Europe, and the heiress of a fortune, which, in 
spite of its decay, was not unworthy of her birth. 
Two servants were the only witnesses of an act, to 
fulfil which she imagined herself to peril her eter- 
nal welfare, and which exercised a more certain 
an.d injurious influence over her worldly fortunes 
and reputation. 

At daybreak, Lausanne roused me, saying that 
the wind was favourable, and we must he off. He 
had already despatched Tita to the ship with all 
our baggage. I rose, wrote to my banker, inform- 
ing him that I should be absent some time, and re- 
questing him to manage every thing for my credit, 
and then I kissed my still sleeping wife. The 
morning light fell upon her soft face. A slight 
flush melted away as I gazed upon her, and she 
opened her eyes and smiled. Never had she looked 
more-beautiful. I would have given half my fortune 
to have been permitted to remain at Venice in 
tranquillity and peace. 

But doubly sweet is the love that is gained by 
danger, and guarded by secrecy. All was prepared. 
We stepped, perhaps for the last time, into a gon- 
dola. The gray sea was before us, we soon reach- 
ed the ship, Tita and the captain were standing at 



the ladder-head. The moment that wc embarked 
the sails were set, and a dashing breeze bore us 
along out of the gulf. Long ere noon, that Venice, 
with its towers and cupolas, which I had forfeited 
so much to visit, and all those pleasant palaces 
wherein I could have lived forever, had faded into 
the blue horizon. 

XVL 

Tup. ship was an imperial merchant brig. The 
wife of the captain was on board, a great conve- 
nience for Alceste, who was without female attend- 
ance, and with the exception of some clothes the 
provident Lausanne had obtained from Tita's sLster, 
without a wardrobe. But these are light hardships 
for love, and the wind was favourable, and the ves- 
sel fleet. Wc were excellent sailors, and bore the 
voyage without inconvenience, and the novelty of 
the scene, and the beauty of the sea amused and 
interested us. 

I imbibed from this voyage a taste for a sea life, 
which future wanderings on the waters have only 
confirmed. I never find the sea monotonous. The 
sanations of weather, the ingenious tactics, the 
rich sunsets, the huge, strange fish, the casual meet- 
ings, and the original and racy character of mari- 
ners, and perhaps also the frequent sight of land, 
which oflers itself in the Mediterranean, aflord me 
constant amusement. I do not think that there is 
Ml the world a kinder-hearted and more courteous 
person than a common sailor. - As for their atten- 
tions to Alceste they were ^ven delicate, and I am 
sure, that although a passionate lover, I might have 
'aken many a hint from their vigilant solicitude. 
Whenever she was present their boisterous mirth 
was instantly repressed. She never walked the 
deck that a ready hand was not quick in clear- 
ing her path of any impediments, and ere I could 
even discover she was weary, their watchful eyes 
anticipated her wants, and they proffered her a rude 
but welcome seat. Ah ! what a charming voyage 
was this, when my only occupation was to look 
upon an ever-smiling face, and to be assured a 
thousand times each hour, that I was the cause of 
all this happiness. 

Lausanne called me one morning on deck. Our 
port was in sight. I ran up ; I beheld the high- 
lands of Candia — a rich, wild group of lofty blue 
mountains, and in the centre, the snowy peak of 
Mount Ida. As we approached, the plain, extend- 
ing from the base of the mountains to the coast, 
became perceptible, and soon a town and harbour. 

We were surrounded by boats full of beings in 
bright and strange costumes. A new world, a 
new language, a new religion, were before us. Our 
deck was covered with bearded and turbaned men. 
We stared at each other in all this picturesque con- 
fusion, but Lausanne, and especially Tita, who 
spoke Greek, and knew Candia well, saved us from 
all anxiety. We landed, and, thanks to being in a 
Turkish province, there was no difficulty about 
passports, with which we were unprovided, and a 
few sequins saved the captain from explaining why 
his passengers were not included in his ship's pa- 
pers. We landed, and were lodged in the house 
of a Greek, who officiated as a European vice^ 
consul. 

The late extraordinary incidents of our lives ba>l 
followed each other with such rapidity, that when 
we woke in the morning, we could scarcely believe 



«12 



B'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



that it was not at all a dream. We looked round 
our chamber with its strange furniture, and stared 
at the divans, and small, high windows, shadowed 
with painted glass, and smiled. Our room was 
darkened, but, at the end, opened an arch bright in 
the sun. Beautiful strange plants quivered in tire 
light. The perfume of orange-trees filled our 
chamber, and the bees were clustering in the scar- 
let flowers of the pomegranate. Amid the pleasing 
distraction of these sweet sounds and scents we 
distinguished tlie fall of a fountain. 

We stole forward to the arch like a prince and 
princess just disenchanted in a fairy tale. We 
stepped into a court paved with marble, and full of 
rare shrubs. The fountain was in the centre. 
Around it were delicate mats of Barbarj', and small 
bright Persian carpets ; and crouching on a scarlet 
cushion was a white gazelle. 

I stepped out. and found our kind host, who spoke 
Italian. I sent his lovely daughter, Alexina, whose 
cheeks were like a cleft of pomegranate, to my 
wife. As for myself, by Lausanne's advice, I took 
a Turkish bath, which is the most delightful thing 
in the world, and when I was reduced to a jelly, I 
repaired to our host's divan, where his wife, and 
three other daughters, all equally beautiful, and 
dressed in long flowing robes of dili'erent coloured 
velvets richly embroidered, and caps of the same 
material, with tassels of gold, and covered with 
pearls, came forward. One gave me a pipe seven 
feet long, another fed me with sweetmeats, a third 
pressed her hand to her heart, as she presented me 
cofllee in a small cup of porcelain, resting in a fila- 
gree frame, and a child, who sparkled like a fairy, 
bent her knee, as she proffered me a vase of sher- 
bet. I felt like a pasha, and the good father trans- 
lated my compliments. 

I thought that Alceste would never appear, and 
I sent Lausanne to her door fiftytimes. At length 
she came, and in a Greek dress, which they had 
insisted upon her wearing. I thought we should 
have both expired with laughing. We agreed that 
we were perfectly happy. 

This was all very delightful, but it was neces- 
sary to arrange our plans. I consulted Lausanne. 
I wished to engage a residence in a retired part of 
the island. We spoke to our host. He had a 
country house, which would exactly suit us, and 
desired a tenant. I sent Lausanne immediately to 
examine it. It was only fifteen miles away. His 
report was most satisfactory, and I, at once, closed 
with the consul's ofl'er. 

The house was a long, low building, in the east- 
ern stylo, with plenty of rooms. It was situate on 
a very gentle, green hill, the last undulation of a 
chain of Mount Ida, and was perfectly embowered 
with gardens, and plantations of olive and orange. 
It was about two miles from the sea, which appear- 
ed before us in a wild and rocky bay. A peasant, 
who cultivated the gardens, with his wife and chil- 
dren, two daughters just breaking into womanhood, 
and a young son, were offered to us as servants. 
Nothing could be more convenient. Behold us at 
length at rest ! 

XVIL 

I HAVE arrived at a period of my life which, 
although it afforded me the highest happiness th-.it 
was ever the lot of man, of which the recollection 
IS now my never-ceasing solace, and to enjoy the 



memory of which is alone worth existence, cannot 
prove very interesting to those who have been suf- 
ficiently engaged by my history to follow me to my 
retirement in ancient Crete. 

My life was now monotonous, for my life was 
only love. 

I know not the palling of passion, of which some 
write. I have loved onty once, and the recollec- 
tion of the being to whom I was devoted, fills me 
at this moment with as much rapture, as when her 
virgin charms were first yielded to my embrace. I 
cannot comprehend the sneers of witty rakes, at 
what they call constancy. If beings are united by 
any other consideration but love, constancy is of 
course impossible, and I think, unnecessary. To 
a man who is in love, the thought of another wo- 
man is uninteresting, if not repulsive. Constancy 
is human wature. Instead of love being the- occa- 
sion of all the misery of this world, as is sung by 
fantastic bards, I believe that the misery of this 
world is occasioned by there not being love enovigh. 
This opinion, at any rate, appears more logical. 
Happiness is only to be found in a recurrence to 
the principles of human nature, and the^e will 
prompt very simple manners. For myself, I be- 
lieve that jjermanent union of the sexes should be 
early encouraged ; nor do I conceive that general 
happiness can ever flourish but in societies where it 
irf the custom for all the males to marry at eighteen. 
This custom, I am informed, is not unusual in the 
United Slates of America, and its consequence is 
a simjilici'ty of manners, and a p)urity of conduct, 
which Europeans cannot comprehend, but to which 
they must ultimately have recourse. Primeval bar- 
barism, and extreme civilization, must arrive at the 
same results. Men, under those circumstances, are 
actuated by their organization ; in the first instance, 
instinctively ; in tlie second, philosophically. At 
present, we are all in the various gradations of tl^ 
intermediate state of corruption. * 

I could have lived with Alceste Contarini in a 
solitude for ever. I desired nothing more than to 
enjoy existence with such a coni[)anion. I would 
have communicated to her all my thoughts and 
feelings. I would have devoted to her solitary ear 
the poetry of my being. Such a life might not suit 
others. Others influenced by a passion not less 
ardent, may find its flame fed by the cares of life, 
cherished by its duties and its pleasures, and flour- 
ishing amid the travail of society. All is an affair 
of organization. Ours would differ. Among all 
men, there are some points of similarity and sym- 
pathy. There are few alike, there are some per- 
fectly unlike the mass. The various tribes that 
people this globe in all probability, spring from dif- 
ferent a)iimals. Until we know more of ourselves, 
what use are our systems 1 For myself, I can con- 
ceive nothing more idle or more usele.ss than what 
is styled moral philosophy. We speculate upon 
the character of man ; we divide and we subdivide ; 
we have our generals, our sages, our statesmen. 
There is not a modification, of mind that is notma[)- 
ped in our great atlas of intelligence. We cannot 
be wrong, because we have studied the past, and 
we are famous for discovering the future when it 
has taken place. Napoleon is first consul, and 
would found a dynasty. There is no doubt of it. 
Read my character of Cromwell. But what use is 
the discovery, when the consul is already tearing off 
his republican robe, and snatching the imperial dia- 
dem ! And suppose, which has happened, and ma 



OONTARINI FLEMING. 



413 



11 J will happen again, suppose a being of adifTerent 
orginization to Napoleon or Cromwell placed in the 
^ame situation, — a being gifted with a combination 
of intelligence hitherto unknown, where then is our 
moral philosophy, our nice study of human nature? 
How are we to speculate upon results, which are to 
be produced by uuknown causes ! What we want 
is to discover the character of a man at his birth, 
and found his education upon his nature. The 
whole system of moral philosophy is a delusion, fit 
only for the play of sophists in an age of physiolo- 
gical ignorance. 

I leave these great speculations for the dreariness 
of future hours. Alceste calls me to the golden 
sands, whither it is oui wont to take our svuiset 
walk. 

A Grecian sunset ! The sky is like the neck of 
a dove, the rocks and waters are bathed with a violet 
light. Each moment it changes; each moment it 
.shifts into more graceful and more gleaming sha- 
dows. And the thin white moon is above all, the 
thin white moon, followed by a single star — like a 
lady by a page. 

XVIII. 

Vi/'f. had no booksi; no single source of amuse- 
ment but our own society, and yet the day always 
appeared a moment. I did indeed contrive to ob- 
tain for Alceste what was called a mandolin, and 
■which, from its appearance, might have been an 
ancient lyre. But it was quite unnecessary. My 
tongue never stopped the whole day. I told Alceste 
every thing. All about my youthful scrapes and 
fancies, and Musaus and my battle, and Winter, 
and Christiana, and the confounded tragedy, and, 
of course, Manstein. If I for a moment ceased, she 
always said " go on." On I went, and told the 
same stories over again, which she reheard with the 
same interest. The present was so delightful to 
me, that I cared little to talk about the past, and 
always avoided the future. But Alceste would 
sometimes turn the conversation to what might 
happen, and as she now promised to heighten our 
happiness by bringing us a beautiful stranger to 
share our delightful existence, the future began to 
interest even me. 

I had never written to my fa';her since I arrived 
at Paris. Every time I drew a bill I expected to 
find my credit revoked, but it was not so. And I 
therefore willingly concluded that Lausanne ap- 
prized him of every thing, and that he thought fit 
not to interfere. I had never written to my father, 
because I cannot dissemble, and as my conduct ever 
since I quitted France had been one continued vio- 
lation of his commands and wishes, why, correspon- 
dence was difficult, and could not prove pleasing. 
But Alceste would talk about my father, and it was 
therefore necessary to tliink of him. She shuddered 
at the very name of Italy, and willingly looked for- 
ward to a settlement in the north. For myself, I 
was exceedingly happy, and my reminiscences of 
my fatherland were so far from agreeable, that I 
was careless as to the future, and although I already 
began to entertain the possibility of a return, I still 
wished to pass some considerable time of our youth 
inviolate by the vulgar cares of life, and under the 
influence of a glowing sky. 

In the mean time we rambled about the moim- 
tains on our little, stout Candiote horses, or amused 
Oiirselves In adorning our residence. We made a 



new garden. We collected every choice flower, 
and rare bird, and beautiful animal that we could 
assemble together. Alceste was wild for a white 
gazelle ever since we had seen one in the consul's 
court. They came from a particular part of Arabia, 
and are rare. Yet one was obtained, and two of 
its fawn-coloured brethren. I must confess that we 
found these elegant and poetical companions ex- 
tremely troublesome and stupid. They are the 
least sentimental and domestic of all creatures. 
The most sedulous attention will not attach them to 
you, and I do not believe they are ever fairly tame, 
I dislike them, in spite of their liquid eyes and ro- 
mantic reputation, and infinitely prefer what are 
now my constant and ever delightful company, 
some fine, faithful, honest, intelligent, thorough- 
bred English dogs. 

We had now passed nearly eight months in this 
island. The end of the year was again advancing. 
O ! the happy, the oharming evenings, when fear- 
ing for my Alceste, that it grew too cool to walk, 
we sat within the house, and the large lamp was 
lit, and the faithful Lausanne brought me my pipe, 
and the confounded gazelle kicked it over, and the 
grinning Tita handed us our coffee, and my dear, 
dear Alceste sang me some delicious Venetian me- 
lody, and then I left off smoking, and she left off 
singing, and we were happier and happier every 
day. 

Talk of fame and romance — all the glory and 
adventure in the world are not worth one single 
hour of domestic bliss ! It sounds like a claptrap, 
but the solitary splendour with which I ana now 
surrounded, tells me, too earnestly, it is truth. 

XIX, 

The hour approached that was to increase my 
happiness, my incredible happiness. Blessed, infi- 
nitely blessed as I was, bountiful Heaven was about 
to shower upon me a new and fruitful joy. In a 
few days I was to become a father. We had ob- 
tained from the town all necessary attendance : an 
Italian physician, whose manner gave us confidence, 
a sage woman of great reputation, were at our 
house. I had myself been cautious that my trea- 
sure should commit no imprudence. W^e were full 
of love and hope. My Alceste was not quite well. 
The physician recommended great quiet. She was 
taking her siesta, and I stole from her side, because 
my presence ever excited her, and she could not 
slumber. 

I strolled down to the bay, and mused over the 
character of a father. My imagination dwelt only 
upon this idea. I discovered, as my revery pro- 
ceeded, the fine relations that must subsist between 
a parent and a child. Such thoughts had made no 
impression upon me before. I thought of my own 
father, and the tears stole down my check. I vowed 
to return to him immediately, and give ourselves up 
to his happiness. I prayed to Heaven to grant me 
a man-child. I felt a lively confidence that he 
would be choicely gifted. I resolved to devote my- 
self entirely to his education. My imagination 
wandered in dreams of his perfect character, of his 
high accomplishments, liis noble virtues, his exalted 
fame. I conceived a philosopher who might mflu- 
ence his race, a being to whom the regeneration of 
his kind was perhaps allotted. 

My thoughts had rendered me unconscious of the 
hour ; the sun had set without my observation ; tbo 
2 iti 2 



414 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



growing- twilight callorl me to myself. I looked 
ifp, I beheld in the distance Alceste. I was sur- 
prised, disjiloased, alarmed. I could not conceive 
any thing more imprudent than her eomlnsr forth 
in the evening, and in her situation. I ran forward 
to reprimand lier with a kiss, to fold her shawl more 
closely round her, and bear her in my arms to the 
house. I ran forward, speaking at the same time. 
She f lintly smiled. I reached her. Lo ! she was 
not there ! A moment before, she was on the wide 
sands. There was no cavern near in which she 
could have entered. I stood amazed, thunderstruck. 
I shouted " Alceste." 

'I'he shout was answered. I ran hack. Another 
shout; Tita came to me -running. His agitated 
fiee struck me with awe. He could not speak ; he 
seized my arm and dragged me along. I ran to the 
house. I did not dare to incpiire the cause. Lau- 
sanue met me at the threshold. His countenance 
wa.s despair. I stared like a bewildered man, I 
rushed to her room. Yet I remember the group 
leaning round our bed. They moved aside. I saw 
Alceste. She did not sec me. Her eyes were 
closed, her face pale and changed, her mouth had 
fallen. 

" What," I said, " what is all this ] Doctor, doc- 
tor, how is she]" 

The physician shook his head. 

I could not speak. I wrung my hands, more 
from the inability of thought and speech, than grief, 
by which I was not influenced. 

Speak, speak !" I at length said, "is she dead V 

"My lord " 

" Speak, speak, speak !" 

" It appears to me to be desperate. 

"It is impossible ! Dead ! She cannot be dead. 
Bleed her, bleed her, sir, before niQ. Dead ! Did 
3'ou say dead ? Nonsense, nonsense ! Alceste, 
Alceste, speak to me. Say you are not dead, only 
say you are not dead. Bleed her, sir, bleed her." 

To humour me, he took up his lancet and 
opened another vein. A few dull drops oozed out. 

" Ah !" I exclaimed, " See ! she bleeds ! She is 
not dead. Alceste, Alceste ! you are not dead ! 
Lausanne, do something, Lausanne. For God's 
sake, Lausanne, sate her. Do something, Lausanne. 
My good Lausanne, do something!" 

He afTected to feel her pulse. I staggered about 
the room, wringing my hands. 

" Is she better 1" I inquired. 

No one answered. 

" Doctor, save her ! Tell me she is better, and I 
give you half — my whole fortune." 

l"he poor physician shook his head. He at- 
tempted nothing. I rushed to Lausanne, and seized 
his arm. 

" Lausanne, I can trust you. Tell me the truth. 
Is it all over?" 

" It has too long been over." 

" Ah !" I waved my hands, and shrieked, and fell. 

XX. 

Wur.jf my self-consciousness was restored, I 
found myself in another room. I was lying in a 
divan in the arms of Lausanne. I had forgotten 
every thing. I called Alceste. Then the remcm- 
hrance rushed into my brain. 

" Is it true," I said, " I>ausanne, is it true V 
His silence was an answer. I rose, and walked 
up and down the room once or twice, and then I 



said, in a low voice, " Take me to the body, Lau 
sanne." 

I leaned upon his arm and entered the chamber 
of our joys. Even as I entered, I indulged the 
wild hope that I should find it vmoecupied. I could 
not believe it. Yes, 5-es, she was dead ! 

Tall candles were burning in the room ; the walls 
were hung with solemn drapery. I advanced to 
the bedside. I took her hand. I motioned to Lau- 
sanne to retire. We were alone, alone once more. 
But how alone] I doubtal of every thing. I doubted 
of my existence. I thought my heart would burst, 
I wondered why any thing still went on. Why 
was not all over ] I looked round with idiot eyes, 
and opened mouth. A horrid contortion was chi 
selled on my face. 

Suddenly I seized the corpse in my arms, and 
fiercely embraced it. I thought I could reanimate 
it. I felt so much I thought I could reanimate it. 
I struggled with death. Was she dead ] Was she 
really dead ] It had a heavy leaden feel. I let her 
drop from my arms. She dropped like a lifeless 
trunk. I looked round with a silly grin. 

It was morning time. The flames of the candles 
looked haggard. There was a I'nrkish dagger in 
the closet. I remembered it. I ran to the closet. 
I cut off her long tresses. I rolled them round my 
neck. I locked the door. I stole out of the win- 
dow. I cunningly watched to observe whether I 
were followed. No one was stirring, or no one 
suspected me. I scudded away fleetly. I rushed up 
the hills. I never stopped. For hours I could never 
have stopped. I have a faint recollection of chasms, 
and precipices, and falling waters. I leaped every 
thing. I found myself at length on a peak of 
Mount Ida. 

A wide view of the ocean opened before me. As 
I gazed upon it, my mind became inflamed, — the 
power of speech was restored to me, — the poetry 
of my grief prevailed. 

" Fatal ocean ! f ital ocean !" I exclaimed, — " A 
curse upon thy waves, for thou wafted us to death. 
Green hills ! green valleys ! a blight upon thy trees 
and pastures, for she cannot gaze upon them ! And 
thou, red sun ! her blood is tipon thy beams. Halt 
in thy course, red sun ! halt ! and receive my curse! 

" Our house has fallen, the glorious house has 
fallen ; and the little ones may now rise. Eagle ! 
fly away and tell my father he is avenged. For 
lo ! Venice has he(>n my doom, and here on this 
toppling crag, I seal all tilings, and thus devete 
Coutarini Fleming to the infernal gods." 

I sprang forward, I felt myself in the air. My 
brain spun round, my sight deserted me, I fell. 

XXL 

When I can atrain recall existence, I found my- 
self in my own house. I was reclining on the 
divan propped up by cushions. My left arm was 
in a sling : my head bandaged. I looked a"round 
me without thought, and then I relapsed into 
apathy. Lausanne was in the room, and ])assed 
before me. I observed him, 1ml did not speak. 
He brought mc refreshment, which I took without 
notice. The room was darkened. I knew nothing 
of the course of time, nor did I care or inquire. 
Sometimes Lausanne quitted the apartment, and 
then Tita took his place. Sometimes he returned, 
and changed my bandages and my dress, and I fell 
asleep. Awake I had no thought, and slumbering 
I had no dreams. 



CONTARINl FLEMING. 



415 



I remained in this state, as I afterward learned, 
six weeks. One day I looked up, and seeing Tita, 
spoke in a faint voice, and asked for Lausanne. 
He ran immediately for him, and while he was a 
moment absent, I rose from my couch and tore the 
curtain from the window. Lausanne entered and 
came up to me, and would have again led mo to 
my seat, but I bid him " lighten the room." 

I desired to walk forth into the air, and leaning 
on his arm, I came out of the house. It was early 
morn, and I believe the sense of the fresh air had 
attracted and revived me. I stood for a moment 
vacantly gazing upon the distant bay, but I was so 
faint that I could not stand, and Spiro, the little 
Greek boy, ran and brought me a carpet and a 
cushion, and I sat down. I asked for a mirror, 
which was unwillingly afforded me ; but I insisted 
upon it. I viewed without emotion my emaciated 
form, and my pallid, sunken visage. My eyes 
were dead and hollow, my cheek-bones prominent 
and sharp, my head shaven, and covered with a 
light turban. Nevertheless, the feeling of the free, 
sweet air was grateful, and from this moment I 
commenced gradually to recover. 

I never spoke, except to express my wants, but 
my appetite returned, my strength increased, and 
each day, with Lausanne's assistance, I walked for 
a stiort time in the garden. My arm, which had 
been broken, resumed its power ; my head, which 
had been severely cut, healed. I ventured to walk 
only with the aid of a stick. Gradually I extended 
my course, and, in time, I reached the seaside. 
There, in a slight recess formed by a small head- 
land, I would sit with my back against a high rock, 
feel comforted that earth was hidden from my 
sight, and gaze for hours in vacancy upon the 
ocean and the sky. At sunset I stole home. 1 
found Lausanne always about, evidently expecting 
me When he perceived me returning, he was 
soon by my side, but by a way that I could not 
observe him, and, without obtrusion or any appear- 
ance of ofKciousness, led, or rather carried me to 
my dwelling. 

One morning I bent my way to a small green 
valley, which opened on the other side of our 
gardens. It had been one of our most favourite 
haunts. I know not why I resorted to it this 
morning, for, as yet, her idea had never crossed my 
raind, any more than her name my lips. I had an 
indefinite conviction that I was a lost and fallen 
man. I knew that I had once been ha]ipy, that I 
had once mingled in a glorious existence ; but I 
felt with regard to the past as if it were another 
system of being, as if I had suddenly flillen from 
a sta:r, and lighted on a degenerate planet. 

I was in our valley, our happy valley. I stood 
still, and my memory seemed to return. The tears 
stole down my face. I remembered the cluster of 
orange trees under which we often sat. I plucked 
some leaves, and I pressed them to my lips. Yet 
I was doubtful, vmcertain, incredulous. I scarcely 
knew who I was. Not indeed that I was unable 
to feel my identity, not indeed that my intelligence 
was absolutely incapable of fulfilling its office, but 
there seemed a compact between my body and my 
mind that existence should proceed without thought. 

I descended into the vale. A new object at- 
tracted my attention. I approached it without 
suspicion. A green mount supported a stone, on 
which was boldly, but not rudely sculptured, 

"AlCESTE, CoiTNTESS CoNTARINI FlEMINC." 



A date recorded her decease, 

" It must have been many years ago," was my 
first impression ; " I am Contarini Fleming, and I 
remember Alceste well, but not in this country, 
surely not in this country. And yet those orange 
trees — 

" My wife, my lost, my darling wife, ! why 
am I alive ! I thought that I was dead ! I thought 
that I had flung myself from the mountain-top to 
join you — ^and it was all a dream !" 

I threw myself upon the tomb, and my tears 
poured forth in torrents, and I tore up the flowers 
that flourished upon the turf, and kissed them, and 
tossed them in the air. 

There was a rose, a beautiful white rose, delicate 
and fragrant ; and I gathered it, and it seemed to 
me like Alceste. And I sat gazing upon this fair 
flower, and as my vision was fixed upon it, the 
past grew up before me, and each moment I more 
clearly comprehended it. The bitterness of my 
grief overcame me. I threw away the rose, and a 
moment after, I was sorry to have lost it. I looked 
for it. It was not at my feet. My desire for the 
flower increased. I rose from the tomb, I looked 
around for the lost treasure. My search led me to 
the other side of the tablet, and I read the record 
of the death of my still-born son. 

XXII. 

" We must leave this place, Lausanne, and at 
once." 

His eye brightened when I spoke. 

" I have seen all that you have done, Lausanne, 
it is well, very well. I owe you much. I would 
have given much for her hair, more than I can ex- 
press. But you are not to blame. You had much 
to do." 

He left the room for a moment, and returned, — 
returned with the long, the beautiful tresses of my 
beloved. 

"O! you have made me so happy. I never 
thought that I should again know what joy was. 
How considerate ! How very good !" 

He broke to me gently that he had found th» 
tresses around my neck. I rubbed my forehead, I 
summoned my scattered thoughts, — '■ I remember 
something," 1 replied, " but I thought it was a 
dream. I fancied that in a dream I had quitted the 
house." 

He told me all. He told me that, after three 
days' search, he had found me among the moun- 
tains, hanging to the rough side of the precipice, 
shattered, stark, and senseless. The bushes had 
caught my clothes, and prevented a fatal fall. 

XXIII. 

A SHIP was about to leave the port for Leghorn. 
And why not go to Leghorn 1 Anywhere but 
Venice. Our arrangements were soon made. I 
determined to assent to the request of his father in 
taking little S})iro, who was a favourite of Alceste, 
and had charge of her gazelles. A Greek father 
is very willing to see his son anywhere but among 
the Turks. I promised his family not only to 
charge myself with his future fortunes, but also to 
remit them an annual allowance through the consul, 
provided they cherished the tomb of their late mis- 
tress, and in a fortnight I was again on hoard. 

The mountains of Candia were long in sight, 
but I avoided them. Our voyage was very long, 



416 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



although not unpleasant. We were often hecahned. 
The air and change of scene beiaetited me much. 
I wonderfully resumed my old habits of revery,.and 
as I paced the deck, which I did nil day without 
ceasing, I mused over the past with feelings of 
greater solace than I ever anticipated could associate 
with it. I was consoled by the remembrance of 
our perfect love. I could not recall on either of 
our parts a single fretful word, a single occasion 
on which our conduct had afforded either of us an 
anxious, or even annoying moment. We never 
had enjoyed those lovers' quarrels which are said to 
be so sweet. Her sufferings had been intense, but 
they had been brief. It would have been consola- 
tory to have received her last breath, yet my pre- 
sence might have occasioned her greater agony. 
The appearance of her spirit assured me that, at 
the moment of her departure, her last thought was 
for me. The conviction of her liaving enjoyed 
positive happiness supported me. I was confident 
that had it been possible to make the decision, she 
would not have yielded her brief and beautiful 
career for length of days uniilumined by the 
presence of him who remained to consecrate her 
memory by liir> enduring love — perhaps by his en- 
during page. 

Ah ! old feelings returned to me. I perceived 
that it was impossible to exist without some object, 
and fame and poetic creation olfered themselves to 
my void heart. I remembered that the high calling 
to which I was devoted had been silently neglected. 
I recollected the lofty education and loftier results 
that travel was to afford, and for which travel was 
to prepare me. I reminded myself that I had 
already proved many new passions, become ac- 
quainted with many new modifications of feeling, 
and viewed many new objects. My knowledge of 
man and nature was very much increased. My 
mind was full of new thoughts, and crowded with 
new images. 

As I thus mused, that separation of the mere 
individual from the universal poet, which ever 
occurred in these high communings, again took 
place. My own misfortunes seemed but petty 
incidents to one who could exercise an illimitable 
power over the passions of his kind. If, amid the 
common losses of common life, the sympathy of a 
single friend can bear its balm, could I find no so- 
lace, even for my great bereavement, in the love of 
nations, and the admiration of ages ? 

Thus reflecting, I suddenly dashed into inven- 
tion, and in my almost constant walks on deck, I 
poured forth a crowd of characters, and incidents 
and feelings, and images, and moulded them into a 
coherent, and, as I hoped, a beautiful form. I 
longed for the moment when I could record them 
on a scroll more lasting then my memory, and up- 
held by this great purpose, I entered with a calm, 
if not cheerful countenance, the famous port of 
Leghorn. 



PART THE FOURTH. 

I. 

i WAS at length at Florenca The fair city so 
much vaunted by poets at first greatly disappointed 
me. I could not reconcile myself to those un- 
6nijhed churches like barns, and those gloomy 



palaces like prisons. The muddy Arno was not 
poetical, and the sight of the whole place and the 
appearance of the surrounding hills, in spite of their 
white villas, seemed to me confined, monotonous, and 
dull. Yet there is a charm in Florence, which, al- 
though difficult precisely to define, is in. its influence 
very great and growing, and I scarcely know a place 
that I would prefer for a residence. I think it is 
the character of art, which both from ancient 
associations, and its present possessions, is forcibly 
impressed upon this city. It is full of invention. 
You cannot stroll fifty yards, you cannot enter a 
church or a palace, without being favourably re- 
minded of the power of human thought. It is a 
famous memorial of the genius of the Italian 
middle ages, when the mind of man was in ore of 
its spring-tides, and in which we mark so frequently 
what at the present day we too much underrate — 
the influence of individual character. 

In Florence, the monuments are not only of 
great men, but of the greatest. You do not gaze 
upon the tomb of an author, who is merely a 
great master of composition, but of one who formed 
the language. The illustrious astronomer is not 
the di.scoverer of a planet, but the revealer of the 
whole celestial niaoliinery. The artist and the 
politician are not merely the first sculptors and 
statesmen of their time, but the inventors of the 
very art and the very craft in which they excelled. 

The study of the fine arts mutually assists each 
other. In the formation of my style, I have been 
perhaps more indebted to music and to painting, 
even than to the great masters of literary composi- 
tion. The contemplation of the Venetian school 
had developed in me a latent love of gorgeous elo- 
quence, dazzling incident, brilliant expression, and 
voluptuous sentiment. These bi'ought their attend- 
ant imperfections, exaggeration, effeminacy, the 
obtrusion of art, the painful want of nature. The 
severe simplicity of the Tuscan masters chastened 
my mind. I mused over a great effect produced 
almost by a single mean. The picture that fixed 
my attention by a single group illustrating a single 
passion, was a fine and profitable study. I felt the 
power of nature delineated Ity a great master, and 
how far from necessary to enforce her influence, 
were the splendid accessaries with which my medi- 
tated compositions would rather have encumbered 
than adorned her. I began to think more of the 
individual than the species, rather of the motives of 
man, than of his conduct. I endeavoured to make 
myself as perfect in the dissection of his mind, as 
the Florentine in the anatomy of his body. Atr 
tempting to acquire the excellence of my models, 
I should probably have imbibed their defects ; their 
stiff, and sombre, and arid manner, their want of 
variety and grace. The Roman school saved me 
from this, and taught me that a very chaste or 
severe conception might be treated in a very glow- 
ing or genial style. But after all, I prefer the 
Spani.sh to the Italian painters. I know no one to 
rival Muriilo. I know no one who has blended 
with such felicity the high ideal with the extren>e 
simplicity of nature. Later in life, I f)und myself 
in his native city, in that lovt'ly Seville, more lovely 
from his fine creations than even from the orange 
bowers that perfume its gates, and the silver stream 
that winds about its plain. 

I well remember the tumult of invention in 
which I wandered day after day amid the halls and 
galleries of Florence. Each beautiful face that 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



417 



flitted before me was a heroine, each passion that 
Dreathed upon the canvass was to be transferred to 
the page. I conceived at one time the j)lan of 
writing a series of works in the style of each 
school. The splendour of Titian, the grace of 
Raffaelle, the twilight tints of that magician, 
Guercino, alternately threw my mind into moods 
analogous to their creations. A portrait of Ippoly to 
de' Medici in the Pitti palace, of whom I knew 
nothing, haunted me like a ghost, and I could only 
lay the spectre by resolving in time to delineate the 
spirit of Italian feudality. The seraphic Baptist in 
the w'lderness recalled the solitude I loved. I 
would have poured forth a monologue amid the 
mountains of Judea, had not Endymion caught my 
enraptured vision, and I could dream only of the 
bright goddess of his shadowy love, 

I thought only of art. I sought the society of 
artists and collectors. I unconsciously adopted their 
iargon. I l>egon to discourse of copies, and middle 
tints, and changes of style. I was in great danger 
of degenerating into a dilettante. Little objects as 
well as great, now interested me. I handled a 
bronze and speculated upon its antiquity. Yet 
even these slight pursuits exercised a beneficial 
tendency upon a mind wild, irregular, and undisci- 
plined ; nor do I believe that any one can long 
observe even fine carvings and choice medals, with- 
out his taste becoming more susceptible, and deli- 
cate, and refined. 

My mind was overflowing with the accumulated 
meditation and experience of two years ; an im- 
portant interval in all lives, passed in mine in con- 
stant thought and action, and in a continual 
struggle with new ideas and novel passions. The 
desire of composition became irresistible. I recur- 
red to the feelings with which I entered Leghorn, 
and from which I had been diverted amid the dis- 
traction produced by the novelty, the beauty, and 
the variety of surrounding objects. With these 
feelings, I quitted the city, and engaged the Villa 
Caponi, situated on a green and gentle swell of the 
Apennines, near the tower of Galileo. 



If there were any thing in the world for which I 
now entertained a sovereign contempt, it was my 
unfortunate Manstein. My most malignant critic 
must have yielded to me in the scorn which I 
lavished on that immature production, and tlie 
shame with which I even recollected its existence. 
No one could be more sensible of its glaring defects, 
for no one thought more of them, and I was so 
familiar with its less defective^ parts, that they had 
lost all their relish, and appeared to me as weak, 
and vapid, and silly as the rest. I never labour to 
delude myself I never gloss over my faults. I 
exaggerate them. I can aflijrd to face truth, for I 
feel capable of improvement. And indeed I have 
never yet experienced that complacency with which, 
it is said, some authors regard their offspring, nor 
do I think that this paternal fondness will ever be 
my agreeable lot. I am never satisfied. No 
sooner have I executed some conception, than my 
mind soars above its creation, and meditates a 
higher flight in a purer atmosphere. The very 
exercise of power only teaches me, that it may be 
wielded for a greater purpose. 

I prepared myself for composition in a very dif- 
ferent mood to that in which I had poured forth my 
53 



fervid crudities in the garden-house. Calm and 
collected, I constructed characters on philosophical 
principles, and mused over a chain of action which 
should develope the system of our existence. All 
was art. I studied contrasts and grouping, and 
metaphysical analysis was substituted for anatomi- 
cal delineation. I was not satisfied that the con- 
duct of my creations should be influenced merely 
by the general principles of their being. I resolved 
that they should be the very impersonations of the 
moods and passions of our mind. One was ill- 
rcgulated will ; another offered the formation of a 
moral being ; materialism sparkled in the wild 
gavety and reckless caprice of one voluptuous girl, 
while spirit was vindicated in the deep devotion of 
a constant and enthusiastic heroine. Even the lighter 
temperaments were not forgotten. Frivolity smiled, 
and shrugged his shoulders before us, and there 
was even a deep personification of cynic humour. 

Had I executed my work in strict unison with 
my plan, it would doubtless have been a very dull 
affair. For I did not yet possess suflicient know- 
ledge of human nature to support me in such a 
creation, nor was I then habituated to those meta- 
physical speculations, which might have in some 
degree compensated, by their profundity, for their 
want of entertainment. But nature avenged her- 
self, and extricated me from my dilemma. 

I began to write ; my fancy fired, my brain in- 
flamed ; breathing forms rose up under my pen, 
and jostled aside the cold abstractions, whose crea- 
tion had cost such long musing. In vain I en- 
deavoured to compose without enthusiasm, in vain 
I endeavoured to delineate only what I had pre- 
conceived, in vain I struggled to restrain the flow 
of unliidden invention. All that I had seen and 
pondered passed before me, from the proud moment 
that I stood upon Mount Jura to the present ravish- 
ing hour that I returned to my long estranged art. 

Every tree, every cloud, every star and mountain, 
eveiy fair lake and flowing river, that had fed my 
fancy with their sweet suggestions in my rambling 
hours, now returned and illumined my pages 
with their brightness and their beauty. My mind 
teemed with similes. Thought and passion came 
vailed in metaphoric garb. I was delighted, I was 
bewildered. The clustering of their beauty seemed 
an evidence of poetic poweV : the management of 
these bright guests was an art of which I was igno- 
rant. I received them all. I found myself often 
writing only that they might be accommodated. 

I gave up to tliis work many long and unbroken 
hours. I was determined that it should not sufler 
from a hurriotl pen. I often stopped to meditate 
It was in writing this book, that I first learned my 
art. It was a series of experiments. They wero 
at length finished, and my volumes consigned to 
their fate and northern publisher. 

The critics treated me with more courtesy. 
What seemed to me odd enough then, although nn 
puzzle now, was, that they admired what had been 
written in haste, and without premeditation and 
generally disapjiroved of what had cost me mucL 
forethought, and been executed with great care. It 
was universally declared a most unequal work, and 
they were right, although they could not detect the 
causes of the inequality. My perpetual efforts at 
being imaginative were highly reprobated. Now 
my efforts had lieen entirely the otlier way. In 
short, I puzzled them, and no one offered a predic- 
tion as to my future career. My book, as a whole 



418 



D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. 



was rather unintelligible, but parts were favourite?. 
It was pronounced a rcniarkable compound of 
originality and dulness. These critiques, whatever 
might be their tenor, mattered little to me. A long 
interval elapsed before they reached Florence, and 
during that period, I had effectually emancipated 
myself from the thraldom of criticism. 

I have observed, that after writing a book, my 
mind always makes a great spring. I believe that 
the act of composition produces the same invigorat- 
ing cllect upon the mind, which some exertion 
docs upon the body. Even the writing of Manstein 
proiUiccd a revolution in my nature, which cannot 
be traced by any metaphysical analysis. In tbe 
course of a few days, I was converted from a hollow- 
hearted woridling into a noble philosopher. I was 
indeed ignorant, but I had lost the double ignorance 
of the Platonists, I was no longer ignorant that I 
was ignorant. No one could be influenced by a 
gi-eater desire of knowledge, a greater passion "for 
the beautiful, or a deeper regard for his fellow- 
creatures. And I well remember when, on the 
evening that I wrote the last sentence of this more 
intellectual eflijrt, I walked out upon the terrace 
with that feeling of satisfaction, which accompanies 
the idea of a task completed ; so far was I from being 
excited by the hope of having written a great work, 
that I even meditated its destruction. For, the 
moment it was terminated, it seemed to me that I 
had become suddenly acquainted with the long-con- 
cealed principles of my art, which, without doubt, 
had been slenderly practised in this production. My 
taste, as it were in an instant, became formed, and 
I felt the conviction, that I could now produce some 
lasting creation. 

I thought no more of criticism. The breath of 
man has never influenced me much, for I depend 
more upon myself than upon others. I want no 
false fame. It would be no delight to me to be 
considered a prophet, were I conscious of being an 
impostor. I ever wish to be undeceived ; but if I 
possess the organization of a poet, no one can pre- 
vent me from exercising my faculty, any more than 
he can rob the courser of his fleetness, or the night- 
ingale of her song. 

J II. 

After finishing my work, I read more at Flo- 
rence than I have at any period of my life. Having 
formed the principles on which in future I intended 
to proceed in composition, and considering myself 
now qualified to decide upon other artists, I deter- 
mined critically to examine the literary fiction of all 
counti'ies, to ascertain how far my intentions had 
been anticipated, and in what degree my predeces- 
sors might assist me. 

It appears to me that the age of versification lias 
passed. The mode of composition must ever be 
greatly detcnnined by the manner in which the 
composition can be made public. In ancient days, 
the voice was the medium by which we became 
acquainted with the inventions of a poet. In such 
a method, where those who listened had no time to 
pause, and no opportunity to tliink, it was necessary 
that every thing should be obvious. The audience 
who were perplexed would soon become wearied. 
The spirit of ancient poetry, therefore, is rather 
material than metaphysical. Superficial, not inter- 
nal ; there is much simplicity and much nature, but 
little passion and less philosophy. To obviate the 



baldness, which is the consequence of a style where 
the subject and the sentiments are rather intimated 
than developed, the poem was enriched by music, 
and enforced by action. Occasionally were addecl 
the encjiantmcnt of scenei7, and the fascination of 
the dance. But the poet did not depend merely 
upon these brilliant accessaries. He resolved that 
liis thoughts should be expressed m a manner dif- 
ferent from other modes of communicating ideas. 
He caught a suggestion from his sister art, and in- 
vented metre. And in this modulation, he intro- 
duced a new system of phraseology, which marked 
him out fi-om the crowd, and which has obtained 
the title of " poetic diction." 

His object in this system of words was to heighten 
his meaning by strange phrases, and unusual cori- 
, structions. Inversion was invented to clothe a com- 
monplace with an air of novelty ; vague epithets 
were introduced to prop up a monotonous modula- 
tion ; were his meaning to be enforced, he shrank 
from wearisoine ratiocination and the agony of 
precise conceptions, and sought refuge in a bold 
personification, or a beautiful similitude. The art 
of poetry was to express natural feelmgs in unnatu- 
ral language. 

Institutions ever survive their purpose, and cus- i 
toms govern us when their cause is extinct. And 
this mode of communicating poetic invention still 
remained, when the advanced civihzation of man, in 
multiplying manuscripts, might have made many 
suspect that the time had arrived when the poet was 
to cease to sing, and to learn to write. Had the 
splendid refinement of imperial Rome not been 
doomed to such rapid decay, and such mortifying 
and degrading vicissitudes, I believe that versifica- 
tion would have worn out. Unquestionably thai 
empire, in its multifarious population, scenery, 
creeds, and customs, offered the richest materials 
for emancipated fiction ; materials, however, far too 
vast and various for the limited capacity of metrical 
celebration. 

That beneficent Omnipotence, before which v^e 
must bow down, has so ordered it, that imitation 
should be the mental feature of modern Europe; 
and has ordained that "we should adopt a Syrian 
religion, a Grecian literature, and a Koman law. 
At the revival of letters, we behold the portentous 
spectacle of national poets communicating their in- 
ventions in an exotic form. Conscious of the con- 
fined nature of their method, j^et unable to extricate 
themselves from its fatal ties, they sought variety 
in increased artifice of diction, and substituted for 
the melody of the lyre the barbaric clash of rhyme. 
A revolution took place in the mode of commu- 
nicating thought. Now, at least, it was full time 
that we should have emancipated ourselves forever 
from sterile metre. One would have supposed that 
the poet who could not only write, but even print 
his inventions, would have felt that it was boih 
useless and unfit that they should be communicated 
by a process invented when his only medium was 
simple recitation. One would have supposed that 
the poet would have rushed with desire to the new 
world before him, that he would have seized the new 
means that permitted him to revel in a universe of 
boundless invention ; to combine the highest ideal 
creation with the infinite delineation of teeming 
nature ; to unravel all the dark mysteries of our 
bosoms, and all the bright purposes of our being; 
to become the great instructor and champion of his 
sjiecics ; and not only delight their fancy, and chann 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



419 



Aeir senses, and command their will, but demon- 
strate their rights, illustrate their necessities, and 
expound the object of their existence ; and all this 
too in a style charming and changing with its uni- 
versal theme, now tender, now sportive, now 
earnest, now profound, now sublime, now pathetic, 
and substituting for the dull monotony of metre, 
the most various, and exquisite, and inexhaustible 
melody. 

When I remember the trammels to which the 
poet has been doomed, and the splendour with 
which consummate genius has invested them, and 
when, for a moment, I conceive him bursting 
asunder his bonds, I fancy I behold the sacred biril 
snapping the golden chain that binds him to 
Olympus, and soaring even above Jove ! 

IV. 

I HAD arrived at Florence in a very feeble and 
shattered state of health, of which, however, as I 
had never been an habitual invalid, I thought little. 
My confidence in my energy had never deserted me. 
Composition, however, although I now wrote with 
facility, proved a greater effort than I had antici- 
pated. The desire I felt of completing my purpose 
had successfully sustained 'me throughout, but, 
during its progress, I was too often conscious of an 
occasional, but increasing languor, which perplexed 
and alarmed me. Perfect as might be my concep- 
tion of my task, and easy as I ever found its execu- 
tion when. I was excited, I invariably experienced, 
at the commencement, a feeling of inertness, which 
was painful and mortifying. As I did not dream 
of physical inability, I began to apprehend that, 
however delightful might be the process of medita- 
tion, that of execution was less delicious. Some- 
times I even for a moment feared that there might 
be a lurking weakness in my nature, which might 
prevent me from ever elfecting a great performance. 
I remember one evening as I was meditating in 
my chamber, my watch lying upon the table, and 
the hour nine, I felt, as I fancied, disturbed by the 
increased sound of that instrument. I moved it to 
the other side of the table, but the sound increased, 
and assured that it was not occasioned by the sup- 
posed cause, and greatly disturbed, I rang for Lau- 
sanne, and mentioned the inconvenience. Lau- 
sanne persisted in hearing nothing, but as the sound 
became even more audible, and as I now believed 
that some reptile might be in the room, he examined 
it in all parts. Nothing was perceived ; the hum 
grew louder, and it was not until I jumped up from 
my seat to assist him in his examination, that I dis- 
covered by the increased sound, occasioned by my 
sudden rise, that the noise was merely in my own 
ears. The circumstance occasioned me no alarm. 
It inconvenienced me for the evening. I retired at 
an earlier hour, passed, as usual, a restless and 
dreamy night, but fell asleep towards the morning, 
and rose tolerably fresh. 

I can write only in the morning. It is then I 
execute with facility all that I have planned the 
ensuing eve. And this day, as usual, I resumed 
my pen, but it was not obedient. I felt not only 
languid and indolent, but a sensation of faintness 
which I had before experienced and disregarded, 
came over me, and the pen fell from my hand. I 
rose and walked about the room. My extremities 
were cold, as of late in the morning I had usually 
found them. The sun was shining brightly over 



the sparkling liills. I felt a great desire to warm 
myself in his beams. I ordered my horse. 

The ride entirely revived me. I fancie<l that I 
led perhaps too sedentary a life. I determined, im- 
mediately that my book was finished, that I would 
indulge In more relaxation. I returned home with 
more appetite than usual, for since my return from 
Candia, I had almost entirely lost my relish fo 
food, and my power of digestion., In the evening 
I was again busied in musing over the scene whic 
was to be painted on the coming morn. Suddenly 
I heard again the strange noise. I looked at my 
watch. It was exactly nine o'clock. It increased 
rapidly. From the tick of a watch, it assumed the 
loud confused moaning of a hell tolling in a storm, 
like the bell I had heard at the foot of the Alps. It 
was impossible to think. I walked about the room. 
It became louder and louder. It seemed to be 
absolutely deafening. I could compare it to nothing 
but the continuous roar of a cataract. I sat down, 
and looked around me in blank despair. 

Night brought me no relief. My sleep, ever 
since the death of Alceste, had been very troubled 
and broken, and of late, had daily grown less cer- 
tain, and less refreshing. Often have I lain awake 
the whole night, and usually have risen exhausted 
and spiritless. So it was on this morning. Cold, 
faint, and feeble, the principle of life seemed to 
wax fainter and fainter. I sent for my faithful 
companion : " Lausanne," I said, " I begin to think 
that I am very ill." 

Lausanne felt my pulse, and shook his head. 
" There is no wonder," he replied. " You have 
scarcely any circulation. You want stimulants. 
You should drink more wine, and you should 
give up writing for a time. Shall I send for a 
physician!" 

I had no confidence in ^edicine. I resolved to 
exert myself. Lausanne's advice I fancied sounded 
well. I drank some wine : I felt better ; but as I 
never can write under any inspiration but my own, 
I resolved to throw aside my pen, and visit Pisa for 
a fortnight, where I could follow his prescription 
with the additional advantage of change of scene. 

My visit to Pisa benefited me. I returned, and 
gave the last finish to my work. 



All the Italian cities are delightful ; but an 
elegant melancholy pervades Pisa that is enchant- 
ing. What a marble group is formed by the ca- 
thedral, the wonderful Baptistery, the Leaning 
Tower, and the Campo Santo ; and what aii indi- 
cation of the ancient splendour of the republic ! I 
wish that the world consisted of a cluster of 
small states. There would be much more genius, 
and, what is of more importance, much more fe- 
licity. Federal unions wovild preserve us from the 
evil consequences of local jealousy, and might 
combine in some general legislation of universal 
benefit. Italy might then revive, and even Eng- 
land may regret that she has lost her heptarchy. 

In the Campo Santo you trace the history of 
art. There too, which has not been observed, you 
may discover the origin of the Aral^esques of Raf- 
faeile. The Leaning Tower is a stumbling-block 
to architectural antiquaries. An ancient fresco 
in the Campo proves the intention of the artist. 
All are acquainted with the towers of Bologna; 
few are aware that in Saragossa the Spamanla 



420 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



possess a rival of the architectural caprice of the 
Pisans. 

To this agreeable and silent city I again re- 
turned, and wandered in meditation and the still- 
ness of its palaces. I consider this the period of 
my life in which whatever intellectual power I 
possess became fully developed. All that I can 
execute hereafter is but the performance of what I 
then planned, nor would a patriarchal term of life 
pemiit me to achieve a-11 that I then meditated. I 
looked forward to the immediate fulfilment of my 
long hopes, to the achievement of a work which 
might last with its language, and the attainment of 
a great and permanent fame. 

I was now meditating over this performance. It 
is my habit to contrive in my head the complete 
work, before I have recourse to the pen which is 
to execute it. I do not think that meditation can 
be too long, or execution too rapid. It is not 
merely characters and the general conduct of the 
story that I thus prepare, but the connexion of 
every incident, often whole conversations, some- 
times even slight phrases. A very tenacious me- 
mory, which I have never weakened by having re- 
course to other modes of reminiscence, supports 
me in this process, which, however, I should con- 
fess is a very painful and exhausting etfort. 

I revolved this work in my mind for several 
months without ever having recourse to paper. It 
was never out of my consciousness. I fell asleep 
musing over it : in the morning my thoughts clus- 
tered immediately upon it, like bees on a bed of 
unexhausted flowers. In my rides, during my 
meals, in my conversations on common topics, I 
was indeed the whole time musing over this crea- 
tion. 

The profound thinker always suspects that he is 
superficial. Patience is a necessary ingredient of 
genius. Nothing is more fatal than to be seduced 
by the first flutter of the imagination into compo- 
sition. This is the cause of so many weak and 
unequal works, of so many worthy ideas thrown 
away, and so many good purposes marred. Yet 
there is a bound to meditation ; there is a moment 
when further judgment is useless. There is a mo- 
ment when a heavenly light rises over the dim 
world you have been so long creating, and bathes 
it with life and beauty. Accept this omen that 
your work is good, and revel in the sunshine of 
composition. 

I have sometimes half believed, although the 
suspicion is mortifying, that there is only a step 
between his state who deeply indulges in imagina- 
tive meditation and insanity. For I well remem- 
ber that at this period of my life, when I indulged 
in meditation to a degree which would now be im- 
possible, and I hope unnecessary, that my senses 
sometimes appeared to be wandering. I cannot 
describe the peculiar feeling I then experienced, for 
1 have failed in so doing to several eminent sur- 
geons and men of science with whom I have con- 
versed respecting it, and who were curious to be- 
come acquainted with its nature. But I think it 
was, that I was not always assured of my identity, 
or even existence, for I sometimes found it neces- 
sary to shout aloud to be sure that I lived, and I 
was in the habit very often at night of taking down 
a volume, and looking into it for my name, to be 
convinced that I had not been dreaming of myself 
At these times there was an incredible acuteness, 
or intenseness, in my sensations. Every object 



seemed animated, and, as it were, acting upon me. 
The only way that I can devise to express my 
general feeling is, that I seemed to be sensible of 
the rapid whirl of the globe. 

All this time my health was again giving way, 
and all my old symptoms gradually returning. I 
set them at defiance. The nocturnal demon having 
now come back in all its fulness, I was forced to 
confine my meditations to the morning, and in the 
evening I fled for refuge and forgetfulness to the 
bottle. This gave me temporary relief, but entirely 
destroyed my remaining power of digestion. In 
the morning I regularly fainted as I dressed. Still 
I would not give in, and only postponed the com- 
mencement of my work until my retimi to Florence, 
which was to occur in a few days. 

I rode the journey through the luxuriant Val 
d'Arno, attended by Tita. Lausanne and Spiro 
had returned the previous day. It was late in the 
evening when I arrived at the villa. I thought, as 
I got off my horse, that the falls of Niagara could 
not overpower the infernal roaring that I alone 
heard. I entered, and threw myself on a sofa. It 
came at last. What it was I knew not. It felt 
like a rushing of blood into my brain. I moaned, 
threw out my arm, and wildly caught at the bell. 
Lausanne entered, andl was lying apparently lifeless. 

VL 

DtJRiiTG the whole course of my life, my brain 
had been my constant source of consolation. As 
long as I could work that machine, I was never 
entirely without an object and a pleasure. I had 
laughed at physical weaknesses while that remained 
untouched ; and unquestionably I should have sunk 
under the great calamity of my life, had it not been 
for the sources of hope and solace which this faith- 
ful companion opened to me. Now it was all over : 
I was little better than an idiot. 

Physician followed physician, and surgeon sur- 
geon, without benefit. They all held different 
opinions, yet none were right. They satirized each 
other in private interviews, and exchanged compli- 
ments in consultations. One told me to be quiet, 
another to exert myself; one declared that I must 
be stimulated, another that I must be soothed. I 
was, in turn, to be ever on horseback, and ever on 
a sofa. I was bled, bhstered, boiled, starved, poi- 
soned, electrified, galvanised, and at the end of a 
year found myself with exactly the same oppression 
on my brain, and the additional gratification of re- 
membering that twelve months of existence had 
worn away without producing a single idea. Such 
are the inevitable consequences of consulting men 
who decide by precedents which have no resem- 
blance, and never busy themselves about the idio- 
syncrasy of their patients. 

I had been so overwhelmed by my malady, and 
so conscious that upon my cure my only chance of 
happiness depended, that I had submitted myself to 
all this treatment without a murmur, and religiously 
observed all their contradictory directions. Being 
ofasanguine temperament, I believed every assertion, 
and every week expected to find myself cured. 
When, however, a considerable period of time had 
elapsed without any amelioration, I began to rebel 
against these systems which induced so much ex- 
ertion and privation, and were productive of no 
good. I was quite desperate of cure, and each day 
I felt more keenly, that if I were not cured, I could 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



421 



not live. I wished therefore to die unmolested. I 
discharged all my medical attendants, and laid my- 
self down like a sick lion in his lair. 

I never went out of the house, and barely out of 
a single room. I scarcely ever spoke, and only for 
nay wants. I had no acquaintance, and I took care 
that I should see no one. I observed a strict diet, 
but fed every day. Although air, and medicine, 
and exercise were to have been productive of so 
much benefit to me, I found myself, without their 
assistance, certainly not worse, and the repose of 
my present system, if possible, rendered my wretched 
existence less burthensome. 

Lausanne afterwards told me that he supposed I 
had relapsed into the state in which I fell imme- 
diately after my great calamity, but this was not the 
case. I never lost my mind or memory : I was 
conscious of every thing, I forgot nothing. But I 
had lost the desire of exercising them. I sat in 
moody silence, revolving in revery, without the la- 
bour of thought, my past life and feelings. 

I had no hopes of recover}'. It was not death 
that terrified me, but the idea that I might live, and 
for }'ears, in this hopeless and unprofitable con- 
dition. When I contrasted my recent lust of fame, 
and plans of glory, and indomitable will, with my 
present woful situation of mysterious imbecility, I 
was appalled with the marvellous contrast, and I 
believed that I had b§en stricken by some celestial 
influence for my pride and wanton self-sufficiency. 

VIL 

I WAS in this gloomy state, when one morning 
Lausanne entered my room ; I did not notice him, 
but continued sitting with my eyes fixed on the 
ground, and my chin upon my breast. At last he 
said, " My lord, I wish to speak to you." 

" Well !" 

" There is a stranger at the gate, a gentleman 
who desires to see you." 

"You know I see no one," I rephed rather 
harshly. 

" I know it, and have so said. But this gentle- 
man — " 

" Good God! Lausanne, is it my father!" 

" No. But it is one who may perhaps come 
from him." 

" I will see him." 

The door opened, and there entered Winter. 

Long years, long and active years had passed 
since we parted. All had happened since. I 
thought of my boyhood, and it seemed innocent 
and happy, compared with the misery of the past 
and present. Nine years had not much altered 
my friend, but me — 

" I fear, count," said Winter, " that I am abusing 
the privilege of an old friend in thus insisting upon 
an entrance, but I heard of your residence in this 
country and your illness at the same time, and 
being at Florence I thought you would perhaps 
pardon me." 

" You are one of the few persons whom I am 
glad to see under all circumstances, even under 
tliose in which I now exist." 

" I have heard of your distressing state." 

" Say my hopeless state. But let us not con- 
Terse about it. Let us speak of yourself. Let me 
hope you are as happy as you are celebrated." 

"As for that, well enough. But if we are to 
talk about celebrity, let me claim the honours of 



a prophet, and congratulate a poet whom I pre- 
dicted." 

" Alas! dear Winter," I said, with a faint smile, 
" talk not of that, for I shall die without doing you 
honour." 

" There is no one of my acquaintance who has 
less chance of dying." 

"How sol" I remarked, rather quickly, for when 
a man really believes he is dying, he does not like 
to lose the interest which such a situation produces. 
" If you knew all — " 

"I know all — much more, too, than your phy- 
sician who told me." 

" And you believe, then, that I cannot look for- 
ward even to death, to terminate this miserable 
existence!" 

" I do not consider it miserable, and therefore I 
should be sorry if there were any thing to warrant 
such an anticipation." 

" And I can assure you, chevalier," and I spoke 
very sincerely and solemnly, " that I consider ex- 
istence, on the terms I now [>ossessit, an intolerable 
burthen. And nothing but the chance, for I cannot 
call it hope, of amelioration, prevents me from ter- 
minating it." 

" If you remember right, you considered exist- 
ence equally an intolerable burthen when, as a 
boy, you first experienced feehngs which you were 
unable to express." 

" Well ! what inference do you drawl" 

" That it is not the first time you have quarrelled 
with nature." 

" How so 1" I eagerly replied, and I exerted my- 
self to answer him, "is disease nature?" 

" Is your state disease 1" 

" I have no mind." 

" You reason." 

" My brain is eiffected." 

" You see." 

" You believe, then, that I am a hypochon- 
driac 1" 

" By no means ! I believe your feelings are real 
and peculiar, but it does not therefore follow that 
they are evil." 

" Perhaps," I said, with a dry smile, " you be- 
lieve them beneficent?" 

" I do certainly," he replied. 

" In what respect?" 

" I believe, that as you would not give nature a 
holyday, she is giving herself one." ^ 

I was silent, and mused. " But this infernal 
brain ?" I replied. 

"Is the part of the machinery that you have 
worked most ; and therefore the weakest." 

" But how is it to be strengthened ?" 

" Not by medicine. By following exactly a con- 
trary course to that which enfeebled it." 

" For fifteen months an idea has not crossed my 
brain." 

" Well! you are the better for it; and fifteen 
months more — " 

" Alas ! what is life ! At this age I hoped to 
be famous." 

" Depend upon it, you are in the right road, but 
rest assured you must go through every trial that 
is peculiar to men of your organization. There is 
no avoiding it. It is just as necessary as that life 
should be the consequence of your structure. To 
tell you the truth, which is always best, I only 
came here to please your father. When he wrote 
to me of your illness, I mentioned to him that 't 
2N 



422 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



must have its course, that there was nothing to he 
alarmed about, and that it was just as much a part 
of your necessary education as travel or study. 
But he wished me to see you, and so I came." 

" My poor father ! Alas ! my conduct to liim — " 

" Has been just what it ought to be, just what it 
necessarily must have been, just exactly what my 
own was to my father. As long as liuman beings 
are unphilosophically educated, these incidents will 
take place." 

" Ah ! my dear Winter, I am a %'illain. I have 
never even written to him." 

" Of course you have not. Your father tried to 
tuni you into a politician. Had he not forced you 
to write so many letters then, you would not have 
omitted to vrrite to him now. The whole affair is 
simple as day. Until men are educated with a 
reference to their organization, there will be no end 
to domestic fracas." 

" You ever jest, my friend. I have not ventured 
on a joke for many a long month." 

" Which is a pity ; for, to tell you the truth, 
although your last work is of the tender and sub- 
lime, and maketh fair eyes weep, I thinlc your forte 
is comic." 

" Do you, indeed V 

" Ah ! my dear Contarini, those two little 
volumes of Manstein — " 

" ! mention not the name. Infamous, URa- 
dulterated trash I" 

" Ah ! exactly as I thought of my first picture, 
which after all has a freshness and a freedom I 
have never excclJed, — but Manstein, my dear Con- 
tarini, it certainly was very impertinent. I read it 
at Rome. I thought I should have died. All our 
friends. So very true !" 

" Will you stay with me 1 I feel a good deal 
better since you have been here, and what you tell 
me of my father delights me. Pray, pray stay. 
Well ! you are indeed kind. And if I feel very 
ill, I will keep away." 

" ! I should like to see you in one of your 
fits." 

VIII. 

'' i' A«.E a glass of wine," said Winter at dinner. 

" My dear friend, I have taken one." 

" Take another. Here is your father's health." 

" Well, then, here is yours. How is the finest 
of old men 1" 

" Flourishing and happy." 

" And your mother V 

" Capital!" 

" And you have never returned T' 

" No ! and never will, while there are such 
places as Rome and Naples." 

" Ah ! I shall never see them." 

" Pooh ! the sooner you move about the better." 

" My good friend, it is impossible." 

*' Why so ■? Do not confound your present con- 
dition with the state you were in a year ago. Let 
me feel your pulse. Capital ! You seem to have 
an excellent appetite.' Don't be ashamed to eat. 
In cases like yours, the art is to ascertain the mo- 
ment to make exertion. I look upon yours as a 
rase of complete exhaustion. If there be any 
thing more exhausting than love, it is sorrow, and 
if there be any thing more exhausting than sorrow. 
It is poetry. You have tried all three. Your body 
and your mind both required perfect repose. I per- 



ceive that your body has sufficiently rested. Em- 
ploy it; and in another year you will find youi 
mind equally come round." 

" You console me. But where shall I go ? 
Home?" 

" By no means. You require beauty and no- 
velty. At present I would not go even to the south 
of this country. It will remind you too much of 
the past. Put yourself entirely in a new world. 
Go to Egypt. It will suit you. I look upon you 
as an Oriental. If you like, go to South America. 
Tropical scenery will astonish and cure you. Go 
to Leghorn, and get iftto the first ship that is 
bound for a country with which you are unac- 
quainted." 

IX. 

WiNTEK remained with me several days, and 
before he had quitted Florence I had written to my 
father. I described to him my forlorn situation, 
my strong desire to see him, and I stated the advice 
which did not correspond with my wishes. I asked 
for his counsel, but said nothing of the great cala- 
mity. I was indeed myself extremely unwilling to 
return home m my present state, but this unwil- 
lingness I concealed. 

I received an answer from my father by a special 
courier, an answer the most afft'ctionate. He 
strongly recommended me to- travel for some time, 
expressed his hope and confidence that I should 
entirely recover, and that I should return and repay 
him for all his anxiety. All that he required was, 
that I should frequently correspond with him. 
And ever afterward, I religiously respected his 
request. 

A ship v/as about to sail from Leghorn to Cadiz. 
Spain appeared an interesting country, and one of 
which I knew nothing. It is the link between 
Europe and Africa. To Spain therefore I resolved 
to repair ; and in a few days I again quitted Italy, 
and once more cast my fortunes on the waters ! 



PART THE FIFTH. 



I. 



EcnoPE and Afbic ! I have wandered amid 
the tombs of Tro\', and stood bj' the altar of 
Medea, yet the poetry of the Hellespont, and the 
splendour of the Symplcgades must yield to the 
majesty of the Straits of Calpe. 

Like some lone Titian, lurid and sublime, his 
throne the m.ountains and the clouds his crown, the 
melancholy Mauritania sits apart, and gazes on the 
mistress he has lost. 

And lo ! from out the waves that kiss her feet, 
and bow before her beauty, she softly rises with a 
wanton smile. Would she call back her dark-eyed 
lover, and does the memory of that bright embrace 
yet dwell within the hallowed sanctuary of her 
heart 1 

It was a glorious union. When were maidens 
fairer and more faithful — when were men more 
gentle and more brave 1 When did all that 
can adorn humanity more brightly flourish, and 
more sweetly bloom 1 Alas ! for their fair cities, 
and fine gardens, and fresh fountains ! Alas ! for 
their delicate pabces, and glowing bowers of per- 
fumed shade ! 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



423 



Will you fly with me from the dull toil of vulgar 
life 1 Will you wander for a moment amid tlie 
plains of Granada 1 Around us are those snowy 
and purjjle mountains, which a caliph wept to quit. 
They surrounded a land still prodigal of fruits, 
in spite of a Gothic government. You are gazing 
on the rows of blooming aloes, that are the onlj' 
enclosures, with their flowery forms high in the 
warm air ; you linger among those groves of Indian 
fig : you stare with strange delight at the first sight 
of the sugar-cane. Come away, come away, for 
on yon green and sunny hill, rises the ruby gate of 
that precious pile whose name is a spell, and whose 
vision is romance. 

Let us enter Alhambra ! 

See ! here is the Court of Myrtles, and I gather 
3'ou a sprig. Mark how exquisitely every thing is 
proportioned, mark how slight, and small, and deli- 
cate ! And now we are in the Court of Columns, 
the far-famed Court of Columns. Let us enter the 
chambers that open round this quadrangle. How 
beautiful are their deeply car\'ed and purple roofs, 
studded with gold, and the wall entirely covered 
with the most fanciful fret-work, relieved with that 
violet tint, which must have been copied from their 
Andalusian skies. Here you may sit in the coolest 
shade, reclining on your divan with your beads or 
pipe, and view the most dazzling sunlight in the 
court, which assuredly must scorch the flowers, if 
the faithful lions ever ceased from pouring forth 
that element which you must travel in Spain or 
Africa to honour. How many chambers ! The 
Hall of the Ambassadors ever the most sumptuous. 
How fanciful is its mosaic ceiling of ivory and tor- 
toise-shell, mother-of-pearl and gold ! And then 
the Hall of Justic-e with its cedar roof, and the 
Harem, and the baths — all perfect. Not a single 
roof has yielded, thanks to those elegant horse-shoe 
arches and those crowds of marble columns, with 
their oriental capitals. What a scene ! Is it beau- 
tiful ? 0,! conceive it in the time of the Boabdils 
— conceive it with all its costly decorations, all the 
gilding, all the imperial purple, all the violet relief, 
all the scarlet borders, all the glittering inscriptions 
and precious mosaics, burnished, bright, and fresh. 
Conceive it full of still greater ornaments, the 
living groups with their splendid, and vivid, and 
picturesque costume, and above all their rich and 
shining arms, some standing in conversing groups, 
some smoking in sedate silence, some telling their 
beads, some squatting round a storier. Then the 
bustle and the rush, and the coming horsemen, all 
in motion, and all glancing in the most brilliant sun. 

Enough of tliis ! I am alone. Yet there was 
or.e being with whom I could have loved to roam 
in these imaginative halls, and found no solitude 
m the sole presence of her most sweet society. 

Alhambra is a strong illustration of what I 
have long thought, that however there may be 
a standard of taste, there is no standard of 
style. I must place Alhambra with the Parthe- 
non, the Pantheon, the Cathedral of Seville, the 
Temple of Dendera. They are dilTerent combina- 
tions of the same principles of taste. Thus we 
maj' equally admire .Eschylus, Virgil, Calderon and 
Ferdousi. There never could have been a contro- 
V(!rsy on such a point, if mankind had not con- 
fused the ideas of taste an^l style. The Saracenic 
architecture is the most inventive and fanciful, but 
at the same time the most fitting and delicate that 
can be conceived. There would be no doubt about 



its title to be considered among the finest inven- 
tions of man if it were better known. It is only 
to be found in any degree of European perfection 
in Spain, Some of the tombs of the Mamlouk 
sultans in the desert round Cairo, wrongly styled 
by the French "the tombs of the caliphs," are equal, 
I think, to Alhambra. When a person sneers at 
the Saracenic, ask him what he has seen 1 Perhaps 
a barbarous, although picturesque building, called 
the Ducal Palace, at Venice. What should we 
think of a man, who decided on the architecture 
of Agrippa by the buildingsof Justinian, or judged 
the age of Pericles by the restoration of Hadrian 1 
Yet he would not commit so gi'eat a blunder. There 
is a Moorish palace, the Alcazar at Seville, a huge 
mosque at Cordova turned into a cathedral, vvith 
partial alteration, Alhambra at Granada, these are 
the great specimens in Europe, and sufficient for 
all study. There is a shrine and chapel of a 
Moorish saint at Cordova, quite untouched, with 
the blue mosaic and the golden honeycomb roof, as 
vivid and as brilliant as when the santon was 
worshipped. In my life have I never seen any 
work of art more exquisite. The materials are the 
richest, the ornaments the most costly, and in detail, 
the most elegant and the most novel, the most fanci- 
ful and the most flowing, that I ever contemplated. 
And yet nothing at the same time can be conceived 
more just than the proportion of the whole, and 
more mellowed than the blending of the parts, 
which indeed Palladio could not excel. 

II. 

A Spa:vish city sparkling in the sun, with its 
white walls and verdant jalousies, is one of the 
most cheerful and most brilliant of the works of 
man. Figaro is in every street, and Rosina in every 
balcony. 

The Moorish remains, the Christian churches, 
the gay, national dress, a gorgeous priesthood, ever 
producing, in their dazzUng processions and sacred 
festivals, an effect upon the business of the day, 
the splendid pictures of a school of which we know 
nothing, theatres, alamedas, tertullas, bull fight.s, 
boleros, — here is matter enough for amusement 
within the walls, and now let us seiihow they pass 
their time out of them. 

When I was in the south of Spain the whole of 
Andalusia was overrun with robbers. These bands, 
unless irritated by a rash resistance, have of late 
seldom committed personal violence, but only lay 
you on the ground and clear oat your pockets. If 
however you have less than an ounce of gold, they 
shoot you. That is their taritT, which they have 
announced at all ihe principal towns, and it must 
be confessed is a light one. A weak government 
resolves society into its original elements, and rob- 
bery in Spain has become more honourable than 
war, inasmuch as the robber is paiil, and the soldier 
is in arrear. The traveller must defend himself. 
Some combine, some compromise, merchants travel 
in corsarios or caravans well armed, persons of 
quality take a military escort, who, if cavalry, 
scamper oft' the moment they are attacked, and if 
infantry, remain and participate in the plunder. 
The government is only anxious about the post, 
and to secure that pay the brigands black mail. 

The country is thinly populated, with few vil 
lages or farmhouses, but many towns and cities. I> 
chiefly consists of immense plains of pasture lanr 



424 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



which, sunburnt in the summer, were a good pre- 
paration for the desert and intervenina: mountainous 
districts, such as the Sierra Morena, famous in 
Cervantes, the Sierra Nivada of Granada, and the 
Sierra da Ron(ia, a country like the Abruzzi, entirely 
inhabited by brigands and smugglers, and which I 
once explored. I must say that the wild beauty of 
tlie scenery entirely repaid me for some peril and 
very great hardship. Returning from this district 
towards Cadiz, you arrive at Oven, one of the finest 
mountain passes in the world. Its precipices and 
cork woods would have afforded inexhaustible 
studies to Salvator. All this part of the country 
is full of pictures, and of a peculiar character. I 
recommend Castellar to an fftlventurous artist. 

I travelled over Andalusia on horseback, and in 
spite of many warnings, without any escort, or any 
companions but Lausanne and 'I'ita, and little 
Spiro, and the muleteers who walk and occasionally 
increase the burden of a sumpter steed. Li general, 
like all the Spanish peasants, they are tall, finely 
made fellows, looking extremely martial with their 
low, round, black velvet hats and coloured sashes, 
embroidered jackets and brilliant buttons. We took 
care not to have too much money, and no baggage 
that we could not stow in our saddle bags. I even 
followed the advice of an experienced guide, and 
was as little ostentatious as possible of my arms, 
for to a Spanish bandit, foreign pistols are some- 
times a temptation, instead of a terror. Such pru- 
dent humility will not, however, answer in the 
East, where you cannot be too well, or too magnifi- 
cently armed. 

We were, in general, in our saddles at four 
o'clock, and stopped, on account of the heat, from 
ten till five in the evening, and then proceeded for 
three or four hours more. I have travelled through 
three successive nights, and seen the sun set and 
rise, without quitting my saddk;, which all men 
cannot say. It is impossible to conceive any thing 
more brilUant than an Andalusian summer moon. 
You lose nothing of the landscape, which is only 
softened, not obscured, and absolutely the beams 
are warm. Generally speaking, we contrived to 
reach, lor our ni2;ht's bivouac, some village, which 
usually boasts a place called a posada. If this failed, 
there was sometimes a convent, and were we unfor- 
tunate in this expedient, we made pillows of our 
saddles, and beds of our cloaks. A posada is in 
fact a khan, and a very bad one. 'I'he same room 
holds the cattle, the kitchen, the family, and boards 
and mats for travellers to sleep on. Your host 
affords no provisions, and you must cater as you 
proceed, and, what is more, cook when you have 
catered. Yet the posada, in spite of so many 
causes, is seldom dirty ; and for the Spaniards, 
notwithstanding their reputation, I claim the cha- 
racter of the most cleanly nation in Europe. No- 
thing is more remarkable than the delicacy of the 
ower orders. All that frequent whitewash and 
constant ablution can effect against a generating 
sun, they employ. You w.ould think that a Spanish 
woman had no other occupation than to maintain 
vhe cleanliness of her chamber. Most assuredly 
ihey are a clean people. They have loo much 
self-respect not to be clean. I once remember Lau- 
sanne rating a muleteer, who was somewhat tardy 
in his preparations. " What !" exclaimed the pea- 
sant, reproachfully, " would you have me go with- 
out a clean shirt ?" Now when we remember that 
this man only put on his clean shirt to toil on foot 



for thirty or forty miles, we may admire his high 
feeling, and doul>t whether we migbt match this 
incident even by that wonder, an English posti- 
lion. 

Certainly the Spaniards are a noble race. They 
are kind and faithful, courageous and honest, with 
a profound mind, that will nevertheless break into 
rich humour, and a dignity which, like their pas- 
sion, is perhaps the legacy of their oriental sires. • 

But, see ! we have gaineti the summit of the 
hill. Behold! the noble range of the Morena 
mountains extends before us, and at their base is a 
plain worthy of such a boundary. Yon river, 
wmding amid bowers of orange, is tlie beautiful 
Guadalquivir, and that city, with its many spires 
and mighty mosque, is the famous Cordova ! 

III. 

The court-j^ard was full of mules, a body of in- 
fantry were bivouacking under the colonnades. 
There were several servants, all armed, and a 
crowd of muleteers with bludgeons. 

" 'Tis a great lady from Madrid, .sir," observed 
Tita, who was lounging in the court. 

I liad now been several days at Cordova, and 
intended to depart at sunset for Granada. The 
country between these two cities is more infested 
by brigands than any tract in Spain. The town 
was rife with their daring exploits. Even,- traveller 
during the last month had been plundered, and 
only the night before my arrival, they had, in re- 
venge for some attempt of the governor to interfere, 
burned down a farmhouse a few miles without 
the gates. 

When I entered the hotel, the landlord came up 
to me, and advised me to postpone my departure 
for a few hours, as a great lady from Madrid was 
about to venture the journey, and depart at mid- 
night towards Malaga with a strong escort. He 
doubted not that she would consent witii pleasure 
to my joining their party. I did not feel, I 
fear, as grateful for his proposition as I ought to 
have been. I was tired of Cordova — I had made 
up my mind to depart at a particular hour. I had 
hitherto escaped the brigands — I began to suspect 
that their activity was exaggerated. At the worst, 
I apprehended no great evil. Some persons always 
escaped, and I was confident in my fortune. 

" What is all this !" I inquired of Lausanne. 

" 'Tis a great lady from Madrid," replied Lau- 
sanne. 

"And have you seen herl" 

" I have not, sir, but. I have seen her husband." 

" ! she has a husband — then I certamly will 
not stop. At sunset we go." 

In half an hour's time the landlord again entered 
my room, with an invitation from the great lady 
and her lord to join them at dinner. Of course I 
could yot refuse, although I began to suspect that 
my worthy host, in his considerate suggestions, 
had perhays been influenced by other views than 
tnerely my security. 

I repaired to the saloon. It was truly a Gil 
Bias scene. The grandee, in an undress uniform, 
and highly imposing in appearance, greeted me 
with dignity. He was of middle age, with a fine 
form and a strongly marked, true Castilian couiite 
nance, but very liandsome. The scnora was ex 
ceedingly young, and really very pretty, with infi 
nite vivacity and grace. A French valet Icaiiei' 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



425 



■ever the. husband's chair, and a duenna, broad and 
supercilious, with beady jet eyes, mahogany com- 
plexion, and cockcd-up nose, stood by her young 
mistress, refreshing her with a huge fan. 

After some general and agi-eeable conversation, 
the senor introduced the intended journey, and un- 
derstanding that I was about to proceed in the 
same direction, otTered me the advantage of his 
escort. The dama most energetically impressed 
upon me the danger of travelling alone, and I was 
brutal enough to suspect that she had more confi- 
dence in foreign aid than in the courage of her 
fountrymen. 

I was in one of those ungallant fits that some- 
times come over men of shattered nerves. I had 
looked forward with moody pleasure to a silent 
moonlit ride. I shrunk from the constant effort of 
continued conversation. It did not appear that my 
chivalry vvould he grievously affected in an almost 
solitaiy cavalier deserting a dame environed by a 
military force and a band of armed retainers. In 
short, I was not seduced by the prospect of security, 
and rash enough to depart alone. 

The moon rose. I confess our anxiety. The 
muleteer prophesied an attack. "They will be 
out," said he, '' for the great lady ; we cannot 
escape." We passed two travelling friars on their 
mules, who gave us their blessing ; and I observed 
to-night by the road-side more crosses than usual, 
and each of these is indicative of a violent death. 
We crossed an* immense plain, and entered a 
Drolicn mule-track through uneven ground. We 
were challenged by a picquet, and I, who was 
ahead, nearly got shot for not answering. It was 
a corsario of armed merchants returning from the 
fair of Ronda. We stopped and made inquiries, 
but could learn nothing, and we continued our 
journey for several hours in silence, by the 
most brilliant moon. We began to hope we 
had escaped, when suddenly a muleteer informed 
us that he could distinguish a trampling of horse 
in the distance. Ave Maria I a cold perspiration 
came over us. Decidedly they approached. We 
drew up out of pure fear. I had a pistol in 
one hand and my purse in the other, to act accord- 
ing to circumstances. The band were clearly in 
sight I was encouraged by finding that they were 
a rather uproarious crew. They turned out to be 
a company of actors travelling to Cordova. There 
were dresses and decorations, scenery and ma- 
chinery, all on mules and donkeys — the singers 
rehearsing an opera, the principal tragedian riding 
on an as», and the buffo most serious, looking as 
grave as night, with a cigar, and in greater agita- 
tion than all the rest. The women were in side- 
saddles like sedans, and there were whole panniers 
of children. Some of the actresses were chanting 
an ave, while, in more than one instance, their 
waists were encircled by the brawny arm of a more 
robust devotee. All this irresistibly reminded me 
of Cervantes. 

Night waned, and, instead of meeting robbers, 
we discovered that we had only lost our way. At 
length we stumbled upon some peasants sleeping 
ui the field amid the harvest, who told us that it 
was utterly impossible to regain our road ; and so, 
our steeds and ourselves being equally wearied, we 
dismounted, and turned our saddles into pillows. 

I was roused, after a couple of hours' sound 
slumber, by the Rosario, a singing procession, in 
which the peasantry congregate to their labours. 
54 



It is most effective, full of noble chants and melo- 
dious responses, that break upon the still fresh air, 
and your fresher feelings, in a manner truly magi- 
cal. This is the country for a national novelist 
The out-door life of the natives induces a variety 
of most picturesque manners, while their semi- 
civilization makes each district retain, with barba- 
rous jealousy, their peculiar customs. 

I heard a shot at no great distance. It was re- 
peated. To horse, to horse ! I roused Lausanne 
and Tita. It occurred to me directly. Shots were 
interchanged. We galloped in the direction of the 
sound, followed by several peasants, and firing our 
pistols. Two or three runaway soldiers met us. 
" Carraho ! Scoundrels, turn back !" we cried. In 
a few minutes we were in sight of the combat. It 
was a most unequal one, and nearly finished, A 
robber had hold of the arm of the great lady of 
Madrid, who was dismounted, and seated on a 
bank. Her husband was leaning on his sword, and 
evidently agreeing to a capitulation. The servants 
seemed still disposed to fight. Two or three 
wounded men were lying on the field — soldiers, 
and mules, and muleteers, running about in all di- 
rections. 

Tita, who was an admirable shot, fired the mo- 
ment he was witliin reach, and brought down his 
man. I ran up to the lady, but not in time to 
finish her assailant, who was off' in a flash. The 
robbers, surprised, disorderly, and plundering, made 
no ti^itt, and we permitted them to retreat with 
some severe loss. 

Exclamations, gratitude, hysterics. Lausanne 
in the mean time produced order. The infantry 
rallied, the mules rc-assembled, the baggage was 
again arranged. The travellers were the Marquis 
and Marchioness of Santiago, who were about to 
pay a visit to their relative, the Governor of Malaga. 
I remained with them until we reached Granada, 
when the most dangerous portion of this journey 
was completed, and I parted from these agreeable 
persons, with a promise to visit them on my arrival 
at their place of destination. 

IV 

There is not a more beautiful and solemn tem- 
ple in the world than the great cathedral of Seville. 
When you enter from the glare of a Spanish sky, 
so deep is the staining of the glass, and so small 
and few the windows, that, for a moment, you feel 
in darkness. Gradually the vast design of the 
Gothic artist unfolds itself to your vision : gra- 
dually rises up before you the profuse sumptuous- 
ness of the high altar, with its tall images, and 
velvet and gold hangings, its gigantic railings ot 
brass and massy candlesticks of silver — all revealed 
by the dim and perpetual light of the sacred and 
costly lamps. 

You steal with a subdued spirit over the marble 
pavement All is still, save the hushed muttering 
of the gliding priests. Around you are groups of 
kneeling worshippers, some prostrate on the ground, 
some gazing upwards with their arms crossed in 
mute devotion, some, beating their breasts and 
counting their consoling beads. Lo ! the tinkling 
of a bell. The mighty organ bursts forth. Invo- 
luntarily you fall upon your knees, and listen lo 
the rising chanting of the solemn choir. A pro- 
cession moves from an adjoining chapel. A band 
of crimson acolytes advance, waving their censers 
2n2 



426 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



and the mclotly of their distant voices responds to 
tlic deep-toned invocations of the nearer canons. 

There are a vast number of chapels in this ca- 
thedral on each side of the principal nave. Most 
of them arc adorned with masterpieces of the 
•Spanish school. Ijct us approach one. The litrht 
is good, and let us gaze through this iron railing 
upon the jiicture it encloses. 

I see a saint falling upon his knees, and extend- 
ing his cnra])tured ami to receive an infant god. 
What mingled love, enthusiasm, devotion, reve- 
rence, blend in the countenance of the holy man ! 
But, O ! that glowing group of seraphim, sailing 
and smiling in the sunny splendour of that raxhant 
sky — who has before gazed upon such grace, such 
iiiefi'able and charming beauty 1 And in the back- 
ground is an altar, whereon is a vase holding some 
hhes, that seem as if they were just gathered. 
I'here is but one artist who could have designed 
this picture, there is but one man who could have 
thus combined ideal grace with natural simplicity, 
there is but one man who could have painted that 
diajihonous heaven and those fresh lihes. Inimita- 
ble MuriUo ! 

V. 

A Spa^-ish bull-fight taught me fully to com- 
prehend the rapturous exclamation of " Panem et 
Circenses !" The amusement apart, there is 
something magnificent in the assembled th^fcsands 
of an amjihithcatre. It is the trait in modern man- 
ners which most ell'ectually recalls the nobility of 
antique pastime. The poetry of a bull-fight is 
very much destroyed by the appearance of the ca- 
valiers. Instead of gay, gallant knights, bounding 
on caracoling steeds, three or four shapeless, un- 
wieldy beings, cased .n armour of stuffed leather, 
and looking more like Dutch burgomasters than 
Spanish chivalry, enter the lists on limping rips. 
The bull is, in fact, the executioner for the dogs, and 
an approaching bull-fight is a respite for any 
doomed steed throughout all Seville. 

The lauridors, in their varying, fanciful, costly, 
and splendid dresses, compensate, in a great mea- 
sure, for your disappointment. It is difficult to 
conceive a more brilliant band. These are ten or 
a dozen footmen, who engage the bull unarmed, 
distract him as he rushes at one of the cavaliers by 
unfolding, and dashing before his eyes a glittering 
scarf, and saving themselves from an occasional 
chace by practised agility, which e'icits great ap- 
plause. The performance of these tauridors is, 
without doubt, the most graceful, the most ex- 
citing, and the most surprising portioii of the enter- 
tainment. 

'i'he ample theatre is nearly ' full. Be careful 
to sit on the shady side. There is the suspense 
experienced at all public entertainments, only 
here upon a great scale. Men are gliding about 
selling fans and refreshments. The governor and 
his suite enter their box. A trumpet sounds ! all 
is silent. 

The knights advance, poising their spears, and 
for a moment trying to look graceful. The tauri- 
dors walk behind them, two by two. They pro- 
ceed around, and across the lists. They bow to 
the viceregal party, and connnend themselves to 
the Virgin, whose portrait is suspended above. 

Another trumjict ! a second, and a third blast. 
The governor throws trie signal. The den opens, 



and the bull bounds in. The first spring is ''ery 
fine. The animal stands for a moment still, stal- 
ing, stupified. Gradually his hoof moves; he 
paws the ground ; he dashes about the sand. The 
knights face him with their extended lances at due 
distance. The tauridors are all still. One flies 
across him, and waves his scarf. The enraged bull 
makes at the nearest horseman. He is frustrated 
in his attack. Again he plants himself, lashes his 
tail, and rolls about his eye. He makes another 
charge, and this time, the glance of the spear does 
not drive him back. He gores the horse, rips up 
its body, the steed staggers and falls. The bull 
rushes at the rider, and his armour will not now 
preserve him, but, just as his awful horn is about 
to avenge his future fate, a skilful tauridor skims 
before him, and flaps his nostrils with his scarf. 
He flies after his new assailant, and immediately 
finds another. Now, you are delighted by all the 
evolutions of this consummate band : occasionally 
they can only save themselves by leaping the bar- 
rier. The knight, in the mean time, rises, escapes, 
and mounts another steed. 

The bull now makes a rush at another horseman. 
The horse dexterously veers aside. 'J'he hull 
ru.shes on, but the knight wovmds him severely in 
the flank with his lance. The tauridors now ap- 
pear armed with darts. They rush with extraor- 
dinary swiftness and dexterity at the now infuriated 
animal, plant their galling weapons in diflerent 
parts of his body, and scud awa^". To some of 
their darts are affixed fireworks, which ignite by 
the pressure of the stab. The animal is then as 
bewildered as infuriated. The amphitheatre echoes 
to his roaring, and witnesses the greatest efforts of 
his rage. He fliesat all, staggering and streaming 
with blood ; at length, breathless, and exhausted, 
he stands at bay, his black swollen tongue hanging 
out, and his mouth covered with foam. 

'Tis horrible. Throughout, a stranger's feelings 
are for the bull : although this even the fairest 
Spaniard cannot comprehend. As it is now e\i- 
dent that the noble victim can only amuse them by 
Jiis death, there is a imiversal cry for the matador ; 
and the matador, gayly dressed, appears amid a 
loud cheer. The matador is a great artist. Strong 
nerves must combine with quickness, and great 
experience, to form an accomplished matador. It 
is a rare character, highly prized. Their fame ex- 
ists after their death, and diiTerent cities pride 
themselves on producing, or possessing the eminent. 

The matador plants himself before the bull, and 
shakes a red cloalv suspended over a drawn sword. 
This last insult excites the lingering energy of the 
dying hero. He makes a violent charge, the 
mantle Isills over his face, and the sword enters his 
.spine, and he falls amid thundering shouts. The 
death is instantaneous, wiffiout a struggle and 
without a gi-oan. A car, decorated with flowers and 
ribands, and drawn by oxen, now appears, and bears 
off' the body in triumph. 

I have seen eighteen horses killed in a bull-fight, 
and eight bulls. But the sport is not always in 
proportion to the slaughter. Sometimes the bull is 
a craven, and then, if affer having recourse to every 
mode of excitement he will not charge, he is kicked 
out of the arena, amid the jeers and hisses of the 
audience. Every act of skill on the part of the 
tauridors elicits applause, nor do the spectators 
hesitate, if necessary, to mark their temper by a 
contrary method. On the whole, it is a magnificent 



C N T A R I N I FLEMING. 



427 



but barbarous spectacle, and however disgusting 
the jnincipal object, the accessaries of the enter- 
tainment are so brilliant and interesting, that, 
whatever may be their abstract disapprobation, 
those who have witnessed a Spanish bull-fight, 
will not be surprised at the passionate attachment 
of the Spanish people to their national pastime. 

VI. 

There is a calm voluptuousness about Spanish 
life that wonderfully accorded with the disposition 
in which I then found myself; so that, had my in- 
tellect been at command, I do not know any place 
v\'here I would more willingly have indulged it. 
The imagination in such a countiy is ever at work, 
and beauty and grace are not scared away by those 
sounds and sights, those constant cares and 
changing feelings, which are the pioud possession 
of lands which consider themselves more blessed. 

You rise early, and should breakfast lightly, al- 
though a table covered with all fruits, renders that 
ratlier difficult to those who have a passion for the 
most delightful productions of nature, antl would 
willingly linger over a medley of grape, and melon, 
and gourd, and prickly pear. In the morning, you 
never quit the house, and these are hours which 
might be delightfully employed under the inspira- 
tion of a climate which is itself poetry, for it sheds 
over every thing a golden hue, which does not ex- 
ist in the objects themselves illuminated. I could 
then indulge only in a calm re very, for I found the 
least exertion of mind instantly aggravate all my 
symptoms. But to exist, and to feel existence 
more tolerable, to observe and to remember, to 
record a thought that suddenly starts up, or catch 
a new image which glances over the surface of the 
mind — this was still left to me. But the moment 
that I attempted to meditate or combine, to ascer- 
tain a question that was doubtful, or in any way to 
call the higlier powers of intellect into play, that 
moment 1 felt a lost man. My brain seemed to 
palpitate with frenzy. An indescribable feeling of 
idiocy ca/ne over me, and for hours I was plunged 
into a state of the darkest despair. When the 
curse had subsided to its usual dull degree of horror, 
my sanguine temper called me again to life and 
hopf. My general health had never been better, 
and this supported me under the hardships of Spa- 
nish travelling. I never for a moment gave way to 
my real feelings, except under a paroxysm, and 
then I fled to solitude. But I resolved to pursue 
this life only for a year, and if at the end of that 
period I found no relief, the convent and the cloister 
should at least afford me repose. This was a firm 
determination. 

But 'tis three o'clock, and all this time we should 
be at dinner. The Spanish kitchen is not much 
to my taste, being rich and rather gross. And yet 
for a pleasant, as well as a picturesque dish, com- 
mend me to an olla podrida ! After dinnef, comes 
the famed siesta. I generally slept for two hours. 
I think this practice conducive to health in hot 
climates. The aged however are apt to carry it to 
excess. By the time you have risen, and made 
your toilet, it is the hour to steal forth, and call upon 
any agreeable family, whose tcrtullayou may choose 
to honour, which you do, after the first time, unin- 
vited, and with them you take your chocolate. 
This is often in the air ; under the colonnade of the 
iiatio, or interior quadrangle of the mansion. Here 



you while away the time with music and easy talk, 
until it is cool enough for the Alameda, or public 
promenade. At Cadiz and Malaga, and even at 
Seville, up the Guadalquivir, you are sure of a de- 
lightful breeze from the water. The sea-breeze 
comes like a spirit. The efiect is quite magical. 
As you are lolling in listless languor in the hot 
and perfumed air, an invisible guest comes dancing 
into the party, and touches all with an enchanted 
wand. All start, all smile. It has come, it is the 
sea-breeze. There is much discussion, whether it 
be as strong as, or whether weakerthan the night be- 
fore. The ladies furl their fans, and seize their man- 
tillas ; the cavaliers stretch their legs, and give sij: 
of life. All rise. You offer your arm to Dolores or 
Catalina, and in ten minutes you are on the Ala- 
meda. What a change ! All is now life and 
liveliness. Such bowing, such kissing, such flut- 
tering of fons, such gentle criticisms of gentle 
friends ! But the fan is the most wonderful part 
of the whole scene. A Spanish lady, with her fan, 
might shame the tactics of a troop of horse. Now 
she unfurls it with the slow pomp and conscious 
elegance of the bird of Juno ; now she flutters it 
with all the languor of the listless beauty, now with 
all the liveliness of a vivacious one. Now, in tb 
midst of a very tornado, she closes it with a whirr 
which makes you start. Pop ! In the midst of 
your confusion, Dolores taps you on the elbow ; you 
turn round to listen, and Cataluia pokes you in your 
side. Magical instrument ! In this land it speaks 
a particular language, and gallantry requires no 
other mode to express its most subtle conceits, or 
its most unreasonable demands, than this delicate 
machine. Yet we should remember that here, as 
in the north, it is not confined to the delightful sex. 
The cavalier also has his fan, and that the habit 
may not be considered an indication of effeminacy, 
learn that, in this scorching clime, the soldier will 
not mount guard without this solace. 

But night wears on. We seat ourselves, we 
take a fanal, and fanciful refreshment which also, 
like the confection ai-y of Venice, I have since dis- 
covered to be oriental. Again we stroll. Midnight 
clears the public walk, but few Spanish families 
retire until a much later hour. A solitary bache • 
lor, like myself, still wanders, lingering where the 
dancers softly move in the warm moonlight, and 
indicate, by the grace of their eager gestures, and 
the fulness of their languid eyes, the fierceness of 
their passion. At length the castanet is silent, the 
tinkling of the last guitar dies away, and the cathe- 
dral clock breaks up your revery. You, too, seek 
your couch, and amid a sweet flow of loveliness, 
and light, and music, and fresh air, thus dies a day 
in Spain. 

VII. 

The Spanish women are veiy interesting. What 
we associate with the idea of female beauty, is 
not perhaps very common in this country. There 
are seldom those seraphic countenances, which 
strike you dumb, or blind, but faces in abundance 
which will never pass without commanding admira- 
tion. Their charms consist in their sensibility. 
Each incident, every person, every word, touches 
the fancy of a Spanish lady, and her expressive 
features are constantly confuting the creed of the 
Moslemin. But there is nothing quick, harsh, or 
forced about her. She is extremely unaffected, and 
not at all French. W^er eyes gleam rather than 



428 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



■sparkle, she speaks; with vivacity, but in sweet 
tones, and there is in all her- carriage, particularly 
when she walks, a certain dignified grace which 
never deserts her, and which is very remarkable. 

The general female dress in Spain is of black 
silk, called a hasquina, and a black silk shawl, 
with which they usually envelope their heads, 
called a mantilla. As they walk along in this 
costume in an evening, with their soft dark eyes 
dangerously conspicuous, you willingly believe in 
their universal charms. They are remarkable for 
the beauty of their hair. Of this they are very 
proud, and indeed its luxuriance is only equalled 
by the attention which they lavish on its culture. 
I have seen a young girl of fourteen, whose hair 
reached her feet, and was as glossy as the curl of a 
contessa. All day long, even the lowest order are 
brushing, curling, and arranging it. A fruit-woman 
has her hair dressed with as much care as the 
Dutchess of Ossuna. In the summer, they do not 
wear their mantilla over their heads, but show their 
combs, which are of very great size. The fashion 
of these combs varies constantly. Every two or 
three months you may observe a new form. It is 
the part of the costume of which a Spanish wo- 
man is most proud. The moment that a new comb 
appears, even a servant wench will run to the 
melter's with her old one, and thus, with the cost 
of a dollar or two, appear the next holiday in the 
newest style. These combs are worn at the back 
of the head. They are of tortoise-shell, and with 
the very fashionable, they are white. I sat next 
to a lady of high distinction at a bull-fight at Se- 
ville. She was the daughter-in-law of the captain 
general of the province,, and the most beautiful 
Spaniard I ever met. Her comb was white, and 
she wore a mantilla of blonde, without doubt ex- 
tremely valuable, for it was very dirty. The efiect, 
however, was charming. Her hair was glossy 
black, her eyes like an antelope's, and all her other 
features deliciously soft. She was further adorned, 
which is rare in Spain, with a rosy cheek, for in 
Spain our heroines are rather sallow. But they 
counteract this slight defect by never appearing 
until twilight, which calls them from their bowers, 
fresh, though languid, from the late siesta. 

The only fault of the Spanish beauty is, that 
she too soon indulges in the magnificence of em- 
bonpoint. There are, however, many exceptions. 
At seventeen, a Spanish beauty is poetical. Tall, 
Uthe, and clear, and graceful as a jennet, who can 
withstand the summer lightning of her soft and 
languid glance ! As she advances, if she do not 
lose her shape, she resembles Juno rather than 
Vejius. Majestic she ever is, and if her feet be 
less twinkling than in her first bolero, look on her 
hand, and you'll forgive them all. 

VIII. 

At Malaga, I again met the Santiagos, and 
through their medium, became acquainted with a 
young French nobleman, who had served in the 
late expedition against Algiers, and retired from 
the army in consequence of the recent revolution 
in his native country. The rapturous tone in which 
he spoke of the delights of oriental life, and of his 
intention to settle permanently in Egypt, or some 
Other part of the Ottoman empire, excited in me a 
great desire to visit those countries, for which my 
residence in a Grecian isle had somewhat prepared 



me. And on inquiry at the quay, finding that 
there was a vessel bound for tlie Ionian isles at 
present in harbour, and about to sail, I secured our 
passage, and in a few days quitted the Iberian 
peninsula. 

IX. 

Iff sight of the ancient Corcyra, I could not 
forget, that the island I beheld had given rise to 
one of the longest and most celebrated, and most 
fatal of ancient wars. The immortal struggle of 
the Peloponnesus was precipitated, if not occasion- 
ed, by a feeling of colonial jealousy. There is a 
great difference between ancient and modem colo- 
nies. A modern colony is a commercial enterprise, 
an ancient colony was a political settlement. In 
the emigration of our citizens, hitherto, we have 
merely sought the means of acquiring wealth ; the 
ancients, when their brethren quitted their native 
shores, wept and sacrificed, and were reconciled to 
the loss of their fellow-citizens solely by the con- 
straint of stern necessity, and the hope that they 
were about to find easier subsistence, and to lead a 
more cheerful and commodious life. I believe that 
a great revolution is at hand in our system of colo- 
nization, and that Europe will soon recur to the 
principles of the ancient polity. 

Old Corcyra is now the modern Corfu — a lovely 
isle, with all that you hope to meet in a Grecian 
sea — gleamy waters, vi'oody bays, the Cyprus, the 
olive, and the vine, a clear sky and a warm sun. 
I learned here that a civil war raged in Albania 
and the neighbouring provinces of European Tur- 
key, and, in spite of all advice, I determined, instead 
of advancing into Greece, to attempt to penetrate 
to the Turkish camp, and witness, if possible, a 
campaign. With these views, I engaged a small 
vessel to carry me to Prevesa. 



I WAS now in the Ambracian Gulf, those famous 
waters, where the soft triumvir gained greater glory 
by defeat than attends the victory of harsher war- 
riors. — The site is not unworthy of the beauty of 
Cleopatra. From the sinuosity of the land, this 
gulf appears like a vast lake, walled in on all sides 
by mountains more or less distant. The dying 
glory of a Grecian eve bathed with warm lights, a 
thousand promontories, and gentle bays, and infi- 
nite undulations of purple outline. Before me was 
Olympus, whose austere peak glittered yet in the 
sun ; a bend of the shore alone concealed from me 
the islands of Ulysses and of Sappho. 

As I gazed upon this scene, I thought almost 
with disgust of the savage splendour and turbulent 
existence in which perhaps I was about to mingle ; 
I recurred to the feelings in the indulgence of which 
I could alone find felicity, and from which an in- 
exorable destiny seemed resolved to shut mc out. 

Hark ! the clang of the barbaric horn, and the 
wild clash of the cymbal. A body of Turkish 
infantry marched along the shore. I landed, and 
learned, for the first time, of the massacre of the 
principal rebel beys at Monastir, at a banquet given 
liy the grand-vizier on pretence of arranging all 
ditferenccs. My host, a Frank, experienced in the 
Turkish character, checked me, as I poured forth 
my indignation at this savage treachery. " Live a 
little longer in these countries before you hazard an 
opinion as to their conduct. Do you indeed think 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



429 



that the rebel heys of Albania were so simple as to 
place the slightest trust in the vizier's pledge. The 
practice of politics in the East may be defined by 
one word — dissimulation. The most wary dis- 
sembler is the most consummate statesman. The 
Albanian chiefs went up to the divan in full array, 
and accompanied by a select body of their best 
troops. They were resolved to overawe the vizier, 
perhaps they even meditated, with regard to' him, 
the very stroke which he had put in execution 
against themselves. He was the most skilful dis- 
sembler, that is all. His manner threw them off 
their guard. With their troops bivouacking in the 
court-yard, they did not calculate that his highness 
could contrive to massacre the troops by an 
ambush, and would dare, at the same moment, to 
attack the leaders by their very attendants at the 
banquet. There is no feeling of indignation in the 
country at the treachery of the conqueror, though 
a very strong sentiment of rage, and mortification, 
and revenge." 

I learned that the grand-vizier had rejoined the 
main army, and was supposed to have advanced to 
Yanina, the capital ; that in the mean time, the 
country between this city and the coast was over- 
run with prowling bands, the remnants of the 
rebel army, who, infuriate and flying, massacred, 
burned, and destroyed all persons and all property. 
This was an agreeable prospect. My friend dis- 
suaded me from my plans, but, as I was unwilling 
to relinquish them, he recommended me to sail up 
to Salora, and from thence journey to Arta, \yhcre 
I might seek assistance from Kalio Bey, a Moslemin 
chief, one of the most powerful and wealthy of the 
Albanian nobles, and ever faitliful to the Porte. 

To Salora I consequently repaired, and the next 
day succeeded in reaching Arta, a town once as 
beautiful as its site, and famous for its gardens, but 
now a mass of ruins. The whole place was razed 
to the ground, the minaret of the principal mosque 
alone untouched, and I shall never forget the eflect 
of the muezzin with his rich, and solemn, and 
sonorous voice, calUng us to adore God in the 
midst of all this human havoc. 

I found the Bey of Arta keeping his state, wliich, 
notwithstanding the suwounding desolation, was 
not contemptible, in a tenement which was not 
much better than a large shed. He was a very 
handsome, stately man, grave but not dull, and 
remarkably mild and bland in his manner. His 
polished courtesy might perhaps be ascribed to his 
recent imprisonment in Russia, where he was 
treated with so much consideration that he men- 
tioned it to me. I had lived in such complete 
solitude in Candia, and had there been so absorbed 
by passion, that I really was much less acquainted 
with Turkish manners than I ought to have been. 
I must confess that it was with some awe that for 
the first time in my life I entered the divan of a 
great Turk, and found myself sitting cross-legged 
on the right hand of a bey, smoking an amber- 
mouthed chiboque, sipping coffee, and paying him 
compliments through an interpreter. 

There were several guests in the room, chiefly 
his officers. They were, as the Albanians in gene- 
ral, finely formed men, with expressive counte- 
nances, and spare forms. Their picturesque dress is 
celebrated, though to view it with full efiect it 
should be seen upon an Albanian. The long hair 
and the small cap, the crimson velvet vest and 
jacket, embroidered and embossed with golden 



patterns of the most elegant and flowing forms, the 
white and ample kilt, the ornamented buskinsj and 
the belt full of silver-sheathed arms, — it is difiicult 
to find humanity in better plight. 

There was a considerable appearance of affairs, 
and of patriarchal solitude in the divan of Kalio 
Bey. It is possible that it was not always as busy, 
and that he was not uninfluenced by the pardonable 
vanity of impressing a stranger with his importance 
and beneficence. Many persons entered, and cast- 
ing off their slippers at the door, advanced and 
parleyed ; to some was given money, to all direc- 
tions, and the worthy bey doled out his piastres and 
his insiractions with equal solemnity. At length, 
I succeeded in calling my host's attention to the 
purport of my visit, and he readily granted me an 
escort of twenty of his Albanians. He was even 
careful that they should be picked men, and, cal- 
culating that I might reach the capital in two days, 
he drew his writing materials from his belt, and 
gave me a letter to a Turkish bimbashee, or colonel, 
who was posted witli his force in the mountains I 
was about to pass, and under the only roof which 
probably remained between Arta and Yanina. He 
pressed me to remain his guest, though there was 
little, he confessed, to interest me, but I was 
anxious to advance, and so, after many thanks, I 
parted from the kind Kalio Bey. 

XL 

Br daybreak we departed, and journeyed for 
many hours over a wild range of the ancient Pindus, 
stopping only once for a short rest at a beautiful 
fountain of marble. Here we all dismounted, and 
lighted a fire, boiled the coffee, and smoked our 
pipes. There were many fine groups, but little 
Spiro was not as deHghted as I expected at finding 
himself once more among his countrymen. 

An hour before sunset we found ourselves at a 
vast, but dilapidated khan, as big as a Gothic castle, 
situated on a high range, and built for the accommo- 
dation of travellers from the capital to the coast, by^ 
the great Ali Pasha, when his long, sagacious, and 
unmolested reign permitted him to develope, in a 
country which combines the excellences of Western 
Asia and Southern Europe, some of the intended 
purposes of a beneficent nature. .This khan had 
now been converted into a military post, and here 
we found the Turkish commander, to whom Kalio 
Bey had given me a letter. He was a young man 
of very eftgant and pleasing exterior, but unluckily 
could not understand a word of Greek, and we had 
no interpreter. What was to be done 1 Proceed 
we could not, for there was not an inhabited place 
before Yanina, and here was I sitting before sunset 
on the same divan with my host, who had entered 
the place to receive me, and would not leave the 
room while I was there, without the power of com- 
municating an idea. I was in despair, and also 
very hungry, and could not therefore, in the course 
of an hour or two, plead fatigue as an excuse for 
sleep, for I was ravenous, and anxious to know 
what prospect of food existed in this wild and deso- 
late mansion. So we smoked. It is a great He- 
source. But this wore out, and it was so ludicrous 
smoking and looking at each other, and dying to 
talk, and then exchanging pipes by way of compli 
ment, and then pressing our hands to our hearts by 
way of thanks. At last it occurred to me that I had 
some brandy, and that I would offer my host a glass. 



430 



D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. 



which might sen-e as a hint for what should follow 
so vehement a schnaps. Mashallah ! the etlect was 
indeed miraculous. My mild friend smacked his 
lips, and instantly asked for another cup. We 
drank it in coffee-cups. A hottle of brandy was 
despatched in quicker time, and fairer proportions, 
than had ever solemnized the decease of the same 
portion of Burgundy. We were extremely gay. 
The bimbashee ordered some dried figs, talking all 
the time, and indulging in the most graceful pan- 
tomime, examining my pistols, inquiring about 
percussion locks, which greatly surprised him, 
handing his own more ornamented although less 
effective weapons, for my inspection, and finally 
making out Greek enough to misunderstand most 
ludicrously every observation comminiicated. But 
all was taken in good part, and I never met such a 
jolly lellow in the course of my life. 

In the mean time I became painfully ravenous, 
for the dry, round, unsugary fig of Albania is a 
gi-eat whetter. At last I asked for bread. The 
bimbashee gravely bowed, and said, "Leave it to 
me, take no thought," and nothing more occurred. 
I prepared myself for hungry dreams, when to my 
great astonishment and delight, a capital supper 
was brought in, accompanied, to my equal horror, 
by wine. We ate with our fingers. It was the 
first time I had performed such an operation. You 
soon get used to it, and dash, but in turn, at the 
choice morsels with perfect coolness. One, with a 
basin and ewer, is in attendance, and the whole 
process is by no means so terrible as it would first 
appear to European habits. For drinking — we 
really drank with a rapidity which, with me, was 
unprecedented. The wine was not bad, but, had 
it been poison, the forbidden juice was such a com- 
pliment from a Moslemin, that I must quaff it all. 
We quailed it in rivers. The bimbashee called for 
brandy. Unfortunately there was another bottle. 
We drank it all. The room turned round, the wild 
attendants, who sat at our feet, seemed dancing in 
strange whirls, the bimbashee shook hands with me, 
he shouted Italian, I Turkish. " Buono, buono," 
lie had caught up, — " Pecche, pecche," was my 
rejoinder, which, let me inform the reader, although 
I do not even now know much more, is very good 
Turkish. He roared, he patted me on the back. I 
remember no iriore. 

In the middle of the night I awoke. I found 
myself sleeping on the divan, rolled up in its sacred 
carpet. The bimbashee had wisely reeled to the 
fire. The thirst I felt was like that of Bives. All 
were sleeping except two, who kept up, during the 
nigiit, llie great wood-fire. I rose, lightly stepping 
over my sleeping companions, and the shining 
arms, that here and there informed me that the 
dark mass wrapped up in a capote was a human 
being. I found Abraham's bosom in a flagon of 
water. I think I nuist have drunk a gallon at the 
draught. I looked at the wood-fire, and thought 
of the blazing blocks in the hall of Jonsterna, asked 
myself whetber I were indeed in the mountain 
fastness of a Turkish chief, and shrugging my 
shoulders went to sleep, and woke without a head- 
ach. 

XII. 

1 PAHTF.n from my jovial host the next morning 
very cordially, and gave him my pipe, as a memorial 
of having got tipsy together. 



After having crossed one more range of steep 
mountains, we descended into a vast plain, over 
which wc journeyed for some hours, the country 
presenting the same mournful aspect which I had 
too long observed : villages in ruins, and perfectly 
desolate — khans deserted, and fortresses razed to 
the ground — olive woods burnt up, and fruit trees 
cut dov\n. So complete had been the work of 
destrnction, that I often unexpectedly found my 
horse stumbling amid the foundation of a village, 
and what at first appeared the dry bed of a torrent, 
often turned out to be the backbone of the skeleton 
of a ravaged town. At the end of the plain, im- 
mediately backed by very lofty mountains, and 
jutting into the beautiful lake that bears its name, 
we suddenly came upon the city of Yanina: sud- 
denly, for a long tract of gradually rising ground 
had hitherto concealed it from our sight. At the 
distance I first beheld it, this city, once, if not the 
largest, one of the most thriving and brilliant m 
the Turkish dominions, was still imposing, but 
when I entered, I soon found that all preceding 
desolation had been on^y preparatory to the vast 
scene of destruction no*w betbre me. We pro- 
ceeded through a street winding in its course, but 
of very great length. Kuiued houses, mosques with 
their tower only standing, streets utterly razed — 
these are nothing. Wc met great patches of ruin 
a mile square, as if an army of locusts had had the 
power of desolating the works of man, as well as 
those of God. The great heart of the city was a 
sea of ruin, — arches and pillars, isolated and shat- 
terea, still here and there jutting forth, breaking tho 
uniformity of the annihilation, and turning the hor- 
rible into the picturesque. The great Bazaar, itself 
a little town,' had been burned down only a few 
days before my arrival, by an infuriate band of 
Albanian warriors, who beard of the destruction of 
their chiefs by the grand vizier.. They revenged 
themselves on tyranny by destroying civilization. 

But while the city itself presented tliis mournful 
appearance, its other characteristics were any thing 
but sad. At this moment a swarming population, 
arrayed in every possible and fanciful costume, 
buzzed and bustled in all directions. As I passed 
on, and myself of course not unobserved, where a 
Frank had not penetrated for nine years, a thousand 
objects attracted my restless attention and roving 
eye. Every thing was so strange and splendid, 
that for a moment I forgot that this was an extra- 
ordinary scene even for the East, and gave up my 
fancy to full credulity in the now almost obsolete 
magnificence of oriental life. I longed to w-rite an 
Eastern tale. Military chieftains, clothed in the 
most brilliant colours and sumptuous furs, and 
attended by a cortege of officers equally splendid, 
continually pa.ssed us. Now for the first time a 
dervish saluted me ; and now a delhi, with hi.? hijh 
cap, reined in his desperate steed, as the suite ol' 
some pasha blocked up some turning of the street. 
It seemed to me that my first day in a Turkish city 
brought before me all the popular characteristics of 
which I had read, and wliich I expected occasionally 
to observe during a prolonged residence. I rcmem 
ber, as I rode on this day, I observed a Turkish 
sheikh in his entirely green vestments, a scribe with 
his writing materials in his girdle, an ambulatory 
physician and his boy. I gazed about me with a 
mingled feeling of delight and wonder. 

Suddenly a strange, wild, unearthly drum is 
heard, and at the end of the street, a huge cameJ, 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



431 



with a slave sitting cross-legged on its neck, and 
playing upon an immense kettledrum, appears, and 
is the first of an apparently interminable procession 
of his Arabian brethren. The camels were very 
large, they moved slowly, and were many in num- 
ber. There were not less than a hundred moving 
on one by one. To me who had then never seen a ca- 
ravan, it was a novel and impressive spectacle. All 
immediately hustled out of the way of the proces- 
sion, and seemed to shrink imder the sound of the 
wild drum. The camels bore corn for the vizier's 
troops encamped without the walls. 

At length I reached the house of a Greek physi- 
cian, to whom I carried letters. My escort repaired 
to the quarters of their chieftain's son, who was in 
the city in attendance on the grand vizier, and for 
myself I was glad enough once more to stretch my 
wearied limbs under a Christian roof. 

XIII. 

The next day, I signified my arrival to the kehaya 
bey of his highness, and delivered, according to 
custom, a letter, with which I had been kindly pro- 
vided by an eminent foreign functionary. The 
ensuing morning was fixed for my audience. I re- 
paired at the appointed hour to the celebrated fortress 
palace of Ali Pasha, which, although greatly battered 
by successive sieges, is still inhabitable, and still 
affords a very fair idea of its pristine magnificence. 
Having passed through the gates of the fortress, I 
found myself in a number of small dingy streets, 
like those in the Hberties of a royal castle. These 
were all full of life, stirring and excited. At length 
I reached a grand square, in whi'ch, on an ascent, 
stands the palace. I was hurried through courts 
and corridors, full of guards, and pages, and attend- 
ant chiefs, and in short every variety of Turkish 
population ; for among the orientals all depends 
upon one brain, and we, with our subdivisions of 
duty, and intelligent and responsible deputies, can 
form no idea of the labour of a Turkish premier. 
At length I came to a vast, irregular apartment, 
serving as the immediate antechamber of the hall 
of audience. 

This was the first thing of the kind I had ever 
yet seen. In the whole course of my life I had 
never mingled in so picturesque an assembly. Con- 
ceive a chamber of very great dimensions, full of the 
choicest groups of an oriental population, each in- 
dividual waiting by appointment for an audience, 
and probably about to wait for ever. It was a sea 
of turbans, and crimson shawls, and golden scarfs, 
and ornamented arms. I marked with curiosity the 
haughty Turk stroking his beard, and waving his 
beads ; the proud Albanian strutting with his tarra- 
gan, or cloak, dependent on one shoulder, and 
touching with impatient fingers his silver-sheathed 
arms ; tire olive-visaged Asiatic, with his enormous 
turban and flowing robes, gazing, half with wonder 
and Jialf with contempt, at some scarlet colonel of 
the newly-disciplined troops in his gorgeous, but 
awkward imitation of Frank uniforms ; the Greek, 
still servile, though no more a slave ; the Nubian 
eunuch, and the Georgian page. 

In this chamber, attended by the drogueman, 
who presented me, I remained about ten minutes — 
too short a time. I never thought I could have 
lived to wish to kick my heels in a ministerial an- 
techamber. Suddenly I was summoned to the 
awful presence of the pillar of the Turkish empire, 



the man who has the reputation of being the main* 
spring of the new system of regeneration, the re- 
nowned Redschid, an approved warrior, a consum- 
mate politician, unrivalled as a dissembler in a 
country where dissimulation is the principal portion 
of moral culture. The hall was vast, entirely co- 
vered with gilding and arabesques, inlaid with tor- 
toise-shell and mother-of-pearl. Here, squatted up 
in a corner of the large divan, I bowed to a little 
ferocious-looking, shrivelled, care-worn man, plainly 
dressed, with a brow covered with wrinkles, and a 
countenance clouded with anxiety and thought. I 
entered the shed-like divan of the kind, and com- 
paratively insigniticant Kalio Bey with a feeling of 
awe ; I seated myself on the divan of the grand 
vizier of the Ottoman empire, who, as my attendant 
informed me, had destroyed, in the course of the 
last three months, no^ in war, "upwards of four 
thousand of my acquaintance," with the self-pos- 
session of a morning visit. At a distance from us, 
in a group on his left-hand, were his secretary, and 
his immediate suite. The end of the saloon was 
lined with tchawooshes, or lackeys, in waiting, in 
crimson dresses with long silver canes. 

Some compHments passed between us. I con- 
gratulated his highness on the pacification of Al- 
bania, and he rejoined, that the peace of the world 
was his only object, and the happiness of his fellow- 
creatures his only wish. Pipes and coilee were 
then brought, and then his highness waved his 
hand, and in an instant the chamber was cleared. 

He then told me that he had read the letter, that 
the writer was one whom he much loved, and that 
I should join .the army, although, of course, I was 
aware that, as a Frank, I could hold no command. 
I told him that such was not my desire, but that, as 
I intended to proceed to Stamboul, it would be 
gratifying to me to feel that I had co-operated, how- 
ever humbly, in the cause of a sovereign whom I 
greatly admired. A Tartar now arrived with de- 
spatches, and I rose to retire, for I could perceive 
that the vizier was overwhelmed with business, and 
although courteous, moody and anxious. He did 
not press me to remain, but desired that I would go 
and visit his son, Amin Pasha, to whose care he 
had consigned me. 

Amin, Pasha of Yanina, was a youth of eighteen, 
but apparently ten years older. He was the re- 
verse of his father : incapable in affairs, refined in 
manners, plunged in debauchery, and magnificeat 
in dress. I found him surrounded hy his favourites 
and flatterers, lolling on his divan in a fanciful hus- 
sar uniform of blue cloth covered with gold and 
diamonds, and w'orn under a Damascus pelisse of 
thick maroon silk, lined with wlrite fox furs. I have 
seldom met with a man of more easy address, and 
more polished breeding. He paid many compli- 
ments to the Franks, and expressed his wish to 
make a visit to the English at Corfu. As I was 
dressed in regimentals, he offered to show me his 
collection of military costumes, wliich had been 
made for him principally at ^^icnna. He also ordered 
one of his attendants to bring his manuscript book 
of cavalry tactics, which were unfortunately all ex- 
plained to me. I mention these slight traits to show 
how eagerly the modern Turks pique themselves 
on European civilization. After smoking, and eat- 
ing sweetmeats, a custom indicative of friendship, 
he proposed that I should accompany him to the 
camp, where he was about to review a division of 
the forces. I assented. We descended together, 



433 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



and I fonnd a boy with a barb magnificently ca- 
parisoned, waiting at the portal : of both of these 
Amin begged my acceptance. Mounting, we pro- 
ceeded to the camp, nor do I think that the cortege 
of the young pasha consisted of less than a hundred 
persons, who were all officers of his household, or 
of the cavaliy regiment which he commanded. 

XIV. 

I GiATiLT believe that the increased efficiency of 
the Turkish troops compensates for their shorn 
splendour and sorry appearance, A shaven head, 
covered with a tight red cloth cap, a small blue 
jacket of coarse cloth, huge trousers of the same 
material, puckered out to the very stretch of art, yet 
sitting tight to the knee and calf, mean accoutrements, 
and a pair of dingy slippers — behold the successor of 
the superb janissary ! Yet they perform their manoeu- 
vres with precision, and have straggled even with 
the Russian infantry with success. The officer 
makes a better appearance. His dress, although of 
the same fashion, is of scarlet, and of the finest cloth. 
It is richly embroidered, and the colonel wears upon 
his breast a star and crescent of diamonds. At the 
camp of Yanina, however, I witnessed a charge of 
delhis with their cimeters, and a more eficctive 
cavalry I never wish to lead. 

We returned to the city, and I found that apart- 
ments were allotted to me in the palace, whither 
Lausanne and the rest had already repaired. In 
the evening the vizier sent to me the first singer in 
Turkey, with several musicians. The singer 
chanted for an hour in a wild, piercing voice, de- 
void both of harmony and melody, a triumphant 
ballad on the recent massacre of Veli Bey and his 
rebel coadjutors. Nothing appears to me more 
frightful than Turkish music, yet it produces on 
those who are accustomed to it a very great effect, 
and my room was filled with strangers who has- 
tened to listen to the enchanting and exciting strain. 
The Turkish music is peculiar and different from 
that of other Eastern nations. I have seldom 
listened to more simple and affecting melodies than 
those with which the boatmen are wont to soothe 
their labours. 

The dancing girls followed, and were more amus- 
ing, but I had not then witnessed the Alwyn of 
Egypt. 

A week flew away at Yanina in receiving and 
returning visits from pashas, agas, and sclictars, in 
smoking pipes, sipping coffee, and tasting sweet- 
meats. Each day the vizier, or his son, sent me 
provisions ready prepared from their table, and in- 
dicated by some attention their considerate kindness. 
There is no character in the world higher bred than 
a Turk of rank. Some of these men, too, I found 
extremely intelligent, deeply interested in the poli- 
tical amelioration of their country, and v/arm ad- 
mirers of Peter the Great. I remember with plea- 
sure the agreeable hours I have spent m the society 
of Mehemet Aga, Selictar of the Pasha of Lepanto, 
a warrior to whom the obstinate resistance of Varna 
is mainly to be attributed, and a remarkably en- 
lightened man. Yet even he could not emancipate 
himself from their fatalism. For I remember when 
once conversing with him on the equipments of the 
cavalry, a subject in which he was very much inte- 
rested, I suggested to liim the propriety of a corps 
of cuirassitrs. " A cuirass cannot stop the ball that 



bears your fate," he replied, shragging uj hia 
shoulder, and exclaiming Mashallah ! 

While I was leading this novel and agreeable 
life, news arrived that the Pasha of Scutari, who 
had placed himself at the head of the insurgent 
janissaries, and was the champion of the old party, 
had entered Albania at the head of sixty thousand 
men, to avenge the massacre of the beys. 

XV. 

The grand vizier set off the same night with ten 
thousand men, reached Okhrida by forced marches, 
attacked and routed a division of the rebel troops 
before they supposed him to be apprized of their 
movements, and again encamped at Monastir, send- 
ing urgent commands to Yanina for his son to ad- 
vance with the rest of the army. We met his 
Tartar on our march, and the divisions soon joined. 
After a day's rest, we advanced, and entered the 
pashalic of Scutari. 

The enemy, to our surprise, avoided an engage- 
ment. The fierce, undisciplined waniors were 
frightened at our bayonets. They destroyed all 
before us, and hung with their vigilant cavalry on 
our exhausted rear. We had advanced on one side 
of Scutari; on the other we had penetrated into 
Romelia. We carried every thing before us, but 
we were in want of supplies, our soldiers were with- 
out food, and a skilful general and disciplined troops 
might have cut off all our communications. 

Suddenly the order was given to retreat. We 
retreated slowly, and in excellent order. Two regi- 
ments of the newly-organized cavalry, with whom 
I had the honour to act, covered the rear, and were 
engaged in almost constant skirmishing with the 
enemy. This skirmishing is very exciting. We 
concentrated, and again encamped at Okhridi. 

We were in hopes of now drawing the enemy 
into an engagement, but he was wary. In this 
situation the vizier directed that ir^the night a pow- 
erful division under the command of Mehemet, 
Pasha of Lepanto, he who stabbed Ali Pasha, 
should fall back to Monastir with the artillery, and 
take up a position in the mountains. The ensuing 
night his highness, after having previously spiked 
some useless guns, scattered about some tents and 
baggage-wagons, and given a general appearance 
of a hurried and disorderly, retreat, withdrew in the 
same direction. The enemy instantly pursued, 
rushed on, and attacked us full of confidence. We 
contented ourselves by protecting our rear, but still 
retreated, and appeared anxious to avoid an en- 
gagement. In the evening, having entered the 
mountain passes, and reached the post of the Pasha 
of Lepanto,- we drew up in battle array. 

It was a cloudy morning among the mountains, 
and some time before the mist drew away. The en- 
emy appeared to be in great force, filling the gorge 
through vvhich we had retreated, and encamped on 
all the neighbouring eminences. When they per- 
ceived us, a large body instantly charged with the 
famous janissary shout, the terror of which I con- 
fess. I was cold, somewhat exhausted, for I had 
tasted no food for two days, and for a moment my 
heart sunk. 

They were received, to their surprise, by a well- 
directed discharge of artillery from our concealed 
batteries. They seemed checked. Our ranks open- 
ed and a body of five thousand troops instantly 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



433 



charged them with the bayonet. This advance was 
sublime, and so exciting that, what with the shouts 
and cannonading, I grew mad, and longed to rush 
forward. The enemy gave way. Their great force 
was in cavalry, which could not act among the 
mountains. They were evidently astonished and 
perplexed. In a few minutes they were routed. 
The vizier gave orders for a general charge and 
pursuit, and in a few minutes I was dashing over 
the hills in rapid chase of all I could catch, cutting, 
firing, shouting, and quite persuaded that a battle 
was, after all, the most delightful pastime in the 
world. 

The masses still charging, the groups demand- 
ing quarter, the single horsemen bounding over the 
hills, the wild scared steeds without a rider, snort- 
ing and plunging, the dense smoke clearing away, 
the bright arms and figures flashing, ever and anon, 
in the moving obscurity, the wild shouts, the strange 
and horrible spectacles, the solitary shots and shritks 
now heard in the decreasing uproar, and the gene- 
ral feeling of energy, and peril, and triumph — it 
was all wonderful, and was a glorious moment in 
existence. 

The enemy was scattered like chaif. To rally 
them was impossible ; and the chiefs, in despair, 
were foremost in flight. They oflered no resist- 
ance, and the very men who, in the morning, would 
have been the first to attack a battery, sabre in 
hand, now yielded in numbers without a struggle 
to an individual. There was a great slaughter, a 
vast number of prisoners, and plunder without end. 
My tent was filled with rich amis, and shawls, and 
stuffs, and embroidered saddles. Lausanne and 
Tita were the next day both clothed in splendid 
Albanian dresses, and little Spiro plundered the 
dead as became a modern Greek. 

I reached my tent, I dismounted from my horse, 
I leaned upon it from exhaustion. An Albanian 
came forward, and offered a flask of Zitza wine. I 
drank it at a draught, and assuredly experienced the 
highest sensual pleasure. I took up two Cachemere 
shawls, and a gun mounted in silver, and gave them 
to the Albanian. Lucky is he who is com^teous in 
the hour of plunder ! 

The vizier I understood te be at Okhrida, and I 
repaired to that post over the field of battle. The 
moon had risen, and tinged with its white light all 
the prominent objects of the scene of destruction ; 
groups of bodies, and, now and then, a pallid face, 
distinct and fierce ; steeds, and standards, and arms, 
and shattered wagons. Here and there a moving 
light showed that the plunderer was still at his work, 
and, occasionally seated on the carcass of a horse, 
and sometimes on the corpse of a human being, 
were some of the fortunate survivors, smoking with 
admirable coolness,' as if there were not oif earth 
such a fearful mystery as death. 

I found the victorious Redschid seated on a car- 
pel in the moonlight in a cypress grove, and sur- 
ro\inded by attendants, to whom he was delivering 
instructions, and distributing rewards. He appear- 
ed as calm and grave as usual. Perceiving him 
■Jius engaged, I mingled with the crowd, and stood 
aside, leanhig on my sword : but observing me, he 
beckoned me to advance, and pointing to his carpet, 
he gave me the pipe of honour from his own lips. 
As I seated myself by his side, I could not help 
viewing this extraordinary man with great interest 
and curiosity. A short time back, at this very place, 
he had perpetrated an act which would have ren- 
55 



dcred him infamous in a civilized land ; the aven- 
gers meet him, as if by fate, on the very scene of 
his bloody treachery, and — he is victorious. What 
is life 1 

So much for the battle of Bitoglia or Monastir, a 
very pretty fray, although not as much talked of as 
Austerlitz or Waterloo, and which probably would 
have remained unknown to the great mass of Eu- 
ropean readers, had not a young Frank gentleman 
mingled, from a silly fancy, in its lively business. 

XVL 

The effect of the battle of Bitogha was the com- 
plete pacification of Albania, and the temporary 
suppression of the conspiracies in the adjoining 
provinces. Had it been in the power of the Porte to 
have supported, at this moment, its able and faithful 
servant, it is probable that the authority of the sul- 
tan would have been permanently consolidated in 
these countries. As it is, the finest regions in Eu- 
rope are still the prey of civil war, in too many in- 
stances excited by foreign powers, for their misera- 
ble purposes, against a prince, who is only inferior 
to Peter the Great, because he has profited by his 
example. 

For myself, perceiving that there was no imme- 
diate prospect of active service, I determined to visit 
Greece, and I parted from his highness with the 
hope that I might congratulate him at Stamboul. 

xvn. 

A COUNTRY of promontories, and gulfs, and 
islands clustering in an azure sea, a country of wood- 
ed vales and purple mountains, wherein the cities 
are built on plains, covered with olive woods, and at 
the base of an Acropolis, crowned with a temple or 
a tower. And there are quarries of white marble, 
and vines, and much wild honey. And wherever 
you move is some fair and elegant memorial of the 
poetic past, a lone pillar on the green and silent 
plain once echoing with the triumphal shouts of 
sacred games, the tomb of a hero, or the fane of a 
god. Clear is the sky, and fragrant is the air, and, 
at all seasons, the magical scenery of this land is 
coloured with that mellow tint, and invested with 
that pensive character, which, in other countries, 
we conceive to be peculiar to autumn, and which 
beautifully associate with the recollections of the 
past. Enchanting Greece ! 

xvm. 

Is the Argolic Gulf I found myself in the very 
heart of the Greek tragedy ; Nauplia and Sparta, 
the pleasant Argos, and the rich Mycene, the tomb 
of Agamemnon, and the palace of Clytemnestra. 
The fortunes of the house of Atrcus form the no- 
blest of all legends. I believe in that destiny before 
which the ancients bowed. Modern philosophy, 
with its superficial discoveries, has infused into the 
breast of man a spirit of skepticism, but I think 
that, ere long, science will again become imagina- 
tive, and that, as we become more profound, we 
may become also more credulous. Destiny is our 
will, and our will is our nature. The son who in- 
herits the organization with the father, will be 
doomed to the same fortunes as his sire, and again 
the mysterious matter in which his ancestors 
were moulded may, in other forms, by a necessary 
2 O 



434 



D'ISRA ELI'S NOVELS. 



attraction, act upon his fate. All is mystery, but he 
is a slave who will not sti-uggle to penetrate the 
dark veil. 

I quitted the Morea without regret. It is covered 
with Venetian memorials, no more to me a source 
of joy, and bringing back to my memory a country 
on which I no longer loved to dwell. I cast anchor 
in a small but secure harbour. I landed. I climbed 
a hill. From it I looked over a vast plain, covered 
with olive woods, and skirted by mountains. Some 
isolated hills, of every picturesque form, rose in 
the plain at a distance from the terminating range. 
On o!ic of these I beheld a magnificent temple 
bathed in the sunset. At the foot of the craggy 
steep on which it rested was a wailed city of con- 
siderable dimensions, in front of which rose a Doric 
temple of exquisite proportion, and apparently un- 
injured. The violet sunset threw over this scene 
a colouring becoming its loveliness, and, if possible, 
increasing its refined character. Independent of all 
associations, it was the most beautiful spectacle 
that had ever passed before a vision always musing 
on sweet sights, yet I could not forget that it was 
the bright capital of my youthful dreams, the fra- 
grant city of the violet crown, the fair, the sparkling, 
the delicate Athens ! 

XIX. 

The illusion vanished when I entered Athens. 
I found it in scarcely a less shattered condition than 
the towns of Albania. Ruined streets, and roof- 
less houses, and a scanty population. The women 
were at Egina in security ; a few males remained 
behind to watch the fortune of war. The Acropolis 
had not been visited by travellers for nine years, 
and was open to inspection for the first time the 
very day I entered. It was still in possession of 
the Turks, but the Greek Commission had arrived 
to receive the keys of the fortress. The ancient 
remains have escaped better than we could hope. 
The Parthenon and the other temples on the Acro- 
polis have necessarily suffered in the sieges, but 
the injury is only in detail ; the general effect is 
not marred, although I observed many hundred 
shells and cannon-balls lying about. 

The Theseum has not been touched, and looks, 
at a short distance, as if it were just finished by 
Cimon. The sumptuous columns of the Olympium 
still rise from their stately platform, but the Chora- 
gic monument is sadly maimed, although, as I was 
assured, by English sailors, and not Eastern barba- 
rians. Probably the same marine monsters, who 
have commemorated their fatal visit to Egypt, and 
the name of the fell craft that wafted them there, by 
covering the granite pillar of Pompey with gigantic 
characters in black paint. 

The durability of the Parthenon is wonderful. 
As far as I could observe, had it not been for the 
repeated ravages of man, it might at this day have 
been in as perfect condition as in the age of Pericles. 
Abstract time it has defied. Gilt and painted, with 
its pictures and votive statues, it must have been 
one of the most brilliant creations of human genius. 
Yet we err if we consider this famous building as 
an unparalleled effort of Grecian architecture. 
Compared with the temples of Ionia and the 
Sicilian fanes, compared even with the Olympium 
at its feet, the Parthenon could only rank as a 
ehurch with a cathedral. 

In art, the Greeks were the children of the 



Egyptians. The day may yet come when we 
shall do justice to the high powers of that myste- 
rious and imaginative people. The origin of Doric 
and Ionic invention must be traced amid the 
palaces of Carnac and the temples of Luxoor. For 
myself I confess I ever gaze upon the marvels of 
art with a feeling of despair. With horror I re- 
member that, through some mysterious necessity, 
civilization seems to have deserted the most favour- 
ed regions and the choicest intellects. The Per- 
sian, whose very being is poetry, the Arab, whose 
subtle mind could penetrate into the very secret 
shrine of nature, the Greek, whose acute percep- 
tions seemed granted only for the creation of the 
beautiful — these are now unlettered slaves in bar- 
barous lands. The arts are yielded to the flat-nosed 
Franks. And they toil, and study, and invent 
theories to account for their own incompetence. 
Now it is the climate, now the religion, now the 
gofernment, every thing but the truth, every thing 
but the mortifying sxispicion that their organization 
may be different, and that they may be as distinct 
a race from their models, as they undoubtedly are 
from the Kalmuck and the Negro. 

XX. 

Whatever may have been the faults of the 
ancient governments, they were in closer relation to 
the times, to the countries, and to the governed, 
than ours. The ancients invented their govern- 
ments according to their wants ; the moderns have 
adopted foreign policies, and then modelled their 
conduct upon this borrowed regulation. This cir- 
cumstance has occasioned our manners and our 
customs to be so confused, and absurd, and un- 
philosophical. What business had we, for instance, 
to adopt the Roman lawl — a law foreign to our 
manners, and consequently disadvantageous. He, 
who profoundly meditates upon the situation of 
modern Europe, v/ill also discover how productive 
of misery has been the senseless adoption of oriental 
customs by northern people. Whence came that 
divine right of kings, which has deluged so many 
countries with blood 1 — that pastoral and Syrian 
law of tithes, which may yet ohake the foundation 
of so many ancient institutions 1 

XXI. 

EvEX as a child, I veas struck by the absurdity of 
modern education. The duty of education is to 
give ideas. When our limited intelligence was con- 
fined to the literature of two dead languages, it was 
necessary to acquire those languages in order to 
obtain the knowledge which they embalmed. But 
now each nation has its literature, each nation 
possesses, written in its own tongue, a record of 
all knowledge, and specimens of every modification 
of invention. Let education, then, be confined to 
that national literature, and we should soon perceive 
the beneficial effects of this revolution upon the 
mind of the student. Study would then be a pro- 
fitablQ delight. I pity the poor Gothic victim of the 
grammar and the lexicon. The Greeks, who were 
masters of composition, were ignorant of all lan- 
guages but their own. They concentrated their 
study of the genius of expression upon one tongue. 
To this they owe that blended simplicity and 
strength of style, which the imitative Romans, with 
all their splendour, never attained 



CONTARINI FLEJVIING. 



435 



To the few, however, who have leisure or incli- 
nation to study foreign literatures, I will not re- 
commend them the English, the Italian, the 
German, since they may rightly answer, that all 
these have been in great part founded upon the 
classic tongues, and therefore it is wise to ascend 
to the fountain head ; but I will ask them for what 
reason they would limit their experience to the 
immortal languages of Greece and Rome 1 Why 
not study the Oriental ] Surely, in the pages of 
the Persians and the Arabs, we might discover new 
sources of emotion, new modes of expression, new 
trains of ideas, new principles of invention, and 
new bursts of fancy. 

These are a few of my meditations amid the 
ruins of Athens. They will disappoint those who 
might justly expect an ebullition of classic rapture 
from one who has gazed upon Marathon by moon- 
light, and sailed upon the free waters ofSalamis. 
I regret their disappointment, but I have arrived at 
an age when I can think only of the future, A 
mighty era is at hand, prepared by the blunders of 
long centuries. Ardently I hope that the necessary 
change in human existence may be effected by the 
voice of philosophy alone : but I tremble and I am 
silent. There is no bigotry so terrible as the bi- 
gotry of a country that flatters itself that it is philo- 
sophical. 

XXII. 

UxDERSTANDiNG that the Turkish squadron I 
left at Prevesa had arrived in the Negropont, I 
passed over, and paid a visit to its commander, 
with whom I was acquainted, Halil Pasha. HaJil 
informed me that all remained quiet in Albania, but 
that Redschid did not venture to return. He added 
that he liimself was about to sail from Stamboul 
immediately, and proposed that I should accompany 
him. His offer suited me, and as the wind was 
fair, in a few hours we were all on board. 

I had a most splendid view of Sunium, its 
tolumns against a dark cloud looked like undriven 
snow, and we were soon among the Cyclades. 
Sixteen islands were in sight, and we were now 
making our course in the heart of them. An 
archipelago by sunset is lovely — small isles of pur- 
ple and gold studding the glowing waters. The 
wind sers'ed well through the night, but we were 
becalmed the next day off Mitylene. In the after- 
noon, a fresh breeze sprung up and carried us to 
the Dardanelles. 

We were yet, I believe, upwards of a hundred 
miles from Constantinople. What a road to a great 
city ! narrower and much longer than the Straits 
of Gibraltar, but not with such sublime shores. 
Asia and Europe look more kindly on each other 
than Europe and her more sultry sister. I found 
myself, the next morning, becalmed off Troy : a 
vast hilly, uncultivated plain, a scanty rill, a huge 
tumulus, some shepherds and their flocks — behold 
the kingdom of Priam, and the successors of Paris ! 

A signal summoned us on board, the wind was 
fair and fresh. We scudded along with great 
swiftness, passing many towns and fortresses. 
Each dome, each minaret, I thought was Con- 
stantinople. At last it came ; we were in full 
sight. Masses of habitations, grouped on gentle 
acclivities, rose on all sides out of the water, part 
in Asia, part in Europe ; a gay and confused vision 
of red buildings, and dark-green cypress groves, 



hooded domes, and millions of minarets. As we 
approached, the design became more obvious. The 
groups formed themselves into three considerable 
cities, intersected by arms of the sea. Down one 
of these, rounding the seraglio point, our vessel 
held her course. We seemed to glide into the 
heart of the capital. The water was covered with 
innumerable boats as swift as gondolas, and far 
more gay, curiously carved, and richly gilt. In all 
parts swarmed a showy population. The charac- 
teristic of the whole scene was brilliancy. The 
houses glittered, the waters sparkled, and flocks of 
white and sacred birds glanced in the golden air, and 
skimmed over the blue wave. On one side of the 
harbour was moored the Turkish fleet, dressed out 
in all their colours. Our course was ended, and 
we cast our anchor in the famous Golden Horn. 

XXIII. 

No picture can ever convey a just idoa of Con- 
stantinople. I have seen several that are faithful, 
as far as they extend, but the most comprehensive 
can only exhibit a small portion of this cxtra- 
ordinai-y cit3\ By land or by water, in every di- 
rection, passing up the Golden Horn to the valley 
of Sweet Waters, or proceeding on the other hand 
down the famous Bosphorus to Buyukdere, and 
Terapia, to the Euxine, what infinite novelty ! 
New kiosks, new hills, new windings, new groves 
of cypress, and new forests of chestnut, open on 
all sides. 

The two most wonderful things at Constanti- 
nople are the Bosphorus and the bazaar. Con- 
ceive the ocean a stream not broader than the 
Rhine, with shores with all the beauty and variety 
of that river, running between gentle slopes covered 
with rich woods, gardens, and summer palaces, ce- 
meteries, and mosques, and villages, and bounded 
by sublime mountains. The view of the Euxine 
from the heights of Terapia, just seen through the 
end of the straits, is like gazing upon eternity. 

The bazaar is of a very different order, but not 
less remarkable. I never could obtain from a 
Turk any estimate of the ground it covered. 
Several in the habi? of daily attendance have men- 
tioned to me that they often find themselves in 
divisions they have not before visited. Fancy a 
Parisian panorama passage, fancy perhaps a square 
mile covered with these arcades, intersectijig each 
other in all directions, and full of every product of 
the empire, from diamonds to dates. This will 
give you some idea of the great bazaar at Constan- 
tinople. The dealers, in every possible costume, sit 
cross-legged on their stalls, and dealers in the same 
article usually congregate together. The ar- 
mourers, the grocers, the pipemakers, the jewellers, 
the shawlsellers, the librarians, all have their dis- 
tinct quarter. Now you walk along a range of 
stalls, filled with the most fanciful slippers, cloth 
and leather of all colours embroidered with gold, or 
powdered with pearls : nov? you are in the street 
of confectionary, and now you are cheapening a 
Damascus sabre in the bazaar of arms, or turning 
over a vividly illuminated copy of Hafiz in that 
last stronghold of Turkish bigotry, tne quarter of 
the venders of the Koran. The magnificence, 
novelty, and variety of goods on sale, the whole 
nation of shopkeepers all in different dress, the 
crowds of buyers from all parts of the world — I 
only hint at these traits. Here every people ha» 



436 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



a characteristic costume ; Turks, Greeks, Jews, and 
Armenians are the staple population, the latter are 
numerous. The Armenians wear round, and very 
ijnbecoming black caps, and flowing robes ; the 
Jews a black hat wreathed with a white handker- 
chief; the Greeks black turbans. The Turks are 
fond of dress, and indulge in all combinations of 
costume. Of late, among the young men in the 
capital, it has been the fashion to discard the huge 
turban, and the ample robes, and they have formed 
an exceedingly ungraceful dress upon the Frank. 
But vast numbers cling to the national costume, 
especially the Asiatics, renowned for the prodigious 
height and multifarious folds of their head-gear. 

XXIV. 

Halil Pasha paid me a visit one day at my 
residence on the Bosphorus, and told me that he 
had mentioned my name to the sultan, who had 
expressed a desire to see me. As it is not etiquette 
for the padishah to receive Franks, I was of course 
as sensible of the high honour as I was anxious to 
become acquainted with the extraordinary man 
who was about to confer it. 

The sultan was at this moment at a palace on 
the Bosphorus, not far from Tophana. Hither on 
the appointed day I repaired with Halil, and the 
drogueman of the Porte. We were ushered into a 
chamber, where a principal officer of the household 
received us, and where I smoked out of a pipe 
tipped with diamonds, and sipped coffee perfumed 
with roses in cups studded with precious stones. 

When we had remained here for about half an 
hour, Mustapha, the private secretary and favourite 
of the sultan, entered, and after saluting us, desired 
us to follow him. We proceeded along a corridor, 
at the end of which stood two or three eunuchs, 
richly dressed, and then the door opened, and I 
found myself in an apartment of moderate size, 
painted with indifl'erent arabesques in fresco, and 
surrounded with a divan of crimson velvet and 
gold. Seated upon this, with his feet on the 
ground, his arms folded, and in a hussar dress, was 
the grand signor. 

As we entered, he slightly touched his heart, ac- 
cording to the fashion of the Orientals, and Musta- 
pha, setting us an example, desired us to seat our- 
selves. I fancied, and I was afterward assured of 
the correctness of my observation, that the sultan 
■was veiy much constrained, and very little at his 
ease. The truth is, he is totally unused to inter- 
views with strangers, and this was for him a more 
novel situation than for me. His constraint wore 
off' as conversation proceeded. He asked a great 
many questions, and often laughed, turning round 
to Mustapha with a familiar nod when my replies 
pleased him. He inquired much about the Alba- 
nian war. Without flattering my late commander, 
it was in my power to do him service. He asked 
me what service I had before seen, and was evidently 
urprised when I informed him I was only an ama- 
teur. He then made many inquiries as to the 
European forces, and, as I answered them, I intro- 
duced some opinions on politics which interested 
him. He asked me who I was. I told liim I was 

the son of the prime minister of , a power 

always friendly to the Ottoman. His eyes sparkled, 
and he repeated several times, " It is well, it is 
well ;" meaning, I suppose, that he did not repent 
of the interview. He told me that m two years' 



time he should have two hundred thousand regular 
infantry. That if the Russian war could have 
been postponed another year, he should have beat 
the Muscovites ; that the object of the war was to 
crush liis schemes of regeneration ; that he was be- 
trayed at Adrianople as well as at Varna. He 
added that he had only done what Peter the Great 
had done before him, and that Peter was thwarted 
by unsuccessful wars, yet at last succeeded. 

I, of course, expressed my conviction that his 
highness would be as fortunate. 

The padishah then abruptly said that all his sub- 
jects should have equal rights, that there should be 
no difterence between Moslemin and infidel, that all 
who contributed to the government had a right to 
the same protection, 

Here Mustapha nodded to Halil, and we rose, 
and bowing, quitted the presence of a really great 
man. 

I found, at the portal, a fine Arabian, two Cache- 
mere shawls, a scarlet cloak of honour, with the 
collar embroidered with gold, and fastened with 
diamond clasps, a sabre, and two superb pipes. 
This was my reward for charging with the Turkish 
cavalry at Bitoglia. 

XXV. 

OxE of the most curious things at Constantino- 
ple is the power you have in the capital of the East 
of placing yourselves in ten minutes in a lively 
Frank town. Such is Pera. I passed there the 
winter months of December and January in very 
agreeable and intelligent society. My health im- 
proved, but my desire of wandering increased. I 
began to think that I should now never be able to 
settle in life. The desire of fame did not revive. 
I felt no intellectual energy, I required nothing 
more than to be amused. And having now passed 
four or Ave months at Stamboul, and seen all its 
wonders, from the interior of its mosques to the 
dancing dervishes, I resolved to proceed. So, one 
cold morning of February, I crossed over to Scutari, 
and pressed my wandering foot upon Asia. 



PART THE SIXTH. 



I. 



I WAS now in the great peninsula of Asia 
Minor, a country admirably fortified by nature, 
abounding in vast, luxuriant, and enchanting plains, 
from which a scanty population derive a difficult 
subsistence, and watered by broad rivers rolling 
through solitude. 

As I journeyed along I could not refrain from 
contrasting the desolation of the present with the 
refinement of the past, and calling up a vision of 
the ancient splendour of this famous country. I 
beheld those glorious Greek-federations that covered 
the provinces of the coast with their rich cultiva- 
tion and brilliapt cities. Who has not heard of the 
green and bland Ionia, and its still more fruitful, 
although less picturesque sister, the rich ^olial 
Who has not heard of the fane of Ephesus, andtho 
Anacreontic Teios ; Chios, with its rosy wine, and 
Cnidos, with its rosy goddess ] Colophon, Priene, 
Phoca;a, Samos, Miletos, the splendid Halicamas- 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



437 



BUS, and the sumptuous Cos — magnificent cities 
abounding in genius and luxury, and all that po- 
lished refinement that ennobles life "? Everywhere 
around these free and famous citizens disseminated 
their liberty and their genius, in the savage Tauris, 
and on the wild shores of Pontus ; on the banks of 
the Borysthenes, and by the waters of the rapid 
'J'yras. The islands in their vicinity shared their 
splendour and their felicity ; the lyric Lesbos, and 
Tenedos with its woods and vines, and those glo- 
rious gardens, the fortunate Cyprus and the prolific 
Rhodes, 

Under the empire of Rome, the peninsula of 
Asia did not enjoy a less eminent prosperity. The 
interior provinces vied in wealth and civilization 
with the ancient colonies of the coast. Then the 
cavalry of Cappadocia and Paphlagonia were fa- 
mous as the Lycian mariners, the soldiers of Pontus, 
and the bowmen of Armenia ; then Galatia sent 
forth her willing and welcome tribute of corn, and 
the fruitful Bithynia rivalled the Pamphylian pas- 
tures, the vines of Phrygia, and the Pisidian olives. 
Tarsus, Ancyra, Sardos, Ca;sarea, Sinope, Amisus, 
were the great and opulent capitals of these flourish- 
ing provinces. Alexandria rose upon the ruins of 
Tyre, and Nicaea and Nicomedia ranked with the 
most celebrated cities. 

And now the tinkhng bell of the armed and 
wandering caravan was the only indication of hu- 
man existence ! 

It is in such scenes as these, amid the ruins of 
ancient splendour, and the recollection of vanished 
empire, that philosophers have pondered on the 
nature of government, and have discovered, as 
they fancied, in the consequences of its various 
fonns, the causes of duration or of decay, of glory 
or of humiliation. Freedom, says the sage, will 
lead to prosperity, and despotism to destruction. 

Yet has this land been regulated by every form 
of government J,hat the ingenuity of man has de- 
vised. The federal republic, the military empire, 
the oriental despotism, have in turn controlled its 
fortunes. The deputies of free states have here 
assembled in some universal temple which was the 
bond of union between their cities ; here has the 
proconsul presided at his high tribunal ; and here 
the pasha reposes in his divan. The Pagan fane, 
and the Christian church, and the Turkish mosque, 
have here alike been erected to form the opinions 
of the people. The legends of Chaos and Olym- 
pus are forgotten, the sites of the Seven Churches 
cannot even be traced, and all that is left are the 
revelations of the son of Kahrida, a volume, the 
whole object of which is to convert man into a 
fanatic slave. 

Is there then no hope ] Is it an irrevocable 
doom, that society shall be created only to be de- 
stroyed ^ When I can accept such a dogma, let me 
also believe that the beneficent Creator is a malig- 
nant demon. Let us meditate more deeply, let us 
at length discover that no society can long subsist 
that is based upon metaphysical absurdities. 

The law that regulates man must be founded on 
a knowledge of his nature, or that law loads him 
to ruin. What is tlie nature of man 1 In every 
clime and in every creed we shall find a new defi- 
nition. 

Before me is a famous treatise on Human Na- 
ture, by a professor of Konigsberg. No one has 
more profoundly meditated on the attributes of his 
subject. It is evident that in the deep study of his I 



own intelligence, he has discovered a noble method 
of expounding that of others. Yet when I close 
his volumes can I conceal from myself that all this 
time I have been studying a treatise upon the na- 
ture — not of man, but — ^bf a German 1 

What then ! Is the German a different animat 
from the Italian 1 Let me inquire in turn whether 
you conceive the negro of the Gold Coast to be the 
same being as the Esquimaux, who tracks his way 
over the polar snows 1 

The most successful legislators are those who 
have consulted the genius of the people. But is it 
possible to render that which is the occasional con- 
sequence of fine observation, the certain result ot 
scientific study 1 

One thing is quite certain, tliat the system we 
have hitherto pursued to attain a knowledge of man 
has entirely failed. Let us disembarrass ourselves 
of that " moral philosophy," which has filled so 
many volumes with words. History will always 
remain a pleasant pastime ; it never could have 
been a profitable study. To study man from the 
past is to suppose, that man is ever the same animal, 
which I do not. Those who speculated on the 
career of Nay)oleon had ever a dog's-eared annalist 
to refer to. The past equally proved that he was 
both a Cromwell and a W^ashington. Prophetic 
past ! He turned out to be the first. But suppose 
he had been neither; suppose he had proved a 
Sylla ] 

Man is an animal, and his nature must be studied 
as that of all other animals. The Almighty Crea- 
tor has breathed his spirit into us, and we testify 
our gratitude for this choice boon by never deigaing 
to consider what may be the nature of our intelli- 
gence. The philosopher, however, amid this dark- 
ness, will not despair. He will look forward to an 
age of rational laws and beneficent education. He 
will remember that all the truth he has attained has 
been by one process. He will also endeavour to 
become acquainted with himself by demonstration, 
and not by dogma. 



II. 



OsTE fair spring mornmg, with a clear blue sky 
and an ardent but not intense sun, I came in sight 
of the whole coast of Syria; very high and moun- 
tainous, and the loftiest ranges covered with snow. 

I had sailed from Smyrna through its lovely gulf, 
vaster and more beautiful than the Ambracian, 
found myself in a new archipelago, the Sporades, 
and having visited Rhodes and Cyprus, engaged, 
at the last island, a pilot, to take us to the most 
convenient Syrian port. 

Syria is, in fact, an immense chain of mountains, 
extending fi-om Asia Minor to Arabia. In the course 
of this great chain, an infinity of branches constantly 
detach themselves from the parent trunk, forming 
on each side, either towards the desert or the sea, 
beautiful and fertile plains. Washed by the Le- 
vantine wave, on one side we behold the once luxu- 
rious Antioch, now a small and dingy Turkish town. 
The traveller can no longer wander in the volup- 
tuous woods of Daphne. The palace and the gar- 
den pass away with the refined genius and the deli- 
cate taste that create them, but nature is eternal, 
and even yet the valley of the Orontes offers, under 
the glowing light of an eastern day, scenes of pic- 
turesque beauty that Switzerland cannot surpass. 
The hills of Laodicea, once famous for their wirje, 
2 o 2 



438 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



are now celebrated for producing the choicest to- 
Ijacco of the East. Tripoli is a flourishing town, 
embosomed in wild groves of Indian figs, and famous 
for its fruits and silks. Advancing along the coast 
we reach the ancient Berytus, whose tobacco vies 
with Laodicea, and whose silk surpasses that of 
Tripoli. We arrive at all that remains of the su- 
perb Tyre ; a small peninsula and a mud village. 
The famous Acre is still the most important place 
upon the coast, and Jaffa, in spite of so many wars, 
is yet fragrant amid its gardens and groves of lemon 
trees. 

The towns on the coast have principally been 
built on the sites and ruins of the ancient cities 
whose names they bear. None of them have suf- 
ficient claims to the character of a capital ; but on 
the other side of the mountains we find two of the 
most important of oriental cities — the populous 
Aleppo and the delicious Damascus ; nor must we 
forget Jerusalem, that city sacred in so many 
creeds ! 

In ancient remains, Syria is only inferior to 
Egypt. All have heard of the courts of Baalbec, 
and the columns of Palmyra. Less known, be- 
cause only recently visited, and visited with ex- 
treme danger, are the vast ruins of magnificent 
cities in the Arabian vicinity of the Lake Asphal- 
tites. 

The climate of this country is as various as its 
formation. In the plains is often experienced that 
intense heat so fatal to the European invader; yet 
the snow that seldom falls upon the level ground, 
or falls only to vanish, rests upon the heights of 
Lebanon, and, in the higher lands, it is not difficult 
at all times to discover exactly the temperature you 
desire. I travelled in Syria at the commencement of 
the year, when the short, but violent rainy season had 
just ceased. It is not easy to conceive a more 
beautiful and fruitful land. The plains were covered 
with that fresh green tint so rare under an Eastern 
sky, the orange and lemon trees were clothed both 
with fruit and blossom, and then too I first beheld 
the huge leaf of the banana, and tasted, for the 
first time, the delicate flavour of its unrivalled fruit. 
From the great extent of the country, and the con- 
sequent variation of clime, the Syrian can always 
command a succession, as well as a variety of lux- 
uries. The season of the pomegranate will com- 
mence in Antioch when it ends in Jaffa, and when 
you have exhausted the figs of Beiroot, you can fly 
to the gardens of Damascus. Under the worst 
government that perhaps<?ver oppressed its subjects, 
Syria still brings forth the choice productions of 
almost every clime; corn and cotton, maize and 
rice, the sugar-cane of the Antilles, and the indigo 
and cochineal of Mexico. The plains of Antioch 
and of Palestine arc covered with woods of the 
finest olives, the tobaccos of the coast are unrivalled 
in any country, and the mountains of Lebanon are 
clothed with white mulberry trees, that afford the 
richest silks, or with vineyards that yield a wine 
that justly bears the name of Golden. 

The inhabitants of this country are various as 
its productions, and its mutable fortunes. The 
Ottoman conqueror is now the lord, and rules the 
posterity of the old Syrian Greeks and of the Arabs, 
who were themselves once predominant. In the 
mountams, the independent and mysterious Druses 
live in freedom under their own emir, and, in the 
langes near Antioch, we find the Ansaree tribes, 
who, it is whispered, yet celebrate the most singu- 



lar rites of paganism. In the deserts around A leppu 
wander the pastoral Kourd and the warlike Turk- 
man, and from Tadmor to Gaza, the whole Syrian 
desert is traversed by the famous Bedouin. 

There is a charm in oriental life, and it is — re- 
pose. Upon me, who had been bred in the artifi- 
cial circles of corrupt civilization, and who had so 
freely indulged the course of my impetuous passions, 
this character made a very forcible impression. 
Wandering over those plains and deserts, and so- 
journing in those silent and beautiful cities, I ex- 
perienced all that serenity of mind which I can 
conceive to be the enviable portion of the old age 
of a virtuous life. The memory of the wearing 
cares, and corroding anxieties, and vaunted excite- 
ment of European life, filled me with pain. Keenly 
I felt the vanity and littleness of all human plans 
and aspirations. Truly may I say, that on the 
{(lains of Syria, I parted forever with my ambition. 
The calm enjoyment of existence appeared to me, 
as it now does, the highest attainable felicity ; nor 
can I conceive that any thing could tempt me 
from my solitude, and induce me once more to 
mingle with mankind, with whom, I fear, I have 
too little in common, but the strong conviction 
that the fortunes of my race depended on my effort, 
or that I could materially advance the great ameli- 
oration of their condition, in the practicability of 
which I devoutly believe. 

III. 

I GALiorEn over an illimitable plain, covered 
with a vivid, though scanty pasture, and fragrant 
with aromatic herbs. A soft, fresh breeze danced 
on my cheek, and brought vigour to my frame. 
Day after day I journeyed, and met no sign of 
human existence, no village, no culture, no resting- 
place, not even a tree. Day after day I journeyed, 
and the land indicated no termination. At an im- 
mense distance, the sky and the earth mingled in 
a uniform horizon. Sometimes, indeed, a rocky 
vein shot out of the soil ; sometimes, indeed, the 
land would swell into long undulations ; sometimes, 
indeed, from a dingle of wild bushes, a gazelle 
would rush forward, stare, and bound away. 

Such was my first wandering in the Syrian 
desert ! But remember it was the burst of spring. 
I could conceive nothing more delightful, nothing 
more unlike what I had anticipated. The heat 
was never intense, the breeze was ever fresh and 
sweet, the nocturnal heavens luminous and clear to 
a degree which it is impossible to describe. Instead 
of that uniform appearance, and monotonous splen- 
dour I had hitherto so often gazed on, the stars 
were of diflerent tints and forms. Some were 
green, some v\'hite, some red ; and, instead of ap- 
pearing as if they only studded a vast and azure 
vault, I clearly distinguished them, at different dis- 
tances, floating in ether. 

I no longer wondered at the love of the Bedouins 
for their free and unsophisticated earth. It ap- 
peared to me, that I could have hvcd in the desert 
forever. At night we rested. Our camels bore 
us water in goat-skins, cakes of fuel, which they 
themselves produced, and scanty, although sufficient, 
provisions. We lit our fire, pounded our coffee, 
and smoked our pipes, while others prepared our 
simple meal, bread made at the instant, and on the 
cinders, a slice of dried meat, and a few dates. 
I have described the least sterile of the deserts, 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



439 



and I have described it at the most favourable 
period. Ill general, the soil of the Syrian wilder- 
ness is not absolutely barren. The rains cover it 
with verdure, but these occur only for a very few 
weeks, when the rigour of a winter day arrests the 
clouds, and they dissolve into showers. At all 
other seasons they glide over the scorched and 
heated plain, which has neither hills nor trees to 
attract them. It is then the want of water wliich is 
the occasion of this sterility. In the desert there is not 
even a brook, springs arc rare, and generally brack- 
ish, and it is on the artificial wells, stored by the 
rains, that the wanderer chiefly depends. 

From the banks of the Euphrates to the shores 
of the Red Sea ; from the banks of the Nile to the 
Persian Gulf, over a spread of country three times 
the extent of Germany, nature, without an interval, 
ceases to produce. Beneficent nature ! Let us 
not wrong her ; for even in a land apparently so 
unfavoured, exists a numerous and happy race. 
As you wander along, the appearance of the desert 
changes. The wilderness, which is comparatively 
fertile in Syria, becomes rocky when you enter 
Arabia, and sandy as you proceed. Here, in some 
degree, we meet with the terrible idea of the desert 
prevalent in Europe; but it is in Africa, in the vast 
and unexplored regions of Lybia and Zahara, that 
we must seek for that illimitalile and stormy ocean 
of overwhelming sand, which we associate with 
the popular idea of the desert. 

The sun was nearly setting when an Arab horse- 
man, armed with his long lance, was suddenly 
observed on an eminence in the distance. He 
galloped towards us, wheeled round and round, 
scudded away, again approached, and our guide, 
shouting, rode forward to meet him. They entered 
into earnest conversation, and then joined us. Abdal- 
lah, the guide, informed me that this was an Arab 
of the tribe I intended to visit, and that we were 
verj' near their encampment. 

The desert was here broken into bushy knolls, 
which limited the view. Advancing and mounting 
the low ridge on which we had at first observed 
the Bedouin, Abdallah pointed out to me, at no 
great distance, a large circle of low black tents, 
which otherwise I might not have observed, or have 
mistaken them in the deceptive twilight for some 
natural formation. On the left of the encampment 
was a small grove of palm trees, and when he had 
nearly gained the settlement, a procession of women 
in long blue robes, covering Vi^ith one hand their 
faces with their veils, and with the other support- 
ing on their heads a tall and classically farmed 
vase, advanced with a beautiful melody, to the 
fountain, which was screened by the palm trees. 

The dogs barked, some dark faces and long 
matchlocks suddenly popped up behind the tents. 
The Bedouin, with a shout, galloped into the en- 
campment, and soon reappeared with several of his 
tribe. We dismounted. I entered into the interior 
court of the camp, which was filled with camels 
and goats. There were few persons visible, although 
as I was conducted along to the tent of the chief, I 
detected many faces staring at me from behind the 
^ curtains of their tents. The pavilion of the sheikh 
was of considerable size. He himself was a man 
advanced in years, but hale and lively ; his long 
white beard curiously contrasting with his dark 
visage. He received me sitting on a mat, his son 
standing on his right hand, without his slippers, 
and a young grandchild squatting by his side. 



He welcomed me with the usual oriental saluta- 
tion, touching his forehead, his mouth, and his 
heart, while he exclaimed, " Salam ;" thus indica- 
ting that all his faculties and feelings were devoted 
to me. He motioned that we should seat ourselves 
on the unoccupied mats, and taking from his mouth 
a small pipe of date wood, gave it to his son to 
bear to me. A servant instantly began pounding 
coffee. I then informed him, through Abdallah, 
that having heard of his hospitality and happy life, 
I had journeyed even from Damascus to visit him ; 
that I greatly admired the Bedouin character, and I 
eulogized their valour, their independence, their 
justice, and their simplicity. 

He answered that he liked to be visited by 
Franks, because they were wise men, and requested 
that I would feel his pulse. 

' I performed this ceremony with becoming gravity, 
and inquired whether he were indisposed. He said 
that he was well, but that he might be better, I 
told him that his pulse was healthy and strong 
for one of his age, and I begtred to examine his 
tongue, which greatly j)leascd him, and he observed 
that he was eighty years of age, and could ride as 
well, and as long as his son. 

Coffee was now brought. I ventured to praise 
it. He said it was well for those who had not wine. 
I observed that wine was not suited to these climes, 
and that although a Frank, I had myself renounced 
it. He answered that the Franks were fond of 
wine, but that for his part he had never tasted it, 
although he should Hke once. 

I regretted tliat I could not avail myself of this 
delicate hint, but Lausanne produced a bottle of 
eau de Cologne, and I offered him a glass. He 
drank it with great gravity, and asked for some for 
his son, observing it was good raid, but not wine. 
I suspected from this that he was not totally unac- 
quainted with the flavour of the forbidden liquor, 
and I dared to remark with a smile that raki had 
one advantage over wine, that it was not forbidden 
by the prophet. Unlike the Turks, who never 
understand a jest, he smiled, and then said that the 
book (meaning the Koran) was good for men who 
lived in cities, but that God was everywhere. 

Several men now entered the tent, leaving their 
slippers on the outside, and some saluting the sheikh 
as they passed, seated themselves. 

I now inquired after horses, and asked him 
whether he could assist me in purchasing some of 
the true breed. The old sheikh's eyes sparkled as 
ho informed me that he possessed four mares of 
pure blood, and that he would not part with one, 
not even for fifty thousand piastres. After this hint 
I was inclined to drop the subject, but the sheikh 
seemed interested by it, and inquired if the Franks 
had any horses 1 

I answered that some Frank nations were famous 
for their horses, and mentioned the English, who 
had bred a superb race from the Arabs. He said 
he had heard of the English, and asked me which 
was the greatest nation of the Franks 1 I told him 
there were several equally powerful, but perhaps 
that the English nation might be fairly described as 
the most important. He answered. " Ay ! on the 
sea, bat not on the land." 

I was surprised by the general knowledge indi- 
cated by this remark, and more so when he further 
observed that there was another nation stronger by 
land. I mentioned the Kussians. He had not 
heard of them, notwithstanding the recent war with 



440 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



the Porte. The French ? I inquired. He knew 
the French, and then told me he had been at the 
iiiiege of Acre, which explained all this inteUigence. 
He then inquired if I were an Englishman ? I told 
him my country, but was not astonished that he 
had never heard of it. I observed that wlien the 
old man spoke, he was watched by his followers 
with the greatest attention, and they grinned with 
pride and exultation at his knowledge of the 
Franks, showing their white teeth, elevating their 
eyes, and exchanging looks of wonder. 

Two women now entered the tent, at which I 
was surprised. They had returned from the foun- 
tian, and wore small black masks, which covered 
the upper part of their face. They knelt down at 
the fire, and made a cake of bread, which one of 
them handed to me. I now offered to the sheikh 
my own pipe, which Lausanne had prepared. 
Coffee was again handed, and a preparation of sour 
milk and rice, not unpalatable. 

I offered the sheikh renewed compliments on his 
mode of life, in order to maintain conversation ; 
for the chief, although like the Arabs in general, 
of a very lively temperament, had little of the cu- 
riosity of what are considered the more civilized 
orientals, and asked very few questions. 

" We are content," said the sheikh. 

" Then, believe me, you are in the condition of 
no other people," I replied. 

" My children," said the sheikh, " hear the words 
of the Vvfise man ! If we lived with the Turks," 
continued the chieftain, " we should have more 
gold and silver, and more clothes, and carpets, and 
baths ; but we should not have justice and liberty. 
Our luxuries are few, but our wants are less." 

" Yet you have neither priests nor lawyers V 

" When men are pure, laws arc useless : when 
men are corrupt, laws are broken." 

" And for priests 1" 

" God is everywhere." 

The women now entered with a more substan- 
tial meal, the hump of a young camel. I have 
seldom eaten any thing more delicate and tender. 
This dish was a great compliment, and coidd only 
have been oflered by a wealthy sheikh. Pipes and 
coffee followed. 

The moon was shining brightly when, making 
mj' excuses, I quitted the pavilion of the chieftain, 
and went forth to view the humours of the camp. 
The tall camels crouching on their knees in groups, 
with their outstretched necks, and still and melan- 
choly visages, might have been mistaken for works 
of art, had it not been forthe process of rumination. 
A crowd was assembled round a fire, before which 
a poet recited impassioned verses. I observed the 
slight forms of the men, short and meager, agile, 
dry, and dark, with teeth dazzling white, and quick, 
black glancing eyes. They were dressed in cloaks 
of coarse black cloth, apparently of the same .stuff 
as their tents, and few o-f them, I should imagine, 
exceeded five feet two or three inches in height. 
The women mingled with the men, although a few 
affected to conceal their faces on my approach. 
They were evidently deeply interested in the poetic 
recital. One passage excited their loud applause. 
1 inquired its purport of Abdallah, who thus trans- 
lated it to me. A lover beholds his mistress, her 
face covered with a red vail. Thus he addresses 
her. 

" O ! withdraw that veil, withdraw that red veil ! 
Let me behold the beauty that it shrouds! Yes ! 



let that rosy twilight fide away, and let the full 
moon rise to my vision !" 

Beautiful ! Yet more beautiful in the language 
of the Arabs, for in that rich tongue there are words 
to describe each species of twilight, and where we 
are obliged to have recourse to an epithet, the 
Arabs reject the feeble and unnecessary aid. 

It was late ere I retired, and I stretched myself on 
my mat, musing over this singular people, who 
combined primitive simplicity of habits W4th the 
most rctined feelings of civihzation, and who in a 
great degree appeared to me to offer an evidence of 
that community of property, and that equality of 
condition, which have hitherto proved the despair 
of European sages, and fed only the visions of 
their fanciful Utopias. 

IV. 

A SmiAN village is very beautiful in the centre 
of a fertile plain. The houses are isolated, and each 
surrounded by palm trees ; the meadows divided 
by rich plantations of Indian fig, and bounded by 
groves of olive. 

In the distance rose a chain of severe and savage 
mountains. I was soon wandering, and for hours, 
in the wild, stony ravines of these shaggy rocks. 
At length, after several paces, I gained the ascent 
of a high mountain. Upon an opposite height, 
descending as a steep ravine, and forming with the 
elevation on which I rested, a dark and narrow 
gorge, I behold a city entirely surrounded, by what 
I should have considered in Europe an old feudal 
wall, with towers and gates. The city was built 
upon an ascent, and, from the height on which I 
stood, I could discern the ten-ace and the cupola of 
almost every house, and the wall upon the other 
side rising from the plain; the ravine extending 
only on the side to which I was opposite. The city 
was in a bowl of mountains. In the front was a 
magnificent mosque, with beautiful gardens and 
many light and lofty gates of triumph ; a variety 
of domes and towers rose in all directions from the 
buildings of bright stone. 

Nothing could be conceived more wild, and ter- 
rible, and desolate than the surrounding scenery, 
more dark, and stony, and severe ; b\it the ground 
was thrown about in such picturesque undulations, 
that the mind, full of the sublime, required not the 
beautiful ; and rich, and waving woods, and sparkling 
cultivation would have been misplaced. Except 
Athens, I had never witnessed any scene more 
essentially impressive. I will not place this spec- 
tacle below the city of Minerva. Athens and the 
holy city in their glory must have been the finest 
representations of the beautiful and the sublime — 
the holy city, for the elevation on which I stood 
was the Mount of Olives, and the city on which I 
gazed was Jkuusalem ! 

V. 

TuR dark gorse beneath mc was the vale of 
Jehoshai)hat ; farther on, was the fountain of Siloah. 
I entered by the gate of Bethlehem, and sought 
hospitality at the Latin convent of Terra Santa. 

Easter was approaching, and the city was 
"crowded with pilgrims. I had met many caravans 
in my progress. The convents of Jerusalem are 
remarkable. That of the Armenian Christians, at 
this time, afforded accommodation for four thousand 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



441 



pilgrims. Itis a town of itself, and possesses within 
its walls streets and shops. The Greek convent 
held perhaps half as many. And the famous Latin 
convent of Terra Santa, endowed hy all the mo- 
narchs of Catholic Christendom, could boast only 
of one pilgrim — myself! The Europeans have 
ceased to visit the holy sepulchre. 

As for the interior of Jerusalem, it is hilly and 
clean. The houses are of stone, and well built, 
but, like all Asiatic mansions, they offer nothing to 
the eye but blank walls and dull portals. The 
mosque I had admired was the famous Mosque of 
Omar, built upon the supposed site of the temple. 
It is perhaps the most beautiful of Mohammedan tem- 
ples ; but the Frank, even in the Eastern dress, will 
enter it at the risk of his life. The Turks of Syria 
have not been contaminated by the heresies of their 
enlightened sultan. In Damascus, it is impossible 
to appear in the Frank dress without being pelted ; 
and although they would condescend, perhaps, at 
Jerusalem, to permit an infidel dog to wallc about 
in his national dress, he would not escape many a 
curse, and many a scornful expression of" Giaour!" 
There is only one way to travel in the East with 
ease, and that is with an. appearance of pomp. 
The Turks are much influenced by the exterior, 
and although they are not mercenary, a well- 
dressed and well-attended infidel will command 
respect. 



VI. 



The church of the Holy Sepulchre is nearly in 
the middle of the city, and professedly built upon 
Mount Calvary, which it is alleged was levelled for 
the structure. Within its walls they have contrived 
to assemble the scenes of a vast number of incidents 
in the life of the Saviour, with a highly romantic 
violation of the unity of the place. Here the sa- 
cred feet were anointed, there the sacred garments 
parcelled, from the pillar of the scourging to the 
rent of the rock, all is exhibited in a succession of 
magical scenes. The truth is, the whole is an in- 
genious imposture of a comparatively recent date, 
and we are indebted to that favoured individual, 
the Empress Helen, for this exceedingly clever 
creation, as well as for the discovery of the true' 
cross. The learned believe, and with reason, that 
Calvaiy is at present, as formerly, without the walls, 
and that we must seek for this celebrated elevation 
in the lofty hill now called Sion. 

The church is a spacious building, surrounded 
by a dome. Attached to it are the particular 
churches of the various Christian sects, and many 
chapels and sanctuaries. Mass in some part or 
other is constantly celebrating, and companies of 
pilgrims may be observed in all directions visiting 
the holy places, and offering their devotions. Latin, 
and Armenian, and Greek friars ai-e everywhere 
moving about. The court is crowded with the 
venders of relics and rosaries. The church of the 
Sepulchre itself is a point of common union, and in ' 
its bustle and lounging character, rather reminded 
me of an exchange than a temple. 

One day as I was pacing up and down this cele- 
brated building, in conversation with a very inge- 
nious Neapolitan friar, experienced in the East, my 
attention was attracted by one who, from his 
sumptuous dress, his imposing deuieanour, self- 
satisfied air, and the coolness with which, in a 
Christian temple, he waved in his hand a rosary 
56 



of Mecca, I for a moment considered a Moslemin. 
" Is it customary for the Turks to visit this place 1" 
I inquired, drawing the attention of my companion 
to the stranger. 

" The stranger is not a Turk," answered the 
friar, " though I fear I cannot call him a Christian. 
It is Marigny, a French traveller. Do yon not 
know him 1 I will introduce you. He is a man 
of distinguished science, and has resided some 
months in this city, studying Arabic." 

We approached him, and the friar made us ac- 
quainted. 

" Salem Aleikoum ! Count. Here at least is no 
Inquisition. Let us enjoy ourselves. How mor- 
tifying, my good brother Antony, that you cannot 
burn me !" 

The friar smiled, and was evidently used to this 
raillery. 

" I hope yet to behold the Kaaba,'' said Marigny, 
" it is at least more genuine than any thing we here 
see." 

" Truth is not truth to the false," said Brolhei 
Antony. 

" What, you reason !" exclaimed Marigny 
" Stick to faith and infallibility, my good friend 
Antonio. I have just been viewing the rent in tho 
rock. It is a pity, holy father, that I have discov 
ered that it is against the grain." 

" The greater the miracle," said the friar. 

" Bravo ! you deserve to be a bishop." 

" The church has no fear of just reasoners," ob- 
served Brother Antony. 

" And is confuted, I suppose, only by the unjust," 
rejoined Marigny, 

" Man without religion is a wild beast," remarked 
the friar. 

" Which religion 1" inquired Marigny. 

" There is only one true religion," said Brother 
Antony. 

" Exactly ; and in this country. Master Antony 
remember you are an infidel." 

" And you, they say, are a Moslemin." 

" They say wrong. I believe in no human reve- 
lation, because it obtrudes the mind of another 
man into my body, and nuist destroy morality, 
which can only be discovered by my own intelli- 
gence." 

" All is divine revelation," said a stranger who 
joined us. 

" Ah ! Werner," said Marigny, " you see we are 
at our old contests," 

" All is divine revelation," repeated Werner, 
" for all comes from God." 

" But what do you mean by God !" 

" I mean the great luminous principle of exist- 
ence, the first Almighty Cause from whom we are 
emanations, and in whose essence we shall again 
mingle." 

" I asked for bread and you give me a stone. I 
asked for a fact, and you give me a word, I cannot 
annex an idea to what you say. Until my Creator 
gift me with an intelligence that can comprehend 
the idea of his existence, I must conclude that he 
does not desire that I should busy myself about it." 

"That idea is implanted in our breasts," said 
Werner. 

" Innate !" exclaimed Marigny, with a sneer. 

"And wh}' not innate?" replied Werner, so- 
lemnly. " Is it impossible for the Great Being who 
created us, to create us with a sense of his ex 
istence!" 



442 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Listen to these philosopliers," said Brother 
Antony ; " I never heard two of them agree. I 
must £^0 to mass." 

" Mr. Werner and myself, count," said Marigny, 
" are about to smoke a pipe with Besso, a rich He- 
brew merchant here. He is one of the finest- 
hearted fellows in the world, and generous as he is 
rich. Will you accompany us ? You will greatly 
honour him, and find in liis divan some intelligent 
Bociety." 

VII. 

Marigxy was a skeptic, and an absolute ma- 
terialist, yet he was influenced by noble views, for 
he had devoted his life to science, and was now, at 
his own charge, about to penetrate into the interior 
of Africa, by Sennaar. Werner was a German 
divine, and a rationalist, tauntingly described by 
his companion as a devout Christian, who did not 
believe in Christianity. Yet he had resided in 
Palestine and Egypt nearly four years, studying 
their language and customs, and accumulating ma- 
terials for a history of the miraculous creed whose 
miracles he explained. Both were men of reniarka- 
ble intellectual powers, and the ablest champions of 
their respective systems. 

I accompanied these new acquaintances to the 
houseof Besso,and was most hospitably received and 
sumptuously entertained. I have seldom met a 
man with more easy manners and a more gracious 
carriage than Besso, who, although sincere in his 
creed, was the least bigoted of his tribe. He intro- 
duced us to his visiter, his friend, and correspondent. 
Sheriff Efiimdi, an Egyptian merchant, and who 
fortunately spoke the lingua Franca with facility. 
The tither guest was an Englishman, by name Ben- 
son, a missionary, and a very learned, pious, and 
acute man. 

Such was the party in- whose society I generally 
spent a portion of my day during my residence at 
Jerusalem, and I have often thought, that were the 
conversations to which I have there listened re- 
corded, a volume might be sent forth of more wit 
and wisdom than are now usually met with. The 
tone of discussion was, in general, metaphysical 
and scientific, varied with speculations princi- 
pally on African travel, a subject with which She- 
riff Effendi was well acquainted. In metaphysics, 
sliarp were the contests between Benson, Marigny, 
and Werner, and on all sides ably maintained. I 
fctcned to them with great interest. Besso smiled, 
and Sheriir Effendi shrugged his shoulders. 

Understanding this mild and intelligent Mos- 
lemin wasin afewdays about to join the caravan'tover 
the desert through CJaza to Egypt, I resolved to ac- 
company him. I remember well that on the eve 
of our departure, one of those metaphysical discus- 
sions arose in which Marigny delighted. When it 
terminated, he proposed, that as our agreeable as- 
sembly was soon about to disperse, each of us 
should inscribe, on a panel of the wall, some sen- 
tence as a memorial of his sojourn. 

Benson wrote first, " For as in Adam all^ die, 
so in Christ all men sliall be made alive" 

Werner wrote, " Glory to Christ ! The super- 
natural has destroyed the natural^ 

]\Iarigny wrote, " Knowledge is human." 

Besso wrote, " / tuill not believe in those ivho 
must believe in me." 

Sheriff Effendi wrote, " God is great, Ma?i 
should fjc charitable" 



Contarini Fleming wrote, " Time." 
These are the words that were written in the 
house of Besso, the Hebrew, residing at Jerusalem, 
near the gate of Sion. Amen ! Travel teaches 
toleration 

VIII. 

PEncHANCE, while I am writing these pages, 
some sage may be reading, in the once mysterious 
inscriptions of the most ancient of people, some 
secret which may change the foundations of human 
knowledge. Already the cluonology of the world 
assumes a new aspect, already in the now intelli- 
gible theology of Egypt, we have discovered the 
origin of Grecian polytheism, already we have 
penetrated beyond the delusive veil of Ptolema'c 
transmutation : Isis has yielded to x^thor, and Osiris 
to Knepth. The scholar discards the Grecian 
nomenclature of Sesostris and Meumon. In the 
temples of Carhac, he discovers the conquests of 
Ramcses, and in the palaces of Medinet Abou, the 
refined civilization of Amenoph. 

Singular fate of modern ages, that beneficent 
Omnipotence has willed, that for all our knowledge, 
we should be indebted to the most insignificant of 
ancient states. Our divine instruction is handed 
down to us by an Arabian tribe, and our profane 
learning flows only from the clans of the JEgean ! 

Where are the records of the great Assyrian 
monarchy? Where are the books of the Medes 
and Persians 1 Where the learned annals of the 
Pharaohs 1 

Fortunate Jordan ! Fortunate Ilissus ! I have 
waded through the sacred waters ; with difficulty, 
I traced the scanty windings of the classic stream. 
Alas ! for the exuberant Tigris ; alas ! for the 
mighty Euphrates; alas I for the mysterious Nile! 

A river is suddenly found flowing through the 
wilderness ; its source is unknown. On one side 
are interminable wastOs of sand ; on the other a 
rocky desert and a narrow sea. Thus it rolls on 
for five hundred miles, throwing up on each side, 
to the extent of al)out three leagues, a soil fertile as 
a garden. Within a hundred and fifty miles of the 
sea it divides into two branches, which wind 
through an immense plain, once the granary of the 
world. Such is Egypt ! 

From the cataracts of Nubia to the gardens of 
the Delta, in a course of twelve hundred miles, the 
banks of the Nile are covered at slight intervals 
with temples and catacombs, pyramids and painted 
chambers. The rock temples of Ipsambol, guarded 
by colossal forms, are within the roar of the second 
cataract: avenues of sphinxes lead to Derr, the 
chief town of Nubia : from Derr to the first cata- 
ract,' the Egyptian boundary, a scries of rock 
temples conduct to the beautiful and sacred build- 
ings of Philnc : Edfou and Esneh are a fine prepa- 
ration for the colossal splendour and the massy 
grace of ancient Thebes. 

Even after the inexhaustible curiosity and varied 
magnificence of this unrivalled record of ancient 
art, the beautiful Dendera, consummate blending 
of Egyptian imagination and Grecian taste, will 
command your enthusiastic gaze ; and if the cata 
combs of Siout, and the chambers of Benihassan 
prove less fruitful of interest after the tombs of the 
kings, and the cemeteries of Goruou, before you 
arc the obelisks of Memphis, and the pyramids of 
Gizch, Saccarah, and Dashour ! 



CONTARINl FLEMING. 



443 



IX. 

TuE traveller who crosses the desert, and views 
the Xilc with its lively villages, clustered in groves 
of palm, and its banks entirely lined with that 
graceful tree, will bless with sincerity "The Father 
of Waters." 'Tis a rich land, and indeed flowing 
with milk and honey. The Deha, in its general 
appearance, somewhat reminded me of Belgium. 
The soil everywhere is a rich black mud, without a 
single stone. The land is so uniformly flat, that 
those who arrive by sea do not detect it until within 
half a dozen miles, when a palm tree creeps upon 
tlie horizon, and then you observe the line of land 
that supports it. The Delta is intersected by canals 
which are filled with the rising Nile. It is by their 
medium, and not by the absolute overflowing of 
tlie river, that the country is periodically deluged. 

The Arabs are gay, witty, vivacious, and very 
susceptible and acute. It is difficult to render them 
miserable, and a beneficent government might find 
in them the most valuable subjects. A delightful 
climate is some compensation for a grinding 
tyranny. Every night as they row along the 
moonlit river, the boatmen join in a melodious 
chorus, shouts of merriment burst from each illu- 
mined village, ever3'vvhere are heard the sounds 
of laughter and of music, and wherever you stop 
you are saluted by the dancing girls. These are 
always graceful in their craft ; sometimes very 
agreeable in their persons. They are gayly, even 
richly dressed : in bright colours, with their hair 
braided with pearls, and their necks and foreheads 
adorned with strings of gold coin. In their volup- 
tuous dance we at once detect the origin of the 
boleros, and fandangos, and castanets of Spain. 

I admire very much the Arab women. They 
are very delicately moulded. Never have I seen 
such twinkling feet, and such small hands. Their 
complexion is clear, and not dark ; their features 
beautifully formed, and sharply defined ; their eyes 
liquid with passion, and bright with intelligence. 
The traveller is delighted to find himself in an 
oriental country where the women are not im- 
prisoned, and scarcely veiled. For a long time I 
could not detect the reason why I was so charmed 
with Egyptian life. At last I recollected that I 
had recurred, after a long estrangement, to tlie 
cheerful influence of women. 



I FOLLOWED the course of the Nile far into 
Nubia, and did not stop until I was under the 
tropic of Cancer. Shortly after quitting Eg3'pt 
the landscape changes. It is perfectly African ; 
' mountains of burning sand, vegetation unnaturally 
vivid, groves of cocoa trees, groups of crocodiles, 
and an ebony population in a state of nudity, armed 
with spears of reeds, and shields of the hippopo- 
tamus and the giraffe. 

The voyage back was tedious, and I was glad, 
after so much wandering, to settle down in Cairo. 

XI. 

C.vino is situated on the base of considerable 
hills, whose origin cannot be accounted for, but 
which are undoubtedly artificial. They are formed 
by the ruins and the rubbish of long centuries. 
When I witness these extraordinary formations. 



which are not uncommon in the neighbourhood of 
eastern cities, I am impressed with the idea of the 
immense antiquity of oriental society. 

There is a charm about Cairo, and it is this, — 
that it is a capital in a desert. In one moment you 
are in the stream of existence, and in the other in 
boundless solitude, or, which is still more awful, 
the silence of tombs. I speak of the sepulchre 
of the Mamlouk sultans without the city. Thej 
form what may indeed be styled a city of the dead 
an immense necropolis, full of exquisite buildings, 
domes covered with fret-work, and minarets carved 
and moulded with rich and elegant fancy. To 
me, they proved much more interesting than the 
far-famed pyramids, although their cones in a 
distance are indeed sublime, — their gray cones 
soaring in the light blue sky. 

The genius that has raised the tombs of the sul- 
tans, may also be traced in many of the mosques 
of the city — splendid specimens of Saracenic ar- 
chitecture. In gazing upon these brilliant creations, 
and also upon those of ancient Egypt, I have often 
been struck by t^ felicitous' sj'stem which they 
display, of ever forming the external ornaments by 
inscriptions. How far excelling the Grecian and 
Gothic method ! Instead of a cornice of flowers, 
or an entablature of unmeaning fancy, how supe- 
rior to be reminded of the power of the Creator, or 
the necessity of government, the deeds of conquer- 
ors, or the discoveries of arts I 

XII. 

It was in these solitary rides in the Desert of 
Cairo, and in these lone wanderings amid the 
tombs of the sultans, that I first again felt the 
desire of composition. My rnind appeared sud- 
denly to have returned. I became restless, dis- 
quieted. I found myself perpetually indulging in 
audible soliloquy, and pouring forth impassioned 
monologues. I was pleased with the system of 
oriental life, and the liberty in which in Egypt 
Franks can indulge. I felt no inclination to return 
to Europe, and I determined to cast my lot in this 
pleasant and fruitful land. I had already spent in 
Cairo several months, and I now resolved to make 
it my permanent residence, when I received strange 
letters from my father. I style them strange, for 
there breathed throughout a tone of melancholy 
which with him was quite unusual, and which 
perplexed me. He complained of ill-health, and 
expressed a hope that my wanderings were draw- 
ing to a close, and that we might again meet. I 
had been nearly six years absent. Was it pos- 
sible "? Was it indeed six years since I stood upon 
Mount Jura 1 And yet in that time how much 
had happened ! How much had I seen, and felt, 
and learned ! What violent passions, what strange 
countries, what lively action, and what long medi- 
tation ! 

Strange as may have appeared my conduct to 
my father, I loved him devotedly. An indication of 
sentiment on his part ever called forth all my latent 
affection. It was the conviction from which I 
could never divest myself, that he was one who 
could spare no portion of his sense for the softer 
feelings, and that his conduct to me was rather in 
accordance with the system of society than insti- 
gated by what I should consider the feelings of a 
father — it was this conviction that had alone per- 
mitted me £0 lo.ig to estrange myself from hia 



444 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



hearth. But now he called me back, and almost 
m sorrow. I read his letter over and over again, 
dwelt on all its affection, and on all its suppressed 
^ief. I felt an irresistible desire to hasten to him 
without a moment's delay. I longed to receive his 
blessing and his embrace. 

I quitted Cairo. The Mahmadie canal was not 
yet open. I was obliged, therefore, to sail to Eo- 
setto. Thence I crossed the desert in a constant 
mirage, and arrived at the famous Alexandria. In 
this busy port I was not long in finding a ship. 
One was about to sail for Ancona. I engaged a 
passage, and soon the palms and sands of Egypt 
vanished from my sight. 

XIII. 

Our passage was tedious. The captain was 
afraid of pirates, and, alarmed in the night, sud- 
denly changed his course, and made for the Bar- 
bary coast, by which we lost our wind. We were 
becalmed off Candia. I once more beheld Mount 
Ida. ^ 

I induced the captain to run mto port. I landed 
once more on that fatal coast. The old consul and 
his family were still there, and received me with a 
kindness which reminded me of our first happy 
meeting. I slept in the same chamber. I woke 
in the morning — the sun was still shining, the 
bright plants still quivering in its beams. But the 
gazelle had gone — the white gazelle had died. 
And my gazelle — where was she? 

I beheld our home — our once happy home. 
Spiro only was with me, and his family came forth 
with joy to greet him. I left them. I hastened 
with tremulous steps to the happy valley. I passed 
by the grove of orange trees. My strength de- 
serted me. I leaned, nearly fainting, against a 
tree. At last, I dared to advance a step, and look 
forward. 

I beheld it. Yes I I beheld it, green and ver- 
dant, and covered with white roses, but I dared not 
approach. I wafted it a kiss and a blessing, and 
rushed like a madman to the shore. 

At Ancona, I entered the lazaretto to perform a 
long quarantine. I instantly wrote to my father, 
and I despatched a courier to my banker at Flo- 
rence. I received from him, in a few days, a 
packet. I opened it with a sad foreboding. A 
letter in my father's handwriting reassured me. 
I tore it open — I read. 

XIV. 

" My beloved Contarini, the hand of death is 
upon me. Each day my energies decrease. I can 
conceal from others, but not from myself, my gra- 
dual, but certain decay. We shall not meet again, 
my child — I have a deep conviction we shall not 
meet again. Yet I would not die without express- 
ing to you my love, without yielding to feelings 
which I have too long suppressed. 

" Child of my aliections ! receive my blessing. 
Offspring of my young passion ! let me press you, 
in imagination, to my lone bosom ! 

" Ah ! why arc you not with me 1 why is not 
my hand in yours 1 There is much to say — more, 
more than I can ever express — j'ct, I must write, 
for I would not die without my son doing justice 
to his father. 

" As a child, you doubted my love — as a man, 



in spite of all your struggles, I am conscious you 
never divested yourself of the agonizing idea. O . 
my Contarini, what is this life, this life of error, 
and misconception, and wo ! 

" My feeble pen trembles in my hand. Ther» 
is much, there is nmch to write, much, alas ! that 
never can be written. Why are we parted 1 

" You think me cold — you think mc callous — 
you think me a hollow-hearted worldling. ! my 
Contarini, recall the doulit and misery of youi 
early years, and all your wild thoughts, and dark 
misgivings, and vain efforts — recall all these, and 
behold the boyhood of your father ! 

" I, too, believed myself a poet — I, too, aspired to 
emancipate my kind — I, too, looked forward to a 
glorious future, and the dazzling vista of eternal fame. 
The passions of my heart were not less violent than 
yours, and Tiot less ardent was my impetuous love. 

" Wo ! wo ! the father and the son have been 
alike stricken. I know all, my Contarini — I know 
all, my sweet, sweet child. I would have saved 
you from the bitter lot — I alone would have borne 
the deep despair. 

" Was she fair, my Contarini 1 Was she beau- 
tiful ] Alas ! there was once one as bright and as 
glorious — you knew not your mother. 

" I can remember the day but as yesterday when 
I first gazed upon the liquid darkness of her eye. 
It was at that fatal city I will not name — horrible 
Venice ! 

" I found her surrounded by a thousand slaves 
— I won her from amid this band — against the ef- 
forts and opposition of all her family, I v^'on her. 
Yes ! she was my bride — the beautiful daughter 
of this romantic land — a land to which I was de- 
voted, and for which I would have perilled my 
life. Alas! I perilled my love ! My imagination 
was fired by that wondrous and witching city. 
My love of freedom, my hatred of oppression, 
burned each day with a brighter and more vehe- 
ment flame. I sighed over its past glory and pre- 
sent degradation, aind when I mingled my blood 
with the veins of Contarini, I vowed I would re- 
vive the glory they had themselves created. 

" Venice was at that time under the yoke of the 
French. The recollection of the republic was still 
fresh in men's minds ; the son of the last doge was 
my relative and my friend. Unhappy Pasgualigo ! 
thy memory demands a tear. 

" We conspired. Even now my blood seems to 
flow with renewed force, when I recall the excite- 
ment of our secret meetings in the old Palazzo 
Contarini, on the Grand Lagune. How often has 
daylight on the waters reminded us of our long 
counsels ! 

" We were betrayed. Timely information per- 
mitted me to escape. I bore away my wife. We ■ 
reached Mantua in safety. Perhaps it was the 
agitation of the event and the flight — since the tra- 
gedy of Candia, I have sometimes thought it might 
have been a constitutional doom. But that fatal 
night — why, why recall it 1 We have both alike 
suHered. No, no, not alike — for I had my child. 

'• My child, my darling child, even now your 
recollection maintains me, even now my cheek 
warms as I repose upon the anticipation of your 
glory. 

" I will not dwell upon what I now endured. 
Alas ! I cannot leave it to your imagination. Your 
reality has taught you all. I roved a madman amid 
the mountains of the 'I'yrol. But you were with 



CONTARINI FLEMING. 



445 



me, my chiUl, you were with me, and I looked 
upon your mild and pensive eyes, and the wildness 
of my thoughts died away. 

"I recurred to those hopes of poetic fame which 
had soothed the dull wretchedness of my boyhood. 
A las ! no flame from heaven descended on my 
lyre. I experienced only mortification, and so 
complete was my wretchedness, so desolate my life, 
so void of hope and cheerfulness, and even the 
prospect of that common ease that the merest ani- 
mals requiro, that had it not been for you, I would 
have freed myself from the indescribable burthen 
of my existence. My hereditary estates were con- 
fiscated ; my friends, like myself, were in exile. 
We were, in fact, destitute, and I had lost all con- 
fidence in my energies. 

Thus wo-begone, I entered Vienna, where, for- 
tunately, I found a friend. Mingling in the artifi- 
cial society of that refined city, those excited feel- 
ings, fed by my strange adventures and solitary 
life, subsided. I began to lose what was peculiar 
in me, and share much that was general. Worldly 
feelings sprang up. Some success brought back 
my confidence. I believed that I was not destitute 
of power, but had only mistaken its nature. It was 
a political age. A great theatre seemed before me. 
I had ever been ambitious. I directed my desires 
in a new channel, and I determined to be a states- 
man. 

" I had attracted the attention of the Austrian 
minister. I became his secretary. You know the 
rest. 

" I resolved that my child should be happy. I 
desired to save him from the misery that clouded 
my own youth. I would have preserved him from 
the tyranny of impetuous passions, and the har- 
rowing wo that awaits an ill-regulated mind. I 
observed in him a dangerous susceptibility that 
alarmed me. I studied to prevent the indulgence 
of his feelings. I was kind, but I was calm. H?s 
imaginative temperament did not escape me. I 
perceived only hereditary weakness, and would 
have prevented hereditary wo. It was my aim to 
make him a practical man, O ! Contarini, it was 
the anxiety of affection that prevented me from 
doing justice to your genius. 

" My son, my child, my only beloved, could I but 
once press you in my arms, I should die happy. 
And even now the future supports me, and I feel 
the glory of your coming fame irradiating my 
tomb. 

" Why, why cannot we meet 1 I could say so 
much, although I would say only I loved you. 
The pen falls from my hand, the feeble pen, that 
has signified nothing. Imagine what I would ex- 
press, my Contarini — love me, love me. Cherish 
my memory while you receive my blessing." 

" Let me fly, let me fly to him instantly !" was 
my exclamation. I felt the horrors of my impri- 
sonment. I wrung my hands, and stamped from 
helplessness. There was a packet. I opened it — 
a lock of rich, dark hair, whose colour was not 
strange to me, and a beautiful miniature, that 
seemed a portrait of my beloved, yet I gazed upon 
the countenance of my mother. 

XV. 

There was yet a letter from my banker, which 
I long neglected to open. I opened it at last, and 
learned the death of my remaining parent. 



The age of tears was past. That relief was de- 
nied me. I looked up to heaven in despair. I 
flew to a darkened chamber. I buried my face in 
my hands, and, lone and speechless, I delivered 
myself up for days to the silent agony of the past. 



PART THE SEVENTH. 



I LEANED against a column of the temple of 
Castor. On one side was the palace of the 
CfBsars ; on the other, the colossal amphitheatre 
of Vespasian. Arches of triumph, the pillars of 
Pagan temples, and the domes of Christian 
churches, rose around me. In the distance was the 
wide Campagna, the Claudian Aqueduct, and the 
Alban Mount. 

Solitude and silence reigned on that sacred road 
once echoing with the shouts and chariots of three 
hundred triumphs — solitude and silence, meet com- 
panions of imperial desolation ! Where are the 
spoils of Egypt and of Carthage 1 Where the 
golden tribute of Iberia 1 Where the long Gallic 
trophies ? Where are the rich armour and massy 
cups of Macedon ? Where are the pictures and 
statues of Corinth ? Where the libraries of 
Athens 1 Where is the broken bow of Parthia 1 
Where the elephants of Pontus, and the gorgeous 
diadems of the Asian kings 1 

And where is Rome! All nations rose and 
flourished only to swell her splendour, and now I 
stan(? amid her ruins. 

In such a scene, what are our private griefs and 
petty sorrows? And what is manl I felt my 
nothingness. Life seemed flat, and dull, and tri- 
fling. I could not conceive that I could again be- 
come interested in its base pursuits. I believed 
that I could no longer be influenced by joy or by 
sorrow. Indifference alone remained. 

A man clambered down the steep of the Palatine. 
It was Winter, flushed and eager from a recent 
excavation. 

" What, count," he exclaimed, "moralizing in 
the forum !" 

" Alas ! Winter, what is life 1" 

" An excellent thing, as long as one can discover 
as pretty a Torso as I have stumbled upon this 
morning." 

" A Torso ! a maimed memorial of the past. The 
very name is melancholy." 

" What is the past to me 1 I am not dead. You 
may be. I exist in the present." 

" The vanity of the present overpowers me." 

" Pooh ! I will tell you what, my friend, the 
period has arrived in your life when you must re- 
nounce meditation. Action is now your part. 
Meditation is culture. It is well to think until a 
man have discovered his genius, and developed his 
faculties, but then let him put his intelligence in 
motion. Act, act, act; act without ceasing, and 
you will no longer talk of the vanity of life." 

" But how am I to actl" 

" Create. Man is made to create, from tlie poet 
to the potter." 

II. 

My father bequeathed me his entire property 
which was more considerable than I had imagined, 
2P 



446 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



the countess and her children being amply provided 
for by her own estate. In addition to this, I found 
that he had c!aimf>d in my favour the Contarini 
estates, to which, independent of the validity of my 
marriasje, I was entitled through my mother. After 
much liti2:ation, tlie question had been dccidwl in 
my behalf a few months before my return to Italy. 
[ found myself, therefore, unexpectedly, a very rich 
man. I wrote to the countess, and received from 
iier a very affectionate reply ; nor should I omit 
that t wa^5 iionoured by an autograph letter of con- 
dolence from the king, and an invitation to re-enter 
his service. 

As I was now wearied with wandering, and desi- 
rous of settling down in life, and as I had been 
deprived of those affections which render home 
delightful, I determined to find, in the creations of 
art, some consolation and some substitute for that 
domestic bliss, which I value above all other bles- 
smgs. I resolved to create a paradise. 

I purchased a large estate in the vicinity of Na- 
ples, with a palace and beautiful gardens. I called 
in the assistance of the first artists in the country, 
and I availed myself, above all, of the fine taste of 
my friend Winter. The palace was a Palladian 
pile, built upon a stately terrace covered with orange 
and citron trees, and to which you ascended by 
broad Hights of marble steps. The formation of the 
surrounding country was highly picturesque ; hills 
beautifully peaked or undulating, richly v^'ooded, 
covered with the cypress and the ilex, and crowned 
with the stone pine. Occasionally you caught a 
glimpse of the Wue sea and the brilliant coast. 

Upon the terrace, on each side of the poi^al, I 
have placed a collossal sphinx, which were excava- 
ted when I was at Thebes, and which I was fortu- 
nate enough to purchase. They are of cream- 
coloured granite, and as fresh ancj sharp as if they 
were finished yesterday. There is a soft majesty 
and a serene beauty in the countenances, which are 
very remarkable. 

It is my intention to build in these beautiful do- 
mains a Saracenic palace, which my oriental col- 
lections will befit, but which I hope also to fill with 
the masterpieces of Christian art. At present, in 
a galler}', I have placed some fine specimens of the 
Venetian, Roman, and Eclectic schools, and have 
ranged between them copies in marble, by Bertolini, 
of the most celebrated ancient statues. In one 
cabinet by itself is the gem of my collection, a 
Magdalen, by Murillo, and in another, a sleeping 
Cupid, by Canova, over which I have contrived by 
a secret light to throw a rosy flush, that invests the 
iileal beauty of the sculptor with still more ideal 
life. At the end of the gallery I have placed the 
portraits of my father and of my mother; the latter 
copied by an excellent artist from the miniature. 
Between them is a frame of richly carved ivory, 



enclosing a black velvet veil, studded with wliito 
roses, worked in pearls. 

Around me, I hope in time to create a sceno 
which may rival in beauty and variety, although 
not in extent, the villa of Hadrian, whom I have 
always cons-idered the most sumptuous and accom- 
plished character of antiquity. I have already com- 
menced the foundation of a tower which shall rise 
at least one hundred and fifty feet, and which I 
trust will e(iual in the beauty of design, and the 
solidity of the masonry, the most celebrated works 
of antiquity. This tower I shall dedicate to the 
future, and I intend that it shall be my tomb. 

Lausanne has married, and v^'ill never quit me. 
He has promised also to form a band of wind in- 
struments, a solace necessary to solitude. Winter 
is my ordy friend and my only visiter. He is a 
great deal with me, and has a studio in the palace. 
He is so independent, that he often arrives and 
quits it without my knowledge ; yet I never con- 
verse with him without pleasure. 

Here let me pass my life in the study and the 
creation of the beautiful. Such is my desire ; but 
whether it will be my career is, I feel, doubtful. 
My interest in the happiness of my race is too keen 
to permit me for a moment to be blind to the storms 
that lower on the horizon of society. Perchance 
also the political legeneration of the countiy to 
which I am devoted may not be distant, and in that 
great work I am resolved to participate. Bitter 
jest, that the most civilized portion of the globe 
should be considered mcapable of scll-govenuiient ! 

When I examine the state of the European so- 
ciety with the unimpassioned spirit which the phi- 
losopher can alone command, I perceive that it is 
in a state of transition — a state of transition fron} 
feudal to federal principles. This I conceive to be 
the sole and secret cause of all the convulsions that 
have Occurred, and arc to occur. 
! Circumstances are beyond the control of man ; 
but his conduct is in his own power. The great 
event is as sure as that I am now penning this pro- 
phecy of its occurrence. With us it rcst-s whether 
it shall be welcomed by wisdom or by ignorance — 
whether its beneficent results shall be accelerated 
by enlightened minds, or retarded by our dark 
passions. 

What is the arch of the conqueror, what the liu- 
rel of the poet I I think of the infinity of space, I 
feel my nothingness. Yet if I am to be remembcrtd, 
let me be remembered as one who, in a sad ni^ht 
of gloomy ignorance and savage bigotry, was j^re- 
scient of the flaming morning-break of bright phi- 
losophy, — as one who deeply sympathized with his 
fellow-men, and felt a proud and profound co))"ic- 
tion of their perfectibility, — as one who dcvo»'e(]l 
himself to the amelioration of his kind, by tii - Je- 
struction of error, and the propagation of trutk> 



THE 



WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



AND 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



427 



THE 



WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



TO 

********** 

Sweet sister ! as 1 wandered on the mountains of Sion, 
beliold! a gazelle canie bounding o'er the hills! It per- 
ceived rae, it started back, it gazed at me with trembling 
surprise. Ah ! fear not ! fair creature, I fondly exclaimed, 
fear not, and flee not away '. I loo have a gazelle in a dis- 
tant land ; not less beautiVul her airy form than thine, and 
her dark eye not less tremulously bright. 

Ah! little did I deem, my sweetest friend, that ere I 
pressed that beauteous form again, sorrow should dim the 
radiance of thy smile, and charge that brilliant eye with 
many a tear ! Yet trust thee, dearest, in a brother's love, 
the purest .sympathy of our fallen state ! If I recall one 
gleam of rapture to thy pensive cheek, not in vain I strike 
my lonely lyre, or throw these laurels at thy fairy feel ! 



PREFACE. 



The time of this Romance is the twelfth century. 

At that period, this was the political condition of 
the East. 

The caliphate was in a state of rapid decay. The 
Seljiikian sultans, who had been called to the as- 
sistance of the commanders of the faithful, had be- 
come, like the mayors of the palace in France, the 
real sovereigns of the empire. They had carved 
four kingdoms out of the dominions of the succes- 
sors of the prophet, which conferred titles on four 
Seljukian princes, to wit, the sultan of Bagdad, the 
sultan of Persia, the sultan of Syria, and the sultan 
of Roum, or Asia Minor. 

But these warlike princes, in the relaxed disci- 
pline and doubtful conduct of their armies, began 
themselves to evince the natural effects of luxury 
and indulgence. They were no longer the same 
invincible and irresistible warriors who had poured 
forth from the shores of the Caspian over the fairest 
regions of the East, and although they still con- 
trii'ed to preserve order in their dominions, they 
witnessed, with ill-concealed apprehension, the 
rising power of the kings of Karasme, whose con- 
quests daily made their territories more contiguous. 

With regard to the Hebrew people, it should be 
known that after the destruction of Jerusalem, the 
eastern Jews, while they acknowledged the supre- 
macy of their conquerors, gathered themselves to- 
gether for all purposes of jurisdiction, under the 
control of a native ruler, an as.serted descendant of 
David, whom they dignified with the title of " The 
Prince of the Captivity," If we are to credit the 
enthu.siastic annalists of this imaginative people, 
there were periods of prosperity when " the princes 
of the captivity" assumed scarcely less state, and 
enjoyed scarcely less power than the ancient kings 
of Judah themselves. Certain it is that their power 
increased always in an exact proportion with the 
weakness of the caliphate, and without doubt in 
some of the most distracted periods of the Ara^jian 
57 



rule, the Hebrew princes rose into sonie degree of 
local and temporary importance. Their chief resi- 
dence was Bagdad, where they remained until the 
eleventh century, an age f;ital in oriental history, 
and from the disasters of which " the princes of the 
captivity" were not exempt. They are heard of 
even in the twelfth centuiy. I have ventured to 
place one at Hamadan, a favourite residence of the 
Hebrews, from being the burial place of Esther and 
Mordecai. 

In this state of affairs arose Alroy, a name per- 
haps unknown to the vast majority of my readers ; 
yet, if I mistake not, a memorable being, and the 
dry. record of whose marvellous career I have long 
considered as enveloping the richest materials of 
poetic fiction. 

With regard to the supernatural machinery of 
this romaiace, it is cabalistical and correct. From 
the spirits of the tomlis to the sceptre of Solomon, 
authority may be found in the traditions of the He- 
brews for all these spiritual introductions. 

I believe that thai character of oriental life is not 
unfaithfully portrayed in these pages. It has under- 
gone less changes than the genius of the Occident. 
i have had the advantage of studying the Asiatics 
in their most celebrated countries and capitals. An 
existence of blended .splendour and repose, varied 
only by fitful starts of extravagant and overwhelm- 
ing action, and marvellous vicissitudes of fortune, 
a strong influence of individual character, a blind 
submission to destiny, imagination, passion, cre- 
dulity : these are some of the principal features of 
society in the most favoured regions of the globe. 

And now for my style. I must frankly confess 
that I have invented a new one. I am conscious 
of the hazard of such innovation, but I have not 
adopted my system witliout long meditation, and a 
severe examination of its qualities. I have in another 
work already ventured to express my opinion that 
the age of versification has passed. I have there 
observed, "The mode of composition must ever be 
greatly determined by the manner in which the 
composition can be made public. In ancient days, 
the voice was the medium by which we became 
acquainted with the inventions of a poet. In such 
a method, where those who listened had no time to 
I)ause, and no opportunity to think, it was neces- 
sary that every thing should be obvious. The 
audience who were perplexed would soon become 
wearied. The spirit of ancient poetry, therefore, is 
rather material than metaphysical. Superficial, not 
internal; there is much simplicity and much nature, 
but little pa.ssion, and less philosophy. To obviate 
the baldness, which is the consequence of a style 
where the subject and the sentiments arc rather in- 
timated than developed, the poem was enriched by 
music and enforced by action. Occasionallv, were 
2 p 3 44^^ 



450 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



added the enchantment of scenery, and the fascina- 
tion of the dance. But the poet did not depend 
merely upon these brilliant accessaries. He resolved 
that his thoughts should be expressed in a manner 
ditlerent from other modes of communicating ideas. 
He caught a suggestion from his sister art, and in- 
vented metre. And in this modulation, he intro- 
duced a new system of phraseology, which marked 
him out from the crowd, and which has obtained 
the title of ' poetic diction.' 

" His object in this system of words was to 
heighten his meaning by strange phrases, and un- 
usual constructions. Inversion was invented to 
clothe a commonplace with an air of novelty ; vague 
epithets were introduced to prop up a monotonous 
modulation; were his meaning to be enforced, he 
shrank from wearisome ratiocination and the agony 
of precise conceptions, and sought refuge in a bold 
personification, or a beautiful similitude. The art 
of poetry was to express natural feelings in unnatu- 
ral language. 

" Institutions ever survive their purpose, and 
customs govern us when their cause is extinct. 
And this mode of communicating poetic invention 
still remained, when the advanced civilization of 
man, in multiplying manuscripts, might have made 
many suspect that the time had arrived when the 
poet was to cease to sing, and to learn to write. Had 
the splenchd refinement of imperial Rome not been 
doomed to such rapid decay, and such mortifying 
and degrading vicissitudes, I believe that versifica- 
tion would have worn out. Unquestionably that 
empire, in its multifarious population, scenery, 
creeds and customs, offered the richest materials for 
emancipated fiction ; materials, however, far too 
vast and various for the limitedtcapacity of metrical 
celebration. 

" That beneficent Omnipotence, before which we 
must bow down, has so ordered it, that imitation 
should be the mental feature of modei'n Europe ; 
and has ordained that we should adopt a Syrian 
religion, a Grecian literature, and a Roman law. 
At the revival of letters, we behold the portentous 
spectacle of national poets communicating their in- 
ventions in an exotic form. Conscious of the con- 
fined nature of their method, yet unable to extricate 
tliemselves fi-om its fatal ties, they sought variety in 
increased artifice of diction, and substituted for the 
melody of the lyre, the barbaric clash of rhyme. 

" A revolution took place in the mode of com- 
municating thought. Now, at least, it was full 
time that we should have emancipated ourselves for- 
ever from sterile metre. One would have supposed 
that the poet who could not only write, but even print 
his inventions, would have felt that it was both 
useless and unfit that they should be communicated 
by a process invented when his only medium was 
simple recitation One would have supposed, that 
the poet would have rushed with desire to the new 
world before nim, that he would have seized the 
riftvv means that permitted him to revel in a uni- 
verse of boundless invention ; to combine the highest 
ideal creation with the infinite delineation of teem- 
ing nature ; to unravel all the dark mysteries of our 
bosoms, and all the bright purposes of our being ; 
to become the great instrucicr and champion of his 
species ; and not only delight their fancy, and 
charm their senses, and command their will, but 
ilemonstrate their rights, illustrate their necessities, 
and expound tlic object of their existence ; and all 
this too in a style charming and changing with its 



universal theme, now tender, now sportive ; now 
earnest, now profound ; now sublime, now pathetic ; 
and substituting for the dull monotony of metre, 
the most various, and exquisite, and inexhaustible 
melody."* 

While I have endeavoured to effect my own 
emancipation from the trammels of the old style, I 
do not for a moment flatter myself that the new 
one, which I offer, combines those rare qualities 
which I anticipate may he the ultimate result of 
this revolution. But such as it is, it stands upon 
its own merits, and may lead abler men to achieve 
abler consequences. 

It has been urged by a very ingenious and ele- 
gant critic, when commenting, perhaps with the 
apprehensive indignation of a versifier, upon the 
passage which I have quoted, " that the melodies 
of language are the echoes of the melodies of 
thought : as in hearing martial music, the step in- 
voluntarily takes a statelier tread, as to gayer airs, 
a lighter and more buoyant one ; so does the ele 
vated idea take a more noble, or the feelings of 
tenderness a sweeter tone, than those of ordinary 
discourse." 

I perfectly assent to this remark, which was in- 
tended to show "the fallacies" of my system. I 
do not oppose melody because I oppose verse. 
Thoughts are not always melodious, ideas always 
noble, and feelings always tender. The curse of 
metre is, that it makes all thoughts, ideas, and feel- 
ings — all action and all passion alike monotonous, 
and is at the same time essentiully limited in its 
capacity of celebration. As for myself, I never 
hesitate, although I discard verse, to have recourse 
to rhythm whenever I consider its introduction de- 
sirable, and occasionally even to rhyme. There is 
no doubt that the style in which I have attempted 
to write this work is a delicate and dithcult instru- 
ment for an artist to handle. He must not abuse 
his freedom. He must alike beware the turgid and 
the bombastic, the meager and the mean. He must 
be easy in his robes of state, and a degree of 
elegance and dignity must accompany him even in 
the camp and the markethouse. The language 
must rise gradually with the rising passions of the 
speakers, and subside in harmonious unison with 
their jinking emotions. 

With regard to the conduct of this tale, it will 
speedily be observed to be essentially dramatic. 
Had, indeed, the drama in this country not been a 
career encompassed with difficulties, I should have 
made Alroy the hero of a tragedy. But as, at the 
present day, this is a mode of composition which 
for any practical effect is almost impossible, I have 
made him the hero of a dramatic romance. The 
author, therefore, seldom interferes in the conduct 
of the story. He has not consiiSered it his duty to 
step in between the reader and the beings of his 
imagination, to develope and dwell upon their feel- 
ings, or to account for their characters and actions. 
He leaves tliem in general to explain eveiy thing 
for themselves, substituting on his part description 
for scenery, and occasional bursts of lyric melody 
for that illustrative music, without which all dra- 
matic representations are imperfect, and which ren- 
ders the serious opera of the Italians the most 
effective performance of modern times, and most 
nearly approaching the exquisite drama of the an 
cicnt Greeks. 

♦ Goniarini Fleming. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



4M 



To the Tale of Alroy I have added the history 
«f a Christian hero placed in a somewhat similar 
position, but achieviMf a very ditferent end ; and I 
hope the reader will*xperience the pleasure of an 
agreeable contrast in the Rise of the great Is- 
kander. 



PART I. 



The cornets sounded a final flourish as the prince 
of the captivity dismounted from his white mule ; 
his train shouted as if they were once more a peo- 
ple, and had it not been for the contemptuous leer 
which played upon tlie countenances of' the Mos- 
lerain bystanders, it might have been- taken for a 
day of triumph rather than of tribute. 

" The glory has not departed !" exclaimed the 
venerable Bostenay, as he entered the hall of his 
mansion. " It is not as the visit of Sheba unto 
Solomon; nevertheless the glory has not yet de- 
parted. You have done well, faithful Caleb." 
The old man's courage waxed more vigorous as 
each step within his own walls the more assured 
him against the recent causes of his fear — the audi- 
ble curses and the threatened missiles of the un- 
believing mob. 

" It shall be a day of rejoicing and thanksgiving," 
continued the prince ; " and look, my faithful 
Caleb, that the trumpeters be well served. That 
last flourish was bravely done. It was not as the 
blast before Jericho ; nevertheless it told that the 
Lord of Hosts was for us. How the accursed 
Ishmaelites started! Did you mark, Caleb, that 
tall Turk in green upon my left 1 By the sceptre 
of Jacob, he* turned pale ! ! it shall be a day of 
rejoicing and thanksgiving ! And spare not the 
wine, nor the flesh-pots for the people. Look you 
to this, my child, for the people shouted bravely, 
and with a stout voice. It was not as the great 
shout in the c*tiip when the ark returned, but, ne- 
vertheless, it was-boldly done, and showed that the 
glory had not yet departed. So spare not the 
wine, my son, and drink to the desolation of Ish- 
mael in the juice which he dare not quaff." 

" It has indeed been a great day for Israel !" ex- 
claimed Caleb, echoing his master's exultation. 

" Had the procession been forbidden," continued 
Bostenay, " had it been reserved for me of all the 
princes to have dragged the accursed tribute upon 
foot, without trumpets and without guards, by this 
sceptre, my good Calel), I really think, that slug- 
gishly as this old blood now runs, I would but 

it is needless now to talk — the God of our fathers 
hath been our refuge." 

" Verily, my lord, we were as David in the wil- 
derness of Zipli ; but now we are as the Lord's 
anointed in the stronghold of Engedi !" 

" The glory truly has not yet utterly departed," 
resumed the prince in a more subdued tone ; " yet 
if — I tell you what, Caleb — praise the Lord that 
you are young." 

" My prince may yet live to see the good day." 

" Nay, my child, you misinterpret me. Your 
prince has lived to see the evil day. 'Twas not of 
the coming that I thought when I bid you praise 
the TiOrd because you were young — the more my 
sin. I was thinking, Caleb, that if your hairs were 



as mine, if you could call back like me th« days 
that are gone by — the days when it needed no bribe 
to prove we were princes — the glorious days when 
we led captivity captive — I was thinking, I say, my 
son, what a gainful heritage it is to be born after 
the joys that have passed away." 

" My father lived at Babylon," said Caleb. 

"O! name it not! — name it not!" exclaimed 
the old chieftain. " Dark was the day that we lost 
that second Sion ! We were then also slaves to 
the Egyptian ; but verily we ruled over the realm 
of Pharaoh. Why, Caleb, Caleb, you who know 
all — the days of toil — the nights restless as a love- 
sick boy's, which it has cost your prince to gain 
permission to grace our tribute day with the paltry 
presence of half a dozen guards — you who know 
all my difficulties, who have witnessed all my mor- 
tification, what would you say to the purse of 
dirhems, surrounded by seven thousand cime- 
ters 1" 

" Seven thousand cimeters !" 

" Not one less ; my father flourished one." 

" It was indeed a great day for Israel !" 

" Nay, that is nothing. When old Alroy was 
prince — old David Alroy — for thirty years, good 
Caleb — thirty long years we paid no tribute to the 
caliph." 

"No tribute ! no tribute for thirty years ! What 
marvel then, my prince, that the Philistines have 
of late exacted interest ?" 

" Nay, that is nothing," continued old Bostenay, 
unmindful of his servant's ejaculations. " When 
Moctador was caliph, he sent to the same Prince 
David, to know why the dirhems were not brought 
up, and David immediately called to horse, and at- 
tended by all tlie chief people rode to the palace, 
and told the caliph that tribute was an acknowledg- 
ment made from tiie weak to the strong to insure 
protection and support, and inasmuch as he and his 
people had just garrisoned the city for ten years 
against the Seljuks, he held the caliph in arrear." 

" We shall see an ass mount a ladder,"* ox- 
claimed Caleb with uplifted eyes of wonder. 

" It is true though," continued t!ie prince ; " often 
have I heard my father tell the tale. He was then 
a child, and his mother held him up to see the pro- 
cession return, and all the people shouted, ' The 
sceptre has not gone out of Jacob !' " 

" It was indeed a great day for Israel." 

" Nay, that is nothing. I could tell you such 
things ! But we prattle ; our business is not yet 
done. You to the people ; the widow and the 
orphan are waiting. Give freely, good Caleb, give 
freely ; the spoils of the Canaanite are no longer 
ours ; nevertheless the Lord is still our God, and, 
after all, even this is a great day for Israel. And 
Caleb, Caleb, bid my nephew, David Alroy, know 
that I would speak with him." 

"I will do all promptly, good master! We 
wondered that our honoured lord, your nephew, 
went not up with the donation this day." 

" Who hid you wonder 1 Begone, sir ! How 
long are you to idle here ] — Away ! 

" They wonder he went not up with the tribute 
to-day. Ay ! surely — a common talk. This boy 
will be our ruin : a prudent hand to wield our shat- 
tered sceptre ! I have observed him from his in- 
fancy ; he should have lived in Babylon. The old 
Alroy blood flows in his veins, a stiif-necked race 



* Hebrew Proverb 



452 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



When I was a youth his grandsire was my friend ; 
I had some fancies then myself. Dreams, dreams ! 
we have fallen on evil days, and yet wc prosper. 
I have lived long enough to feel a rich caravan, 
laden with the shawls of India, and the stuffs of 
Samarcand, if not exactly like dancing before the 
ark, is still a goodly sight. And our hard-hearted 
rulers, with all their pride, can they subsist without 
us ] Still we wax rich. I have lived to see the 
haughty caliph sink into a slave, viler far than 
Israel, And the victorious and voluptuous Seljuks, 
even now they tremble at the dim mention of the 
distant name of Arslan. Yet I, Bostenay, and the 
frail remnant of our scattered tribes, still we exist, 
and still, thanks to our God, we prosper. But the 
age of power has past ; it is by prudence now that 
we must flourish. The jibe, the jest, the curse, 
perchance the blow, Israel must now bear, and with 
a calm, or even smiling visage. What then ] For 
every jibe and jest, for every curse, I'll have a 
dirhem ; and every blow — let him look to it who is 
my creditor, or wills to be so. But see, he comes, 
my nephew ! His grandsire was my friend. Me- 
thinks I look upon him now ; the same Alroy that 
was the partner of my boyish hours. And yet that 
fragile form and girlish face but ill consort with the 
dark passions, and the dangerous fancies, I fear lie 
hidden in that tender breast. Well, sir 1" 
" You want me, uncle"!" 

" What then 1 Uncles often want what nephews 
seldom ofler." 

" I at least can refuse nothmg ; for I have naught 
to give." 

" You have a jewel which I greatly covet." 
" A jewel ! See my chaplet ! You gave it me, 
my uncle ; it is yours." 

" I thank you. Many a blazing ruby, many a 
soft and shadowy pearl, and many an emerald 
glowing like a star in the far desert, I behold, my 
child. They are choice stones, and yet I miss a 
jewel far more precious, which, when I gave you 
this rich chaplet, David, I deemed you did possess." 
" How do you call it, sir V 
" Ot)edience." 

" 'Tis a word of doubtful import, sir ; for to obey, 
when duty is disgrace, is not a virtue." 

" I see you read my thought. In a word, I sent 
for you to know, wherefore you joined me not to- 
day in offering C^t — " 
" Tribute." 

" Be it so : tribute. , .'Ky were you absent ?" 
" Because it was a tribute : ? pay none." 
"But that the dreary course of s^evcnty winters 
has not erased the memory of my bo^iish follies, 
David, I should esteem you mad. Think you, be- 
cause I am old, I am enamoured of disgrace, and 
love a house of bondage. If hfe were a mere ques- 
tion between freedom and slavery, glory and disho- 
nour, all could decide. Trust me, there needs but 
little spirit to be a moody patriot in a sullen home, 
and vent your heroic spleen upon your fellow-suf- 
ferers, whose sufferings you cannot remedy. But 
of such stuff your race were ever made. Such de- 
liverers ever abounded in the house of Alroy. And 
what has been the result ? I foiuid you, and your 
sister, orphan infants, your sceptre broken, and your 
tribes dispersed. The tribute, which now at least 
we pay like princes, was then exacted with the 
scourge, and offered in chains. I collected our 
scattered people, I re-established our ancient throne, 
EJid this day, which you look upon as a day of hu- 



miliation, and of mourning, is rightly considered bv 
all a day of triumph, and of feasting ; for has it not 
proved, in the very teeth of the Ishmaelites, that the 
sceptre has not yet departedTrom Jacob 1" 

" I pray you, imcle, speak not of these things 
I would not willingly forget you are my kinsman, 
and a kind one. Let there be no strife between us. 
What my feelings are is nothing. They are my 
own : I cannot change them. And for my ances- 
tors, if they pondered much, and achieved little, 
why, then, 'twould seem our pedigree is pure, and 
I am their true son. At least one was a hero." 

" Ah ! the great Alroy ; you may well be proud 
of such an ancestor." 

" I am ashamed, uncle, — ashamed, ashamed." 

" His sceptre still exists. At least, I have not 
betrayed him. And this brings me to the real pur- 
port of our interview. That sceptre I would return." 

"To whom]" 

" To its right owner, to yourself" 

" O ! no, no, no — I pray you, pray you, uncle, I 
pray you not. I do entreat you, sir, upon my knees, 
forget I have a right as utterly as I myself disclaim 
it. That sceptre — you have wielded it wisely and 
well; I do beseech you keep it. Indeed, good 
uncle, I have no sort of talent for all the busy duties 
of this post." 

" You sigh for glory, yet you fly from toil." 

" Toil without glory is a menial's lot." 

" You are a boy ;' you may yet live to learn that 
the sweetest lot of life consists in tranquil duties 
and well-earned repose." 

" If my lot be repose, I'll find it in a lair." 

" Ah I David, David, there is a wilderness in 
your temper, boy, that makes me often tremble. 
You are already too much alone, child. And for 
this, as well as vveighter reasons, I am desirous that 
you should at length assume the office you inherit. 
What my poor experience can afford t© aid you, as 
your counsellor, I shall ever proffer; and for the 
rest, our God will not desert you, an orphan child, 
and born of royal blood." 

" Pr'y thee, no more, kind uncle. I have but little 
heart to mount a throne, which orjy ranks me as 
the first of slaves." 

" Pooh, pooh, you are young. Live we like 
slaves? Is this hall a servile chamber? These 
costly carpets, and these rich divans, in what proud 
harem shall we find their match ? I feel not like a 
slave. My coffers are full of dirhems. Is that slav- 
ish? The wealthiest company of the caravan is 
ever Bostenay's. Is that to be a slave ] Walk the 
bazaar of Bagdad, and you will find my name more 
potent than the caliph's. Is that a badge of sla- 
very?" 

" Uncle, you toil for others." 

" So do we all, so does the bee, yet he is free and 
happy." 

" At least he has a sting." 

" Which he can use but once; and when he 
stings — " 

"He dies, and like a hero. Such a death is 
sweeter than his honey." 

" Well, well, you are young, you are young. I 
once, too, had fancies. Dreams all. dreams all. I 
willingly would see you happy, cliild. Come, let 
that face brighten ; after all, to-day is a great day. 
If you had seen what I have seen, David, you too 
would feci grateful. Come, let us feast, let us feast. 
The Ishmaclite, the accursed child of H agar, he does 
confess to-day you are a prince : this day also you 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



453 



complete your eighteenth year. The custom of 
our people now requires you should assume the 
attributes of manhood. To-day, then, your reign 
commences ; and at our festival I will present the 
elders to their prince. For a while farewell, my 
child. Array that face in smiles. I shall most 
anxiously await your presence." 

" Farewell, sir." 

He turned his head and watched his uncle as he 
departed ; the bitter expression of his countenance 
gradually melted away as Bostenay disappeared ; 
dejection succeeded to sarcasm; he sighed, he threw 
himself upon a couch, and buried his face in his 
hands. 

Suddenly he arose, and paced the chamber with 
an irregular and moody step. He stopped, he 
leaned against a column. He spoke in a tremulous 
and smothered voice. 

" O ! my heart is full of care, and my soul is 
dark with sorrow ! What am 1 1 What is all 
this T A cloud hangs heavy o'er my life. God 
of my fathers ! let it burst. 

" I know not what I feel — yet what I feel is 
madness. Thus to be, is not to live, if life be what 
I sometimes dream, and dare to think it might be. 
To breathe, to feed, to sleep, to wake and breathe 
again — again to feel existence without hope ; if 
this be life, why then these brooding thoughts that 
whisper death were better 1 

" Away ! away ! The demon tempts me. But 
to what, to what? What nameless deed shall dese- 
crate this hand ! No, no, it must not be ; the royal 
blood of twice two thousand years, it must not die 
— die like a dream. ! my heart is full of cai-e, 
and my soul is dark with sorrow ! 

" Hark ! the trumpets that sound our dishonour. 
! but that they sounded to battle ! Lord of 
Hosts ! Let me conquer or die ! Let me conquer 
like David, or die, Lord, like Saul. 

" Ah ! were I in the woods once more, a melan- 
choly child ! Each flower, that raised its haughty 
head, should be the turbaned enemy, and I would 
wave some sword of straw, and find revenge in every 
blow, that quelled their painted pride. 

" 'Tis over now ; that sweet, sweet prime, when 
fancy solaced solitude. Yet I am still alone. But 
how alone 1 The madness of the past and the de- 
spair of the future — are not these the choice com- 
panions of my pleasant life 1 

" I once remember, when, a child, I cried to be a 
man — and now, methinks, I'll sit me down and cry 
to be a child. Ah ! tears of bliss, though shed in 
sadness, unutterable joys ! No more the sunshine 
of the breast succeeds those freshening showers of 
grief; light season of my boyish spring, when care 
was but a mimic game, and wo a wild delusion ! 

" Behold this chaplet rich and rare ; its stones 
might deck a soldan's brow ! Could I but weep, 
for each bright tear I'd give a flaming gem ; could 
I but weep, for each soft sob I'd yield a lustrous 
pearl. Alas! the age of tears is o'er, and yet — my 
heart is full of care, and my soul is dark with sor- 
row. 

" Why do I live 1 Ah ! could the thought that 
lurks within my secret heart but answer — not the 
trumpet's blast when echoing on the noisy hills, 
could speak as loud or clear. The votary of a false 
idea, I linger in this shadowy life, and feed on silent 
images which no eye but mine can gaze on, until, 
at length, they are invested with all terrible circum- 



stances of life, and breathe, and act, fonn a stir- 
ring world of fate and beauty, time, and death, 
and glory. And then from out this dazzling wil- 
derness of deeds I wander forth and wake, and find 
myself in this dull house of bondage, even as I do 
now. Horrible ! horrible ! 

" God of my fathers ! for indeed I dare not style 
thee God of their wretched sons — yet by the memory 
of Sinai let me tell thee that some of the antique 
blood yet beats withiir these pulses, and there yet is 
one who fain would commune with thee face to 
face — commune and conquer. 

" And if the promise unto which we cling be not 
a cheat, why let him come, come, and come quickly, 
for thy servant Israel, Lord, is now a slave so infa- 
mous, so wo-begone, and so contemned, that even 
when our fathers hung their harps by the sad waters 
of the Babylonian stream, why, it were paradise 
again to what we suffer. 

"Alas! they do not suffer; they endure and do 
not feel. Or by this time our shadowy cherubim 
would guard again the ark. It is the will that is 
the father to the deed, and he who broods over 
some long idea, however wild, will find his dream 
was but the prophecy of coming fate. 

" And even now a vivid flash darts through the 
darkness of my mind — methinks, methinks — Ah ! 
worst of woes to dream of glory in despair. No, 
no, I hve and die a most ignoble thing ; beauty and 
love, and fame and mighty deeds, the smile of wo- 
men and the gaze of men, and the ennobling con- 
sciousness of worth, and all the fiery course of the 
creative passions — these are not for nw aiid I, 
Alroy, the long posterity of sacred kings, and with 
a soul that pants for empire, I stand here extending 
my vain arm for my lost sceptre, a most disho- 
noured slave ! And do I still exist ? Exist ! ay, 
merrily. Hark ! Festivity holds her fair revel in 
these light-hearted walls. We are gay to-day ; and 
yet ere yon proud sun, whose mighty course was 
stayed before our swords, that now he even does 
not deign to shine upon : ere yon proud sun shall, 
like a hero from a glorious field, enter the bright 
pavilion of his rest ; there shall a deed be done. 

" My fathers, my heroic fathers, if this feeble arm 
cannot redeem thy heritage, if the foul boar must 
still wallow in thy sweet vineyard, Israel, at least, 
I'll not disgrace ye. No ! let me perish. The 
house of David is no more : no more our sacred 
seed shall lurk and linger, like a blighted thing in 
this degenerate earth. If we cannot flourish, why 
then we'll die !" 

" ! say not so, my brother !" 

A voice broke on the air, so soft, so sweet, so 
wildly musical — it sounded like a holy bell upon 
a summer day, a holy bell that calls to prayer, and 
stills each fierce emotion. 

And softly kneeling at his side behold a female 
form ! Her face is hid, her lips are pressed against 
the hand she gently steals. And now she raises 
up her head, and waits with tender patience for a 
glance from one who seldom smiles. 

" ! say not so, my brother !" 

He turns, he gazes on a face beauteous as a 
starry night — a starry night in those fair climes 
where not a cloud is marked in heaven, where all 
below on earth's so sweet, and all above in air so 
still, that every passion melts away, and Ufe seems 
but a fragrant dream. 

I, too, have wandered in those lands, and ro.amed 



454 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



'mid Jordan's vocal bowers. Ah ! could the night- 
ingale that sang lo Syria's rose how sing to me, I'd 
give the fame of coming years to listen to that 
lay! 

He turns, he gazes, and he bends ; his heart is 
full, his voice is low. 

" Ah, Miriam ! thou queller of dark spirits ! is 
it thou ] Why art thou here ]" 

" Why am I here 1 Are you not here "? and 
need I urge a stronger plea 1 O ! brother deal", I 
pray you come, and mingle in our festival ! Our 
walls are hung with flowers you love ;* I culled 
them by the fountain's side ; the holy lamps are 
trimmed and set, and you must raise their earliest 
flame. Without the gate my maidens wait to offer 
you a robe of state. Then, brother dear, I pray 
you come and mingle in our festival." 

" Why should we feast?" 

" Ah ! is it not in thy dear name these lamps are 
lit — these garlands hung] To-day to us a prince 
is given, to-day — " 

" A prince without a kingdom." 

" But not without i/iat which makes kingdoms 
])recious, and which full many a royal heart has 
sighed for — willing subjects, David." 

" Slaves, Miriam, fellow-slaves." 

" What we are, my brother, our God has willed; 
and let us bow and tremble." 

" I will not, I cannot tremble." 

" Hush, David, hush ! It was this haughty 
spirit that called the vengeance of the Lord upon 
us." 

" It was this haughty spirit that conquered Ca- 
naan." 

" ! my brother, my dear, dear brother ! they 
told me the dark spirit had fallen on thee, and I 
came, and hoped thy Miriam might have charmed 
it. What we have been, Alroy, is a bright dream ; 
and what we may be, at least as bright a hope ; 
and for what we are, thou art my brother. In thy 
love I find present felicity, and value more thy 
chance embraces and thy scanty smiles, than all 
the vanished splendour of our race, our gorgeous 
gardens, and our glittering halls." 

" Who waits without there !" 

" Caleb." 

" Caleb ?" 

"My lord." 

" Go tell my uncle I presently will join the ban- 
quet. Leave me a moment, dearest. I'll soon be 
with thee. Nay, dry these tears, my life, or let me 
stop them with a soft kiss." 

" O I Alroy, they are not tears of sorrow !" 

" God be with thee, angel ! fare thee well, though 
but for a moment. Thou art the charm and con- 
solation of my hfe. Farewell, farewell. 

"I do observe the influence of women very po- 
tent over me. 'Tis not of such sUitY that they 
make heroes. I know not love, save that pure af- 
fection that does subsist between me and this girl 
— an orphan and my sister. We arc so alike, that 
when, last Passover, in mimicry, she twined my 
turban round her graceful head, our uncle called 
her David. 

" The daughters of my tribe, they please me not, 
though they are passing fair. Were our sons as 
brave as they are beautiful, we still might dance 



* It is the custom of the Hebrews in many of their festi- 
vals, especially in the feast of the tabernacle, to hang the 
■walla of their chambers with garlands of tlowers. 



on Sion. Yet have I often thought that I could 
pillow this moody brow upon some snowy bosom 
that were my own, and dwell in the wilderness, 
far from the sight and ken of man, and all the 
care, and toil, and wretchedness, that groan, and 
sweat, and sigh about me, I might haply lose this 
deep sensation of o'erwhelming wo, that broods 
upon my being. No matter^life is but a di'eam 
and mme must be a dull one." 



11. 

Without the gates of Hamadan, a very short 
distance from the city, was an enclosed piece of 
elevated ground, in the centre of which rose an 
ancient sepulchre, the traditionary tomb of Esther 
and Mordecai.* This solemn and solitary spot 
was an accustomed haunt of Alroy ; and thither 
escaping from the banquet, about an hour before 
sunset, he this day repaired. 

As he unlocked the massy gate of the burial- 
place, he heard behind him the trampling of a 
horse ; and before he had again secured the en- 
trance, some one shouted to him. 

He looked up, and recognised the youthful and 
voluptuous Alschiroch, the governor of the city, 
and brother of the sultan of the Scljuks. He was 
attended only by a single running footman, an 
Arab, a detested favourite, and notorious minister 
of his pleasures. 

" Dog !" exclaimed the. irritated Alschiroch, 
" art thou deaf, or obstinate ? or both 1 Are we 
to call twice to our slaves ? Unlock that gate !" 

" Wherefore 1" inquired Alroy. 

" Wherefore ! By the holy prophet, he bandies 
questions with us. Unloclf that gate, or thy head 
shall answer for it !" 

" Who art thou," inquired Alroy, " whose voice 
is so loud ? Art thou some holiday Turk, who 
hast transgressed the orders of thy prophet, and 
drunken aught but water 1 Go to, or I will sum- 
mon thee before thy cadi ;" and so saying, he 
turned towards the tomb. 

" By the eyes of my mother, the dog jeers us. 
But that we are already late, and this horse is like 
an untamed tiger, I would impale him on the spot. 
Speak to the dog, Mustapha ! manage him !" 

" Worthy Hebrew," said the silky Mustapha, 
advancing, "apparently you are not aware that this 
is our lord Alschiroch. His highness would fain 
walk his horse through the bmual-ground of thy 
excellent people, as he is obliged to repair, on 
urgent matters, to a holy santon, who sojourns on 
the other side of the hill, and time presses." 

" If this be our lord Alschiroch, thou, doubtless, 
art his faithful slave Mustapha." 

" I am, indeed, his poor slave. What, then, 
young master]" 

" Deem thyself lucky that the gate is closed. It 
was but yesterday thou didst insult the sister of a 

* I accompanied the priest through the town over much 
ruin and rubbish, to an enclosed piece of srounii, rather 
more elevated than any in its imnipdiaie vicinity. In the 
centre was the Jewish tomb, a square buiUtini; nf lirick, of 
a musquelike form, with a rather eloniratpd dome at the 
top. Tlie door is in the ancient sepulchral fashion of the 
country, very small, consisting of a single stone of great 
thickness, and turning on its own pivots from one side, 
lis key is always in possession of the eldest of the Jews 
resident at Hamadan. Witliin the tomb aro two sarco- 
pliagi, made of a very dark wood, carved with great iulri- 
cncy of pattern and richness of twisted ornameiil, with a 
line of inscription in Hebrew, iScc. — Sir R. A'. Por'.tr'i 
Travels in Persia, vol. ii. p. 107. 



THE WQNDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



455 



Bcrvant of my house. I would not willingly sully 
my hands with such miserable blood as thine — but 
away, wretch, away !" 

"Holy prophet! who is this dogi" exclaimed 
the astonished governor. 

" 'Tis the young Alroy," whispered Mustapha, 
who had not at first recognised him, " he they call 
their prince — a most headstrong youth. My lord, 
we had better proceed." 

" The young Alroy ! I mark him. They must 
have a prince, too ! The young Alroy ! Well, 
let us away — and, dog !" shouted Alschiroch, rising 
in his stirrups and shaking his hand with a threat- 
ening air, " dog ! remember thy tribute !" 

Alroy rushed to the gate, but the massy lock was 
slow to open ; and ere he could succeed, the fiery 
steed had borne Alschiroch beyond pursuit. 

An expression of baffled rage remained for a 
moment on his countenance ; for a moment he re- 
mained with his eager eye fixed on the route of his 
vanished enemy, and then he walked slowly towards 
the tomb ; but his excited temper was now little 
in unison with the still revery in which he had re- 
paired to the sepulchre to indulge. He was rest- 
less and disquieted, and at length he wandered into 
the woods which rose on the summit of the burial- 
place. 

He found himself at length upon a brow, crested 
with young pine trees, in the midst of which rose 
a mighty cedar. He threw himself underneath its 
thick and shadowy branches, and looked upon a 
valley small and green ; in the midst of which was 
a marble fountain, the richly carved cupola,* sup- 
ported by twisted columns, and banded by a broad 
inscription in Hebrew characters. The bases of 
the white pillars were covered with wild flowers, or 
hidden by beds of variegated gourds. The trans- 
parent sunset flung over the whole scene a soft but 
brilliant light. 

The tranquil hour, the beauteous scene, the 
sweetness and the stillness blending their odour 
and serenity, the gentle breeze that softly rose, and 
summoned forth the languid birds, to cool their 
plumage in the twilight air, and wave their radiant 
wings in skies as bright — Ah ! what stern spirit 
will not yield to the soft genius of subduing eve] 

And Alroy gazed upon the beauteous loneliness 
of earth, and a tear stole down his haughty cheek. 

" 'Tis singular ! but when I am thus alone at 
this still hour, I ever fancy I gaze upon the Land 
of Promise. And often in my dreams, some sunny 
spot, the bright memorial of a roving hour, will 
rise upon my sight, and when I wake, I feel as if 
I had been in Canaan. Why am I not 1 The 
caravan that bears my uncle's goods across the 
desert, would bear me too. But I rest here, my 
miserable life running to seed in the dull misery 
of this wretched city, and do nothing. Why ! the 
old captivity was empire to our inglorious bondage. 
W^e have no Esther now to share their thrones, no 
politic Mordecai, no purple-vested Daniel. O Jeru- 
salem, Jerusalem ! I do believe one sight of thee 
would nerve me to the sticking point. And yet to 

* The vast magnificence and elaborate fancy of the 
tombs' and fountains is a remarkable feature of oriental 
architecture. The eastern nations devote to these struc- 
tures the richest and the most durable materials. While 
the palaces of Asiatic inonarchs are in seneral built only 
of wood, painted in fresco, the rarest marbles are dedicated 
10 the sepulchre and llie spring, which are often richly 
gill, and adjrned even with precious stones. 



gaze upon thy fallen state — my uncle teiis me that 
of the temple not a stone remains. 'Tis horrible. 
Is there no hopel" 

" The bricks are fallen, hut ive u'ill 
rebuild with marble ; the sycamores are 
cut down, but we will replace iheinwith 
cedars." 
" The chorus of our maidens, as tiiey pay their 
evening visit to the fountain's side.* The burden 
is prophetic. 

" Hark again ! How beautifully, upon the soft 
and flowing air, their sweet and mingled voices 
blend and float !" 

" Yet again I imllbuild thee, and thou 
shall be built, Virgin of Israel / Yet 
again shalt thou deck thyself with thy 
tabrets, and go forth in the daiice of those 
that make merry. Yet again shalt thou 
plant vineyards on the mountains of 
Samaria." 
" See ! their white forms break through the spark- 
ling foliage of the sunny shrubs as they descend, 
with measured step, that mild acclivity. A fair 
society in bright procession : each one clothed in 
solemn drapery, veiling her shadowy face witli mo- 
dest hand, and beaj-ing on her graceful head a grace- 
ful vase. Their leader is my sister. 

" And now they reach the fountain side, and dip 
their va.ses in the water, pure and beauteous as 
themselves. Some repose beneath the marble pil- 
lars ; some, seated 'mid the flowers, gather sweets, 
and twine them into garlands ; and that wild girl, 
now that the order's broke, touches with light fin- 
gers her moist vase, and showers startling drops of 
glittering light on her serener sisters. Hark ! again 
they sing.'-' 

" vine of Sibmah ! upon thy sum- 
mer fruits, and upon thy vintage, a 
spoiler hath fallen .'" 
A scream, a shriek, a long wild shriek, confusion, 
flight, despair ! Behold ! from out the woods a 
turbaned man rushes, and seizes the leader of the 
chorus. Her companions fly on all sides, Miriam 
alone is left ui the arms of Alschiroch. 

The water cohunn wildly raising, from the breast 
of summer ocean, in some warm tropic clime, 
when the sudden clouds too well discover, the holi- 
day of heaven is over, and the shrieking sea-birds 
tell a time of fierce commotion, the column rising 
from the sea, it was not as wild as he — the yoimg 
Alroy. 

Pallid and mad, he svfiftly up-sprang, and he tore 
up a tree by its lusty roots, and down the declivity 
dashing with rapid leaps, panting and wild, he 
struck the ravisher on the temple with the mighty 
pine. Alschiroch fell lifeless on the sod, and Mi- 
riam fainting into her brother's arms. 

And there he stood, fixed and immovable, gaz- 
ing upon his sister's deathly face, and himself ex- 
hausted by passion and his exploit, supporting her 
cherished but senseless body. 

One of the fugitive maidens appeared reconnoi- 
tring in the distance. When she observed her 



* It is still the custom for the women in the east to repair 
at sunset in company to the fountain for their supply of 
water. In Esypt you may observe at twilight the women 
descending the banks of the Nile in procession fn m every 
town and village. Their graceful drapery, their long veils, 
not concealingtheir Hashing eyes, and the classical forms 
of their vases, render this a most picturesque and agreeable 
spectacle. 



456 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVEl-S. 



mistress in the arms of one of her own people, her 
courage revived, and desirous of rallying her scat- 
tered companions, she raised her voice and sang : 
" Haste, daus;hters of Jerumltni, / 
littsle, for the Lord has avenged us, and 
the spoiler is spoiled." 
And soon the verse was responded to from various 
quarters of the woods, and soon the virginS' re- 
assembled, singing, 

" We come, O dangliier of Jerusalem ! 
we come ,• for the Lord has avenged us, 
and the spoiler is spoiled." 
They gathered round their mistress, and one 
loosened her veil, and another brought water from 
the fountain, and sprinkled her reviving counte- 
nance. And Miriam opened her eyes and said, 
"My brother I" And he answered, " I am-here." 
And she replied, in a low voice, " Fly, David, fly, 
for the man you have stricken is a prince among 
the people." 

" He will be merciful, my sister ; and, doubtless, 
since he first erred, by this time he has forgotten 
my oifence." 

" Justice and mercy ; O, my brother, what can 
these foul tyrants know of either ! Already he has 
perhaps doomed you to some refined and procrasti- 
nated torture, already — Ah ! what unutterable wo 
is mine — fly, my brother, fly !" 

" There is no fear, my Miriam ; would all his 
accursed race could trouble us as little as their some- 
time ruler. See, he sleeps soundly. But his car- 
cass shall not defile our fresh fountain, and our 
fragrant flowers. I'll stow it in the woods, and 
stroll here at night to listen to the jackals at their 
banquet." 

" You speak wildly, David. What ! No ! It 
is impossible ! He is not dead ! You have not 
slain him ! He sleeps — he is afraid. He mimics 
death that we may leave his side and he may rise 
again in safety. Girls, look to him. David, you 
do not answer. Brother, dear, dear brother; surely 
he has swooned. I thought he had fled. Bear 
water, maidens, to that terrible man. I dare not 
look ujion him." 

" Away ! I'll look upon him, and I'll triumph. 
Dead ! Alschiroch dead ! Why ! but a moment 
since, this clotted carcass was a jjrince, my tyrant. 
So we can rid ourselves of tliem, eh 1 If the prince 
ia\\, why not the people 1 Dead, absolutely dead, 
and I his slayer. Hah ! at length I am a man. 
I'his, this indeed is life. Let me live slaying !" 

" Wo ! wo ! our house is f;dlen ! The wildness 
of his gestures frightens me. David, David, I jiray 
thee cease. He hears me not, my voice, perchance, 
is thin. I'tn very faint. Maidens, kneel to your 
prince, and soothe the madness of his passion." 
" Sweet is the voice of a sister in the 
season of sornnc, and wise is the counsel 
of those who love its." 

"Why, this is my Goliath ! a pebble or a stick, 
it is the same. The Lord of Hosts is for us. 
llightly am I called David." 

" Deliver us from our enemies, 
Lord.' from those tvko rise up against 
us, and those ivho lie in wait for us." 

" Were but this blow multiplied, were but the 
servants of my uncle's house to do the same, why, 
we should see again the days of Elah ! The Phi- 
listine, the foul, lascivious, damnable Philistine; 
«nd he must touch my sister. O that all his tribe 



were here, all, all ! I'd tie such firebrands to their 
foxes' tails, the blaze should light to freedom !'' 

While he spoke, a maiden, who had not rejoined 
the company, came running towards them very 
swiftly with an agitated countenance. 

"Fly, fly," she exclaimed; "they come, they 
come." 

Miriam was reclining in an attendant's arms, 
feeble and faint, but the moment her quick ear 
caught these words, she sjirang up, and seized her 
brother's arm. 

" Ahoy ! David, David, brother, brother, sweet 
brother. I beseech thee, listen — I am thy sistei, 
thy Miriam, thy fond, beloved Miriam ; — they come, 
they come, the hard-he;irted, wicked men, they 
come, they come, to kill, perhaps to torture thee, 
my tender brother. Rouse thyself, David, rouse thy- 
self from this wild, fierce dream : save thyself — fly.'' 

" Ah ! is it t'hou, Miriam 1 Be easy, love, thou 
seest he sleepeth soundly. I will collect my senses. 
I was dreaming of noble purposes and mighty 
hopes. 'Tis over now. I am myself again. What 
wouldst thou, my sweet treasure]" 

" They come, the fierce retainers of this fallen 
man : they come to seize thee. Fly, David." 

"And leave thee]" 

" I and my maidens, we have yet time to escape 
by the private way we entered our uncle's garden. 
When in his house we are for a moment safe — as 
safe as our poor race can ever be. Bost^nay is so 
rich, so wise, so prudent, so learned in man's ways, 
and knows so well the character and spirit of these 
men, all will go right: I fear nothing, nothing, 
nothing. But thou, if thou art here, or to be found, 
thy blood alone will satiate them. If they be per- 
suaded that thou hast escaped, as I yet pray thou 
mayest, their late master here, whom they could 
scarcely love, why — give me thy arm an instant, 
sweet Beruna, I am rather faint. So, that's well. 
I was saying, if well bribed, and they may have all 
my jewels, why, very soon, he will be as little in 
their memories, as he is now in life. I can scarcely 
speak — I feel my words wander, or seem to wander; 
I could swoon, but will not — nay! do not fear, my 
love, I will reach home. These maidens are my 
charge. 'Tis in these crises we should show the 
worth of royal blood. I'll see them safe — or die 
with them." 

" O ! my sister, methinks I never knew I was a 
brother until this hour. My precious Miriam, what 
is life ] what is revenge, or even fame and freedom, 
without thee ] I'll stay." 

" Sweet is the voice of a sister in the 
season of sorrow, and tvisc is the coun- 
sel of those who love us." 

" Fly, David, fly." 

" Fly whither, and how ]" 

The neigh of the horse sounded from the thicket, 

" Ah ! they come, they come !" exclaimed the 
distracted Miriam. 

" All this has come upon us, Lord, 
yet have ive not forgotten thee, neither 
have we dealt fahcly in thy covenant." 

" Hark ! again it neighs ! It is a horse that calleth 
to its rider. I see it, I see it. Courage, Miriam ! 
it is no enemy, but a very present friend in time of 
trouble. It is Alschiroch's courser. He passed me 
on it by the tomb ere sunset. I marked it well — a 
very princely steed." 

" Behold, behold, a ram is caught in 
the thicket by his horns." 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



457 



" Out God hath not forgotten us ! Quick, maid- 
ens, bring forth the goodly steed. What ! do you 
trenble ! I'll be his groom." 

'■ Nay ! Miriam, beware, beware. It is an untamed 
Deast, wild as the whirlwind. Let me deal with 
him." 

He ran after her, kissed her as he passed, dashed 
into the thicket, and brought forth the horse. 

Short time I ween that stately steed had parted 
from his desert home ; his haughty crest, his eye of 
fire, the glory of his snorting nostril, betokened well 
his conscious pride and pure nobility of race. His 
colour was like the sable night shining with a thou- 
sand stars, and he pawed the ground with his deli- 
cate hoof, like an eagle flapping its wing. 

Alroy vaulted on his back, and reined him with 
a master's hand. 

"Hah !" he exclaimed, " I feel more like a hero 
than a fugitive. Farewell, my sister; farewell, ye 
gentle maidens; fare ye well, and cherish my pre- 
cious Miriam. One kiss, sweet sister," and he bent 
down and whispered, " Tell the good Bostenay 
not to spare his gold, love, for I have a deep per- 
suasion, that ere a year shall roll its heavy course, 
I shall return, and make our masters here pay for 
this hurried ride and bitter parting. Now for the 
desert !" 



PART IL 



Speeti, fleetly speed, thou courser bold, and 
track the desert's trackless way. Beneath thee is 
the boundless earth, above thee is the boundless 
heaven, an iron soil and brazen sky. Speed, swiftly 
speed, thou courser bold, and track the desert's 
trackless way ! 

Ah ! dost thou deem these salty plains* lead to 
thy Yemen's happy groves, and dost thou scent, on 
the hot breeze, the spicy breath of Araby ] A 
sweet delusion, noble steed, for this briny wilderness 
leads not to the happy groves of Yemen, and the 
breath thou scentest on the coming breeze is not 
the spicy breath of Araby. 

The day has died, the stars have risen, with all 
the splendour of a desert sky, and now the night 
descending brings solace on her dewy wings, to the 
fainting form and pallid cheek of the youthful He- 
b^ew prince. 

Still the courser onward rushes, still his mighty 
heart supports him. Season and space, the glowing 
soil, the burning ray, yield to the tempest of his 
frame ; the thunder of his nerves and lightning of 
his veins. 

Food or water they have none. No genial 
fount, no grateful tree, rise with their pleasant 
company. Never a beast or a bird is there, in that 
hoary desert bare. Nothing breaks the almighty 
stillness. Even the jackal's felon cry, might seem 
a soothing melody. A gray wild rat, with snowy 
whiskers, out of a withered bramble stealing with a 
j'outhful snake in its ivory teeth, in the moonlight 
grins with glee. Tliis is their sole society. 

Morn comes, the fresh' and fragrant morn, for 

* I describe the sally deserts of Persia, a locality which 
my tale required; but I have ventured to inlniduce here, 
and in the subsequent pages, the principal characteristics 
of the Great Arabian Deserts — the mirage, the simoom, the 
eazelle, the oasiSa 

58 



which even the guilty sigh. Morn comes, and all 
is visible. And light falls like a signet on the 
earth, and its face is turned like wax with a seal. 
Before them, and also on their right, was the sandy 
desert ; but in the night they had approached much 
nearer to the mountainous chain, which bounded the 
desert on the left, and whither Alroy had at first 
guided the steed. 

The mountains were a chain of tlie mighty 
Elburz ; and as the sun rose from behind a lofty 
peak, the horse suddenly stopped, and neighed as 
if asking for water. But Alroy, himself exhausted, 
could only soothe him with caresses. And the 
horse, full of courage, understood his master, and 
neighed again more cheerfully. 

For an hour or two the prince and his faithful 
companion proceeded slowly, but as the day 
grew on, the heat became so oppressive, and the 
desire to drink so overwhelming, that Ahoy again 
urged on the steed toward the mountains, where ho 
knew that he should find a well. The courser 
dashed willingly forward, and seemed to share his 
master's desire to quit the arid and exhausting wil- 
derness. 

More than once the unhappy fugitive debated 
whether he should not allow himself to drop from 
his scat and die ; no torture that awaited him at 
Hamadan, that did not seem preferable to the pro- 
longed and inexpressible anguish that he now 
endured. As he rushed along, leaning on his 
bearer's neck, he perceived a patch of the desert that 
seemed of a darker colour than the surrounding 
sand. Here, he believed, might perhaps be found 
water. He tried to check the steed, but with 
difliculty he succeeded, and with still greater diffi- 
culty dismounted. He knelt down and feebly 
raked up the sand with his hands. It was very 
moist. He nearly fainted over his fruitless labour. 
At length, when he had dug about a foot deep, 
there bubbled up some water. He dashed in his 
hand, but it was salt as the ocean. When the 
horse saw the water his ears rose, but when he 
smelt it, he tm'ned away his head and neighed most 
piteously. 

" Alas, poor teast !" exclaimed Alroy, " I am the 
occasion of thy sutferings, who would be a kind 
master to thee, if the world would let me. that 
we were once more by my own fair fountain ! The 
thought is madness. And Miriam too ! I fear I 
am sadly tender-hearted." He leaned against his 
horse's back with a feeling of utter exhaustion, and 
burst into hysteric sobs. 

And the steed softly moaned, and turned its head, 
and gently rubbed its face against his arm, as if to 
solace him in his suffering. And strange, but Al- 
roy was relieved by having given way to his 
emotion, and charmed with the fondness of the 
faithful horse, he leaned down and took water, and 
threw it over his feet to cool them, and wiped the 
foam from his face, and washed it, and the horse 
again neighed. 

And now Alroy tried to remount, but his strength 
failed him, and the horse immediately knelt down 
and received him. And the moment that the 
prince was in his seat, the horse rose and 
again proceeded at a rapid pace in tlie old direction. 
Towards srmset they were within a few miles of 
the broken and rocky ground into which the moun- 
tains descended ; and afar off Alroy recognised the 
cupola of the long expected well. With reanimated 
courage and ralUed energies, he patted his courser's 
2Q 



453 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVEL fts. 



neck, and pointed in tlie direction of the cupola, 
and tlie horse pricked up its ears, and increased its 
pace. 

Just as the sun set, they reached the well. Alroy 
jumped off the horse, and would have led it to the 
fountain, but the animal would not advance. It 
stood drcadl'ully shivering vi'ith a glassy eye, and 
then it bowed its head, and with a groan fell down 
and died 

II. 

NifiHT brings rest; night brings solace ; rest to 
the weary ; solace to the sad. And to the desperate 
night brings despair. 

The moon has sunk to early rest ; but a thousand 
stars are in the sky. The mighty. mountains rise 
severe in the clear and silent air. In the forest all 
is still. The tried wind no longer moans, but has 
lightly dropped on its leafy couch, and sleeps like 
man. Silent all but the fountain's drip. And by 
the fountain's side a youth is lying. 

Suddenly a creature steals through the black 
and broken rocks. Ha, ha! the jackal smells from 
alar the rich corruption of the courser's clay. Sud- 
denly and silently it steals, and stops and smells. 
Brave banqueting I ween to-night for all that 
goodly company. Jackal, and fox, and martin- 
cat, haste ye now ere morning's break shall 
call the vulture to his feast, and rob you of your 
prey. 

The jackal lapped the courser's blood, and 
moaned with .exquisite delight. And in a moment 
a faint bark was heard in the distance. And the 
jackal peeled the flesh from one of the ribs, and 
again burst into a shriek of mournful ecstasy. 

Hark, their quick tramp ! First six, and then 
three galloping with ungodly glee. And a marten- 
cat came rushing down from the woods ; but the 
jackals, fierce in their numbers, drove her away, 
and there she stood without the circle, panting, 
beautiful and baffled with her white teeth and 
glossy skin, and sparkling eyes of rabid rage.* 

Suddenly, as one of the half-gorged jackals re- 
tired from the main corpse, dragging along a stray 
member by some still palpitating nerves, the marten- 
cat made a sprmg at her enemy, carried off his prey, 
and rushed into the woods. 

Her wild scream of triumph woke a lion from 
his lair. His mighty form, black as ebony, moved 
on a distant eminence, his tail flowed like a serpent. 
He roared, and the jackals trembled, and imme- 
diately ceased from their banquet, turned their heads 
in the direction of their sovereign's voice. He ad- 
vanced ; he stalked towards them. They retired ; 
he bent his head, examined the carcass with conde- 
scending curiosity, and instantly quitted it with 
royal disdain. The jackals again collected around 
their garbage. The hon advanced to the fountain 
to drink. He beheld a man. His mane rose, 
his tail was wildly agitated, he bent over the 
sleeping prince, he uttered an awful roar, which 
woke Alroy. 



* At night-fall, esppciallj^ in Asia Minor, the lonoly horse- 
man will (iflpn meet Ihe jackals, at, llirir evpnine; prowl. 
Theirmoaning isoftnn heartl (lining ihe niiht. I remember, 
when bocalnipil oif Troy, llie most terrible and singular 
screams were heard at intervals throughout the night, fniin 
a forpslon ihp opposite shore, which a Grepk sailor assured 
nie proccedpd frum a irianen-cat, which had probably found 
the carcass of some horse. 



III. 



He awoke ; his gaze met the flaming eyes of the 
enormous beast fixed upon him with a blended 
feeling of desire and surprise. He awoke, and 
from a swoon ; but the dreamless trance had re- 
freshed the exhausted energies of the desolate 
wanderer ; in an instant he collected his senses, 
remembered all that had passed, and comprehended 
his present situation. He returned the lion a glance 
as imperious, and fierce, and scrutinizing as his 
own. For a moment their flashing orbs vied in 
regal rivalry ; but at length the spirit of the mere 
animal yielded to the genius of the man. The 
lion cowed, slunk away, stalked with haughty 
timidity through the rocks, and then sprang into 
the forest. 

IV. 

Morn breaks ; a silver light is shed over the blue 
and starry sky. Pleasant to feel is the breath of 
dawn. Night brings repose, but day brings joy. 

The carol of a lonely bird singing in the wilder- 
ness ! A lonely bird that sings with glee ! Sunny 
and sweet, and light and clear, its airy notes float 
through the sky, and thrill with innocent revelry. 

The lonely youth on the lonely bird upgazes 
from the fountain side. High in the air it proudly 
floats, balancing its crimson wings, and its snowy 
tail, long, delicate and thin, shmes like a sparkling 
meteor in the sun. 

The carol of a lonely bird singing in the wilder- 
ness ! Suddenly it downward dashes, and thrice 
with circling grace it flies around the head of the 
Hebrevv' prince. Then by his side it gently drops 
a bunch of fi-esh and fragrant dates. 

'Tis gone, 'tis gone! that cheerful stranger, gone 
to the palmy land it loves ; gone like a bright and 
pleasant dream. A moment since and it was there, 
glancing in the sunny air, and now the sky is 
without a guest. Alas, alas ! no more is heard, 
the carol of that lonely bird singing in the wilder- 
ness. 



" As thou didst feed Ehsha, so also hast thou 
fed me, God of my fathers !" And Alroy arose, 
and he took liis turban and unfolded it, and knelt 
and prayed. And then he ate of the dates, and 
drank of the fountain, and full of confidence in the 
God of Israel, the descendant of David pursued 
his flight. 

He now commenced the ascent of the moun- 
tainous chain, a wearisome and painful toil. Two 
hours past noon he reached the summit of the first 
ridge, and looked over a wild and chaotic waste full 
of precipices and ravines, and dark unfathomible 
gorges. The surrounding hills were ploughed in 
all directions by the courses of dried-up cataracts, 
and here and there a few savage goats browsed on 
an occasional patch of lean and sour jiasture. This 
waste extended for many miles ; the distance form- 
ed by a more elevated range of mountains, and 
beyond these, high in the blue sky, rose the loftiest 
peaks of Elburz,* shining with sharp glaciers of 
eternal snow. 



* Elburz or Elborus, the highest range of the Caucaaoa 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



459 



was apparent that Alroy was no stranger in 
the scene of his flight. He had never hesitated as 
to his course, and now, after having rested for a 
short time on the summit, he descended towards 
flie leit by a natural but intricate path, until his 
progress was arrested by a black ravine. Scarcely 
half a dozen yards divided him from the opposite 
precipice by which it was formed, but the gulf 
beneath — ]io one could shoot a glance at its invi- 
sible termination without drawing bacK with a cold 
shudder. 

The prince knelt down and examined the sur- 
rounding ground with great care. At length he 
raised a small square stone which covered a metallic 
plate, and taking from his vest a cornelian talisman 
covered with strange characters,* he knocked thrice 
upon the plate with the signet. A low solemn 
murmur sounded around. Presently the plate flew 
off, and Alroy pivlled forth several yards of an iron 
chain, which he threw over to the opposite preci- 
pice. The chain fastened without dilHculty to the 
rock, and was evidently constrained by some mag- 
netic influence. The prince, seizing the chain with 
both his hands, now swung across the ravine. As 
he landed, the chain parted from the rock, swiftly 
disappeared down the opposite aperture, and its 
covering closed with the same low, solemn murmur 
as before. 

VI. 

Alkot proceeded for about a hundred paces 
through a natural cloister of basalt until he arrived 
at a large uncovered court of the same formation, 
v^'hich a stranger might easily have been excused 
for believing to have been formed and smoothed 
by art. In its centre bubbled up a perpetual 
spring icy cold ; the stream had worn a channel 
through the pavement, and might be traced for 
some time wandering among the rocks, until it 
at length leaped from a precipice, into a gorge 
below, in a gauzy shower of variegated spray. 
Crossing the court, Alroy now entered a vast 
cavern. 

The cavern was nearly circular in form, lighted 
from a large aperture in the top. Yet a burning 
lamp in a distant and murky corner indicated that 
its nihabitant did not trust merely to this natural 
source of the great blessing of existence. In the 
centre of the cave was a circular and brazen table, 
sculptured with strange characters and rnystcrious 
figures : near it was a couch on which ke several 
volumes.-j- Suspended from the walls were a 
shield, some bows and arrows, and other arms. 

As the prince of the captivity knelt down and 
kissed the vacant couch, a flgnre advanced from 
the extremity of the cavern into the light. He 
was a man of middle age, considerably above the 
common height, with a remarkably athletic frame, 
and a strongly marked, but majestic countenance. 
His black beard descended to his waist, over a dark 



* Talismans have not in any degree lost their influence 
in the East. Mnsi that I have seen have been cut upon 
cornelian. A very precious one of this nature, obtained at 
great cost and peril, of the most celebrated sorcerer in 
Cairo, lies at this moment by my side. It secures to its 
possessor a constancy of good fortune. Unfortunately its 
presom holder is the exception that proves the rule. 

t A caliitlisiic tal)le, perhaps a zodiac. The books were 
doubtless Scphcr Happeliah, the Book of Wonders; Sepher 
Hakkaiieh, i\ip Bouk of the Pen; and Sepher Habbahir, 
the Book of Light. This last unfolds the most sublime 
nvysleries. 



red robe, encircled by a black girdle embroidered 
with yellow characters, like those sculptured on 
the brazen table. Black also was his turban, saad 
black his large and luminous eyes. 

The stranger advanced so softly, that Alroy did 
not perceive him until the prince again rose up. 

" Jabaster !" exclaimed the jirince. 

" Sacred seed of David," answered the cabalist,* 
" thou art expected. I read of thee in the stars 
last night. They spoke of trouble." 

" Trouble or triumph, time must prove which it 
is, great master. At ])resent I am a fugitive and 
exhausted. The bloodhounds track me, but me- 
thinks I have baffled them now. I have slain ati 
Ishmaehte." 



PART III. 



It was midnight. Alroy slept upon the couch: 
his sleep was troubled. Jabaster stood by his side 
motionless, and gazing intently upon his slumber- 
ing guest. 

"The only hope of Israel," murmured the caba- 
list, " my pupil and my prince ! I have long per- 
ceived in his young mind the seed of mighty deeds, 
and o'er his future life have often mused with a 
prophetic hope. The blood of David, the sacred 
olTspring of a solemn race. There is a magic in 
his flowing veins my science cannot reach. 

" When in my youth I raised our standard by 
my native Tigris, and called our nation to restore 
their ark, why, vi'e were numerous, wealthy, potent; 
we were a people then, and they flocked to it 
boldly. Did we lack counsel 1 Did we need a 
leader] Who can aver Jabaster's brain or arm 
was ever wanting ] And yet the dream dissolved, 
the glorious vision. O ! when I struck down 
Marvan, and the caliph's camp flung its blazing 
shadow o'er the bloody river — ah ! then indeed I 
lived. Twenty years of vigil may gain a pardon 
that I then forgot we lacked the chief ingredient in 
the spell, — the blood that sleeps beside me. 

" I recall the glorious rapture of that sacred strife 
amid the rocks of Caucasus. A fugitive, a pro- 
scribed and outlawed wretch, whose Ufe is common 
sport, and whom the vilest hind may slay without 
a bidding. I who would have been Messiah ! 



* " Simeon ben Jochai, who flourished in the second 
century, and was a disciple of Akibha, is called by the 
Jews, the prince of the cabalisls. After the suppression 
of the sedition, in which his master had Ijeen so unsuccess- 
ful, he concealed himself in a cave, where, .accord inc; to 
the Jewish historians, he received revelation's, which he 
afterwards delivered to his disciples, and which they care- 
fully preserved in the book called Sohar. His master 
Akibha, w'ho lived soon after the destruction of Jerusalem, 
was the author of the famous book Jezirah, quoted by the 
Jews as of divine authority. When Akibha was far ad- 
vanced in life appeared the famous imposter Barchoche- 
bas, who, under the character of the Messiah, promised to 
deliver his countrymen from the power of the emperor 
Adrian. Akibha espoused hia cause, and afforded him the 
protection and supfiort of his name, and an army of two 
hundred tliousand men repaired to his standard. The Ro- 
mans at first slighted the insurrection; but when they 
found the insurgents spread slaushter and rapine wherever 
they came, they sent out a military force against them. 
At first, the issue of the contest was doubtful. The Mes- 
siah himself was not taken until the end of four years." — 
Enfield ; Philosophy of the Jews, vol. ii. 

" Two methods of instruction were in use among the Jews, 
the one public, or exoteric; the other secret, or esoteric. 



460 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



" Burn thy books, Jabaster ; break thy brazen 
Jables ; forget thy lofty science, cabaUst, and read 
the stars no longer.* But !ast night I stood upon 
the gulf which girds my dwelling : in one hand, I 
held my sacred talisman, that bears the name inef- 
fable ; in the other the mystic record of our holy 
race. I remember that I had evoked spirits, that I 
had communed with the great departed, and that 
the glowing heavens were with me a natural lan- 
guage. I recalled, as consolation to my gloomy 
soul, that never had my science e'er been exercised 
but for a sacred or a noble purpose. And I remem- 
bered Israel, my brave, my chosen, and my antique 
race, — slaves, wretched slaves. I was strongly 
tempted to fling me down this perilous abyss, and 
end my learning and my life together. 

"But as I gazed upon the star of David, a sud- 
den halo rose around its rays, and ever and anon 
a meteor shot from out the silver veil. I read that 
there was trouble in the holy seed; and now comes 
this boy, who has done a deed v^hich — " 

" The ark, the ark ! I gaze upon the ark I" 

" The slumberer speaks ; the words of sleep are 
sacred." 

" Salvation only from the house of David." 

The esoteric doctrine was that which was openly taught the 
people from the law of Moses, and the trad if ions "of the 
fathers. The esoteric was that which treated of the mys- 
teries of the divine nature, and other sublime subjects, and 
was known by the name of the Cabala. The laUer was 
after the manner of the Pythacorean and Egyptian myste- 
ries, taught only to certain persons, who were bound, under 
the most solemn anathema, not to divulge it. Concerning 
the miraculous origin and preservation of the Cabala, the 
Jews relate many marvellous tales. They derive these 
mysteries from Adam ; and assert, that while the first man 
was in paradise, the angel Easiel brought him a book from 
heaven, whitli contained the doctrinesof heavenly wisdom, 
and that when Adam received this book, angels came down 
to him to learn its contents ; but that he refused to admit 
them to the knowledge of sacred things entrusted to him 
alone; that after theTall, this book was taken back into 
heaven ; that after many prayers and tears God restored 
it to Adam, from whom it passed to Seih. In the degene- 
rate age before the flood, this book was lost, and the 'mys- 
teries it contained almost forgotten ; but they were restored 
by special revelation to Al)raham, who committed thein to 
writing in the book Jezirah."— Vid. Enfield, vol. ii. p. 219. 

" The Hebrew word Cabala," says Cum Calmel, " signi- 
fies tradition, and the rabbins, who are named Cabal ists, 
apply themselves principally to \\\q. combination of certain 
words, numbers, and letters, by meansof which they boasted 
they could reveal the future, and penetrate the sense of 
che most difficult passages of Scripture. This science does 
not appear to have any fixed principles, but depends upon 
certain ancient traditions, whence its name Cabala. The 
cabalists have a great number of names which they style 
sacred, by meansof which they raise spirits, and affect to 
obtain supernatural intelligence."— See Calviet, art. Ca- 
bala. 

" We spake before," says Lightfoot, " of the commonness 
of maeic among them, one singular means whereby they 
kept their own in delusion, and whereby they affronted 
ours. The general expectation of the nation of Messiah's 
coming when he did, hud this double and contrary effect, 
that it forwarded those that belonged to God to believe and 
receive the gospel ; and those that did not, it gave encou- 
ragement to some to lake upon them they were Christ, or 
some great prophet, and to others it gave some persuasion 
to be deluded by them. These deceivers dealt most of 
them with magic, and that cheat ended not when Jerusa- 
lem ended, iliDugh one would have thought that had been 
a fair term of not further expecting Messias ; but since the 
people were willing to be deceived by s'nch expectation, 
there rose up deUiders still that were willing to deceive 
\hcm.''—Ligklfo()t, vol. ii. p. 371 

For many curious details df the cabalistical magic, Vid. 
Basnage, vol. v. p. 3S4, &c. 

* " The modern Jews," says Basnage, " have a great 
idea of the influence of the stars." Vol. iv. p. 454. But 
astrology was most prevalent amom: the Baliylonian rab- 
bins, of whom Jabaster was one. I.iving in the ancient 
land of the Chaldeans, these sacred sages imbibed a tasle 
for the mystic lore of their predecessors^ . The stars moved 
and formed letters and lines, when consulted by any of the 
tiigh initiated of the cabalists. This they styled the celes- 
tial alphabet. 



" A mighty truth ; my life too well has proved it 
" He is more calm. It is the holy hour. I'll 
steal into the court, and gaze upon the star that 
sways the fortunes of his royal house." 

n. 

The moonbeam fell upon the fountain ; the 
pavement of the court was a flood of light ; the 
rocks rose dark around. Jabaster, seated by the 
spring, and holding his talisman in his left hand, 
shaded his sight with the other, as he gazed upon 
the luminous heavens. 

A shriek, his name was called. Alroy, wild and 
panting, rushed into the court, willi extended arms. 
The cabalist started up, seized him, and held him 
in his careful grasp, foanung and in convulsions. 

" Jabaster, J abaster !" 

" I am here, my child." 

" Tile Lord hath spoken." 

" The Lord is our refuge. Calm thyself, son of 
David, and tell me all." 

" I have been sleeping, master ; is it not so ?" 

"Even so, my child. Exhausted by his flight 
and the exciting narrative of his exploit, my prince 
laid down upon the couch and slumbered ; but I 
fear that slumber was not repose." 

" Repose and I have naught in common now. 
Farewell forever to that fatal word. I am the 
Lord's anointed." 

"Drink of the fountain, David: it will restore 
thee." 

" Restore the covenant, restore the ark, restore 
the holy city." 

" The spirit of the Lord hath fallen upon him. 
Son of David, I adjure thee to tell me all that hath 
passed. I am a Levite ; in my hand I hold the namd 
incfiable." 

" Take thy trumpet, then, summon the people, 
bid them swiftly raise again our temple. ' The 
bricks have fallen, but we will rebuild with marble.' 
Didst hear that chorus, sirl" • 

" Unto thy chosen car alone it sounded." 

"Nay, nay, it was not here. And yet Miriam, 
Miriam, iny sister, my sweet sister, how thou 
wouldst weep, to know that which has happened, 
tears, tears of joy, girl ! Where am I ? This is 
not our fountain. Yet thou didst say, ' The foun- 
tain.' Think me not wild. I know thee, I know 
all. Thou art Jabaster ; I am Alroy. But thou 
didst say, ' The fountain,' and it distracted me, atid 
called back my memory to 

" God of Israel, lo, I kneel before thee ! Here, in 
the solitude of wildest nature, my only witness 
here this holy man, I kneel and vow. Jjord ! 1 
will do thy bitlding. I am young, I am very young, 
God, and weak ; but thou, Lord, art all-powerful. 
What God is like to thee ! Doubt not my courage, 
Lord, and fill me with thy spirit ; but remember, 
remember her, O Lord, remember Miriam. It is 
the only worldly thought I have, and it is pure." 

" Still of his sister — calm thyself, my son." 

" Holy master, thou dost remember when I was 
thy pupil in this cavern. Thou hast not forgotten 
those days of tranquil study, those sweet, long 
wandering nights of sacred science ! I was dutiful, 
and hung upon each accent of thy lore with the 
devotion that nmst spring from love." 

" I cannot weep, Alroy ; but were it in )ny 
power, I would yield a tear of homage to the uie- 
mory of those days." 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



461 



" How calmly have we sat on some high brow, 
and gazed upon the stars." 

" 'Tis very true, sweet child." 

" And if thou e'er didst chide me, 'twas half in 
jest, and only for my silence." 

" What would he now infer ? No matter, he 
grows calmer. How solemn is his visage in the 
moonlight ! And yet not Solomon, upon his youth- 
ful throne, could look more beautiful." 

" I never told thee an untruth, Jabaster." 

" My life upon thy faith." 

" Fear not the pledge and so believe me — on the 
mountain brow, watching the starry heavens with 
thyself, I was not calmer than I feel, sir, now." 

" I do believe thee." 

" Then, Jabaster, believe as fully I am the Lord's 
anointed." 

" Tell me all, my child." 

" Know, then, that sleeping on the couch within, 
my sleep was troubled. Many dreams I had inde- 
finite and broken. I recall none of their images, 
except I feel a dim sensation 'twas my lot to live 
in brighter days than now rise on our race. Sud- 
denly I stood upon a mountain tall and gray, and 
gazed upon the stars. And as I gazed, a trumpet 
sounded. Its notes thrilled through my soul. Never 
have I heard a sound so awful. The thunder, when 
it broke over the cavern here, and shivered the peak, 
whose ruins lie around us, was but a feeble worldly 
sound to this almighty music. My cheek grew 
pale, I panted even for breath. A flaming light 
spread over the sky, the stars rhelted away, and I 
beheld, advancing from the bursting radiancy, the 
foremost body of a mighty host. 

" ! not when Saul led forth our fighting men 
against the Plrilistine, not when Joab numbered the 
warriors of my great ancestors, did human vision 
gaze upon a scene of so much martial splendour. 
Chariots and cavalry, and gUttering trains of plumed 
warriors too robust to need a courser's solace ; 
streams of shining spears, and banners like a sun- 
set ; reverend priests swinging their perfumed cen- 
sers, and prophets hymning with their golden harps 
a most triumphant future. 

" ' Joy, joy,' they say, ' to Israel, for he cometh ; 
he cometh in his splendour and his might, the great 
Messiah of our ancient hopes.' 

" And, lo ! a mighty chariot now appeared, drawn 
by strange beasts, whose forms were half obscured 
by the bright flames on which they seemed to float. 
Tn that glorious car a warrior stood, proud and im- 
movable, his form, his countenance — hold my 
hand, Jabaster, while I speak — that chieftain was 
myself!" 

"Proceed, proceed, my son." 

" I started in my dream, and I awoke. I found 
myself upsitting on my couch. The pageantry had 
vanished. Naught was seen but the bright moon- 
light and the gloomy cave. And as I sighed to 
think I e'er had wakened, and mused upon the 
strangeness of my vision, a small still voice de- 
scended from above and called ' Alroy !' I started, 
but I answered not. Methought it was my fancy. 
Again my name was called, and now I murnmred 
— 'Lord, I am here, what wouldst thoul' Naught 
responded, and soon great dread came o'er me, and 
I rushed out and called to thee, my master." 

" It was ' the Daughter of the Voice '* that 



* " Both the Talmudic and the later rabbin," says 
Lishtfoot, "make frequent menlion of But/i Kol, or 
Filia Voi-is, or an echoing voice whicli served under the 



spake. Since the captivity 'tis the only mode by 
which the saints are summoned. Oft have I heard 
of it, but never in these sad degenerate days has 
its soft aspiration fallen upon us. These are strange 
times and tidings. The building of the temple is 
at hand. Son of David, my heart is full. Let us 
to prayer !" 

HI. 

Day dawned upon Jabaster, still musing in 
solitude among his rocks. Within the cavern Alroy 
remained in prayer. 

Often and anxiously the cabalist shot a glance 
at his companion, a;id then again relapsed into 
revery. 

" The time is come that I must to this youth 
reveal the secrets of my early life. Much will he 
hear of glory, much of shame. Naught must I 
conceal, and naught gloss over. 

" I must tell how in the plains of Tigris I up- 
raised the sacred standard of our chosen race, and 
called them from their bondage ; how, despairing 
of his recreant flrthers, and inspired by human 
power alone, I vainly claimed the mighty oflice for 
iiis sacred blood alone reserved. God of my 
fathers, grant that future service, the humble 
service of a contrite soul, may, in the coming glory 
that awaits us, atone for past presumption ! 

"But for him great trials are impending. Not 
lightly must that votary be proved, who fain would 
free a people. The Lord is faithful to his promise, 
but the Lord will choose his season and his minis- 
ter. Courage, and faith, and deep humility, and 
strong endurance, and the watchful soul temptation 
cannot sully : these are the fruits we lay upon 
his altar, and meekly watch if some descending 
flame will vouchsafe to accept and brightly bles3 
them. 

" It is written in the dread volume of our mystic 
lore, that not alone the Saviour shall spring fi-om 
out our house of princes, but that none shall rise to 
fi"ee us until, alone and unassisted, he have gained 
the sceptre Solomon antiquely wielded within his 
cedar palaces. 

" That sceptre must he gain. This fragile youth, 
untried and dehcate, unknowing in the ways of this 
strange world, where every step is danger. How 
much hardship, how much peril, what withering 
disappointment, what dull care, what long despond- 
ency, what never-ending lures, now lie in ambush 
for this gentle boy ! ! my countrymen, is this 
thy hope 1 And I, with all my lore, and all my 
courage, and all my deep intelligence of man ; un- 
happy Israel, why am I not thy prince 1 



second temple for their utmost refuge of revelation. For 
when TJrim and Thummim, the oracle, was ceased, and 
prophecy was decayed and gone, they had, as they say, 
certain slrange and extraordinary voices upon certain ex- 
traordinary occasions, which were their warnings and ad- 
verlisemenis in some special matters. Infinite instances 
of this might be adduced, if they might be believed. _^ Now 
here it may be questioned, why they call it Bath Kol, the 
dajighter of a voire, anA niAa. voice itself ? If the strict- 
ness of the Hebrew word Bath be to be stood upon, which 
always il is not, it may be answered, that it is called tlie 
Daughter of a Voice in relation to the oracles of Urim and 
Thummim. For whereas that was a voice given from off 
the mercy seat, within the vail, and this, upon the decay 
of that oracle, came as it were in its place, it might not 
unfitly or improperly be called a daughter or successor of 
that vn\ce."—Lightfoot, vol. i. p. 4S.i, 486. 

Consult also the learned doctor, vol. ii. p. 128, 129; "It 
was used for a testimony from heaven, but was indeed per 
formed by magic art.'' 



462 



©'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" I check the blasphemous thought. Did not his 
great ancestor, as young and as untried, a beardless 
stripling, but with a pebble, a sniall smooth stone, 
level a mailed giant to the ground, and save his 
people 1 

" He is clearly summoned. The Lord is with 
him. Be he with the Lord, and we shall prosper." 

IV. 

It was sunset, on the third day after the arrival 
of Alroy at the cave of the cabalist, that the prince 
of the captivity commenced his pilgrimage in quest 
of the sceptre of Solomon. 

Silently the pilgrim and his master took their 
way to the brink of the ravine, and there they stop- 
ped to part — perhaps forever, 

" It is a bitter moment, Alroy. Human feelings 
are not for beings like us, yet they will have their 
way. Remember, remember all. Cherish the 
talisman as thy life — nay ! welcome death with it 
pressing against thy heart, sooner than breathe 
without it. Be firm, be pious. Think of thy an- 
cestors, think of thy God." 

" Doubt me not, dear master ; if I seem not full 
of that proud spirit, which was perhaps too much 
ray wont, ascribe it not to fear, Jabaster, nor even 
to the pain of leaving thee, dear friend. But ever 
since that sweet and solemn voice summoned me 
so thrillingly, — I know not how it is, — but a change 
has come over my temper ; yet I am firm, O I 
firmer far than when I struck down the Ishmaelite. 
Indeed, indeed, fear not for me. The Lord, that 
knoweth all things, knows full well I am prepared 
even to the death. Thy prayers, Jabaster, and " 

" Stop, stop. I do remember me. See this ring : 
'tis a choice emerald. Thou mayst have wondered 
I should wear a bauble. Alroy, I had a brother 
once: still he may live. When we parted, this 
was the signal of his love : a love, my child, strong, 
though we greatly differed. Take it. The hour 
may come that thou mayst need his aid. It will 
command it. If he live, he prospers. I know his 
temper well. He was made for what the worldly 
deem prosperity. God be with thee, sacred boy : 
tlie God of our great fathers — the God of Abraham, 
of Isaac, and of Jacob." 

They embraced. 

' We linger," exclaimed the cabalist, " we linger. 
O ! in vain we quell the feelings of our kind. God, 
God bless and be with thee. Art sure hast all ? 
thy dagger and thy wallet ] That stall" has seen 
some service. I cut it on the Jordan. Ah ! that I 
could be thy mate ! 'Twould be nothing then. At 
the worst, to die together. Such a fate seems 
sweeter now than parting. I'll watch thy star, my 
child. Thou weepcst ! And I too. Why ! what 
is this 1 Am I indeed Jabaster 1 One more em- 
brace, and so — we'll not say farewell, but only 
think it." 



PART IV. 

I. 

TnADiTioN delivered that the sceptre of Solomon 
could be found only in the unknown sepulchres of 
llie ancient Hebrew monarchs, and that none might 



dare to touch it but one of their descendants. 
Armed with the cabalistic talisman, which was to 
guide him in his awful and difficult researches, 
Alroy commenced his pilgrimage to the Holy City. 
At this time, the love of these sacred wanderings 
was a reigning passion among the Jews, as well as 
Christians. 

The prince of the captivity was to direct his 
course to the heart of those great deserts which, in 
his flight to Hamadan, he had only skirted. Fol- 
lowing the track of the caravan, he was to make 
his way to Babylon, or Bagdad. From the capital 
of the caliphs, his journey to Jerusalem was one 
comparatively easy ; but to reach Bagdad he must 
encounter hardship and danger, the prospect of 
which would have divested any one of hope, who 
did not conceive himself the object of an omnipotent 
and particular Providence. 

Clothed only in a coarse black frock, common 
among the Kourds, girded round his centre by a 
cord, which held his dagger, his head shaven, and 
covered with a large white turban, which screened 
him from the heat, his feet protected only by slip- 
pers, supported b^ his staff, and bearing on his 
shoulders a bag of dried meat and parched corn, 
and a leathern skin of water, behold a youth toiling 
over the glowing sands of Persia, whose life had 
hitherto been a long unbroken dream of domestic 
luxury and innocent indulgence. 

He travelled during the warm night, or the early 
starlit morn. During the day he rested : happy if 
he could recline by the side of some charitable well, 
shaded by a palm tree, or frighten a gazelle from its 
resting-place among the rough bushes of some wild 
rocks. Were these resources wanting, he threw 
himself upon the sand, and made an awning with 
his staff and turban. 

Three weeks had elapsed since he quitted the 
cavern of the cabalist. Hitherto he had met wim 
no human being. The desert became less arid. A 
scanty vegetation sprang up from a more genial 
soil, the ground broke into gentle undulations, his 
senses were invigorated with the odour of wild 
plants, and his sight refreshed by the glancing form 
of some wandering bird, a pilgrim like himself, but 
more at ease. 

Soon sprang up a grove of graceful palm trees, 
with their tall thin stems, and bending feathery 
crowns, languid and beautiful. Around, the verdant 
sod gleamed like an emerald : silver streams, flow- 
ing from a bubbling parent spring, wound their 
white forms within the bright green turf. From 
the grove arose the softening song of doves, and 
showers of gay and sparkling butterflies, borne on 
their tinted wings of shifting light, danced without 
danger in the liquid air. A fair and fresh oasis ! 

II. 

Aluot reposed in this delicious retreat for two 
days, fteding on the living dates, and drinking of the 
fresh water. Fain would he have lingered, nor 
indeed until he rested had he been sufficiently con- 
scious of his previous exertion. But the remem- 
brance of his great mission made him restless, and 
steeled him to the suffering which yet awaited 
him. 

At the dawn of the second day of his journey 
from the oasis, he beheld, to his astonishment, 
faintly but distinctly traced on the far horizon, the 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



463 



walls and turrets of an extensive city.* Animated 
b)' this unexpected prospect, he continued his pro- 
gress for several hours after sunrise. At length, 
utterly exhausted, he found refuge from the over- 
powering heat beneath the cupola of the ruined 
tomb of some Moslemin saint. At sunset he con- 
tinued his journey, and in the morning found him- 
self within a few miles of the city. He halted and 
watched with anxiety for some evidence of its in- 
habitants. None was visible. No crowds or 
cavalcades issued from the gates. Not a single hu- 
man being, not a solitary camel moved in the 
vicinity. 

The day was too advanced for the pilgrim to 
proceed, but so great was his anxiety to reach this 
unknown settlement, and penetrate the mystery of 
its silence, that ere sunset Alroy entered the gates. 

A magnilicent city, of an architecture with which 
he was unacquainted, oflered to his entranced vision 
its gorgeous ruins and deserted splendour; long 
streets of palaces, with their rich line of lessenir-5 
pillars here and there broken by some fallen shaft, 
vast courts surrounded by ornate and solemn tem- 
ples, and luxurious baths, adorned with rare mo- 
saics, and yet bright with antique gilding: now an 
arch of triumph still haughty with its broken friezes, 
now a granite obelisk covered with strange charac- 
ters, and proudly towering o'er a prostrate compa- 
nion ; sometimes a void and crumbUng theatre, 
sometimes a long and elegant aqueduct, sometimes 
a porphyry column, once breathing with the heroic 
statue that now lies shivered at its base — all suffused 
with the warm twilight of an eastern eve. 

He gazed with wonder and admiration upon the 
strange and fascinating scene. The more he be- 
held, the more his curiosity was excited. He 
breathed with difficulty ; he advanced with a blended 
feeling of eagerness and hesitation. Fresh wonders 
successively unfolded themselves. Each turn de- 
veloped a new scene of still and solemn splendour. 
The echo of his step filled him with awe. He 
looked around him with an amazed air, a fluttering 
heart, and changing countenance. All was silent : 
alone the Hebrew prince stood amid the regal crea- 
tion of the Macedonian captains. Empires and 
dynasties flourish and pass away, the proud metro- 
polis becomes a solitude, the conquering kingdom 
even a desert; but Israel still remains, still a de- 
scendant of the most ancient kings breathed amid 
these royal ruins, and still the eternal sun could 
never rise without gilding the towers of living Jeru- 
salem. A word, a deed, a single day, a angle man, 
and we might be a nation. 

A shout ; he turns, he is seized ; four ferocious 
Kourdish bandits grapple and bind him. 

III. 

The bandits hurried their captive through a 
street which appeared to have been the principal 
way of the city. Nearly at its termination they 
turned by a small Ionian temple, and clambering 
over some fallen pillars, they entered a quarter of 
the city of a more ruinous aspect than that which 
Alroy had hitherto visited. The path was narrow, 



* In Persia, and ihe countries of the Tigris and Euphra 
le^, the travfllpr soniPtimes arrives at deserted cities of 
great ma?nificence and aniiquity. Such for instance, is 
the city of Aniieh. I suppose Alroy to have entered one of 
(he deserted capitals of the Seleucidoe. They are in gene- 
ral Ihe haunt of bandits. 



often obstructed, and around were signs of devasta- 
tion for which the exterior of the city had not pre- 
pared him. 

The brilliant but brief twilight of the orient was 
fast fading away ; a sombre purple tint succeeded 
to the rosy flush, the distant towers rose black, al- 
though defined in the clear and shadowy air, and 
the moon, which, when he first entered, had stud- 
ded the heavens like a small white cloud, now glit- 
tered with deceptive light. 

Suddenly before them rose a huge pile. Oval in 
shape and formed by tiers of arches, it was evident- 
ly much dilapidated, and one enomious, irregular, 
and undulating rent, extending from the top nearly 
to the foundation, almost separated the side to 
which Alroy and his companions advanced. 

Clambering up the remainder of this massy wall, 
the robbers and their prisoner descended into an 
immense amphitheatre, which seemed vaster in the 
shadowy and streaming moonlight. In it were 
groups of men, horses, and camels. In the extreme 
distance, reclining or squatting on mats and carpets, 
was a large assembly engaged in a rough but mer- 
ry banquet. A fire blazed at their side, its red and 
uncertain flame mingling with the white and steady 
moonbeam, and throwing a flickering light over 
their ferocious countenances, their glistening ar- 
mour, ample drapery, and shawled heads. 

" A spy," exclaimed the captors, as they dragged 
Alroy before the leader of the band. 

" Hang him, then," said the cliieftain, without 
even looking up. 

" This wine, great Scherirah, is excellent, or I 
am no true Moslemin," said a principal robber ; 
'' but you are too cruel ; I hate this summary punish- 
jnent. Let us torture him a little, and extract some 
useful information." 

" As you like, Kisloch," said Scherirah ; "it may 
amuse us. Fellow, where do you come from ] He 
cannot answer. Decidedly a spy. Hang him up." 

The captors half untied the rope that bound Al- 
roy, that it might serve him for another purpose ; 
when another of the gentle companions of Scheri- 
rah interfered. 

" Spies always answer, captain. He is more 
probably a merchant in disguise." 

" And carries hidden treasure," added Kisloch ; 
" these rough coats often cover jewels. We had 
better search him." 

" Ay ! search him," said Scherirah, with his 
rough brutal voice ; " do what you like, only give 
me the bottle. This Greek wine is choice booty. 
Feed the fire, men. x\re you asleep 1 And then Kis- 
loch, who hates cruelty, can roast him, if he likes." 

The robbers prepared to strip their captiva 
" Friends, friends !" exclaimed Alroy, "for there is 
no reason why you should not be friends, spare me, 
spare me. I am poor, I am young, I am innocent. 
I am neither a spy nor a merchant. I have no 
plots, no wealth. I am a pilgrim." 

" A decided spy," exclaimed Scherirah ; *they 
are ever pilgrims." 

" He speaks too well to speak truth," exclaimed 
Kisloch. 

" All talkers are liars," exclaimed Scherirah. 

" That is why Kisloch is the most eloquent of the 
band." 

"A jest at the banquet may prove a curse in the 
field," replied Kisloch. t 

" Pooh !" exclaimed Scherirah. " Fellows, why 
do you hesitate 1 Search the prisoner, I say !" 



464 



D'ISRAELl S NOVELS. 



They advanced, they seized liim. In vain he 
struggled. 

" Captain," exclaimed one of the band, " he 
wears upon his breast a jewel!" 

" I told you so," said the third robber. 

" Give it me," said Scherirah. 

But Alroy, in despair, at the thought of losing 
the talisman, remembering the injunction of Jabas- 
ter, and animated by supernatural courage, burst 
from his searchers, and seizing a brand from the 
fire, held them at bay. 

" The fellow has spirit," said Scherirah, calmly. 
" 'Tis pity, it will cost him his life." 

■• Bold man," exclaimed Alroy, " for a moment 
hear me ! I am a pilgrim, poorer than a beggar. 
The jewel they talk of is a holy emblem, worthless 
to you, to me invaluable, and to be forfeited only 
by my life. You may be careless of that. Beware 
of your own. The first man who advances, dies. 
I pray you humbly, chieftain, let me go." 

" Kill him I" said Scherirah. 

" Stab him !" exclaimed Kisloch. 

" Give me the jewel," said the third robber. 

" God of David be my refuge, then !" exclaimed 
Alroy. 

" He is a Hebrew, he is a Hebrew," exclaimed 
Scherirah, jumping up. " Spare liim ! spare him ! 
my mother was a Jewess." 

The assailants lowered their arms, and with- 
drew a few paces. Alroy still remained upon his 
guard. 

" Valiant pilgrim," said Scherirah, advancing, 
with a softened voice, " are you for the holy cityl" 

" The city of ray fathers." 

" A perilous journey. And whence from V 

" Hamadan." 

"A dreary way. You need repose. Your name 1" 

" David." 

" David, you are among friends. Rest and re- 
pose in safety. You hesitate. Fear not ! The 
memory of my mother is a charm that always 
changes me." Scherirah unsheathed his dagger, 
punctured his arm, and, throwing away his wea- 
pon, offered the bleeding member to Alroy. The 
prince of the captivity touched the open vein with 
his lips. 

" My troth is pledged," said the bandit ; " I can 
never betray him in whose veins my own blood 
is flowing."* So saying, he led Alroy to his 
carpet. 

IV. 

" Eat, Davi(U' said Scherirah. 

" I will eat bread," answered Alroy. 

" What, have you had so much meat lately that 
you will refuse this delicate gazelle that I have 
brought down this morning with my own lance 1 
'Tis food for a caliph." 

" I pray you give me bread." 

" O ! bread if you Uke. But that a man should 
prefer bread to meat, and such meat as this, 'tis 
miraculous." 

" A thousand thanks, good Scherirah ; but with 
our people the flesii of the gazelle is forbidden. It 
is unclean. Its foot is cloven." 

" I have heard of these things," replied Scheri- 
rali, with a thoughtful air. " My mother was a 



* From a slory told by an Arab. 



Jewess, and my father was a Kourd. Whichever 
be right, I hope to be saved." 

" There is but one God, and Mohammed is his 
prophet !" exclaimed Kisloch ; " though I drink 
wine. Your health, Hebrew." 

" I will join you," said the third robber. " My 
father was a Guebre, and sacrificed his property to 
his faith ; and the consequence is, his son has got 
neither." 

" As for me," said a fourth robber, of very dars 
complexion and singularly small bright eyes, "I am 
an Indian, and I believe in the great golden figure 
with carbuncle eyes, in the temple of Delhi." 

" I have no religion," said a tall negro, in a red 
turban, grinnmg with his white teeth ; " they have 
none in my country, but if I had heard of your God 
before, Calidas, I would have believed in him." 

" I almost wish I had been a Jew," exclaimed 
Scherirah, musing. " My mother was a good wo- 
man." 

" The Jews are very rich," said the third rob- 
ber. 

" When you get to Jerusalem. David, you will 
see the Christians," continued Scherirah. 

" The accursed Giaours," exclaimed Kisloch, 
" we are all against them." 

" With their white faces," exclaimed the negro. 

"And their blue eyes," said the Indian. 

" What can you expect of men who live in a 
countiy without a sun!" observed the Guebre. 

V. 

Alrot awoke about two hours after midnight. 
His companions were in deep slumber. The moon 
had set, the fire had died away, a few red embers 
alone remaining ; dark masses of shadow hung 
about the amphitheatre. He arose and cautiously 
stepped over the sleeping bandits. He was not, in 
strictness, a prisoner ; but who could trust to the 
caprice of these lawless men 1 To-morrow might 
find him their slave, or their companion in some ma- 
rauding expedition, which might make him almost 
retrace his steps to the Caucasus or to Hamadan. 
The temptation to ensure his freedom was irresisti- 
ble. He clambered up the ruined wall, descended 
into the intricate windings that led to the Ionic fane, 
that served him as a beacon, hurried through the 
silent and starry streets, gained the great portal, and 
rushed once more into the desert. 

A vague fear of pursuit made him continue his 
course many hours without resting. The desert 
again became sandy, the heat increased. The breeze 
that plays about the wilderness, and in early spring 
is often scented with the wild fragrance of aromatic 
plants, sank away. A lurid brightness sufi'uscd the 
heavens. An appalling stillness pervaded nature ; 
even the insects were silent. For the first time in 
his pilgrimage, a feeling of deep despondency fell 
over the soul of Alroy. His energy appeared sud- 
denly to have deserted him. A low hot wind began 
to rise, and fan his cheeks with pestiferous kisses, 
and enervate his frame with its poisonous embrace. 
His head and limbs ached with a dull sensation, 
more terrible than pain ; his sight was dizzy, his 
tongue swollen. Vainly he looked around for aid, 
vainly he extended his forlorn arms, and wrung 
them to the remorseless heaven. Almost frantic 
with thirst, the boundless horizon of the desert dis- 
appeared, and the unhappy victim, in the midst of 
his torture, found himself apparently surrounded by 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



465 



bright and running streams, the fleeting waters of 
the false mirage ! 

The sun became biood-rcd, the slcy darker, the 
sand rose in fierce eddies, tiie moaning wind burst 
into shrieks and respired a more ardent and still 
more malignant breath. The pilgrim could no 
jjonger sustain himself. * Faith, courage, devotion, 
deserted him with his falli'ng energies. He strove 
no longer with his destiny, he delivered himself up 
to despair and death. He fell upon one knee with 
drooping head, supporting himself by one quiver- 
ing hand, and then, full of the anguish of baffled 
purposes and lost affections, raising his face and 
arm to heaven, thvis to the elements he poured his 
passionate farewell. 

" life, once vainly deemed a gloomy toil, I feel 
thy sweetness now; farewell, O life, farewell my 
high resolves and proud conviction of almighty 
fame. My days, my short unprofitable days, melt 
into the past ; and death, with which I struggle, 
horrible death, arrests me in this wildness. my 
sister, could thy voice, thy sweet voice but murmur 
in my ear one single sigh of love ; could thine eye 
with its soft radiance but an instant blend with my 
dim fading vision, the pang were nothing. Fare- 
well, Miriam ! my heart is with thee by thy foun- 
tain's side. Fatal blast, bear her my dying words, 
my blessing. And ye, too, friends, whose too neg- 
lected love I think of now, farewell ! Farewell, my 
uncle, farewell, pleasant home, and Hamadan's 
serene and shadowy bowers ! Farewell, Jabaster, 
and the mighty lore of which thou wert the priest 
and I the pupil ! Thy talisman throbs on my faith- 
ful heart. Green earth and golden sun, and all the 
beautiful and glorious sights yc fondly lavish on 
unthinking man, farewell, farewell ! I die in the 
desert, 'tis bitter. No more, O ! never more, for 
me the hopeful day shall break, and its fresh breeze 
rise on its cheering wings of health and joy. Hea- 
ven and earth, water and air, my chosen country, 
and my antique creed, farewell, farewell ! And 
thou, too, city of my soul, I cannot name thee, un- 
seen Jerusalem — " 

Amid the roar of the wind, the bosom of the 
earth heaved and opened, swift columns of sand 
sprang up to the lurid sky, and hurried towards 
their victim. With the clang of universal chaos, 
impenetrable darkness descended on the desert. 



PART V. 



I. 

" Now our dreary way is o'er, now the desert's 
toil is past. Soon the river broadly flowing 
through its green and palmy banks, to our wearied 
limbs shall offer baths which caliphs cannot buy. 
Allah-illah, Allah-hu. Allah-illah, Allah-hu." 

" Blessed the man who now may bear a relic 
from our prophet's tomb, blessed the man who now 
unfolds the treasures of a distant mart, jewels of 
the dusky east, and silks of farthest Samarcand. 
Allah-illah, Allah-hu. Allah-illah, Allah-hu." 

"Him the sacred mosque shall greet with a 



* I have endeavoured to paint the simoom as I myself 
experienced it in llie deseris of Upper Eirypi. My friend 
and fellow traveller, Mr. Clay, has, I veiuure lo stale, not 
forgoiien the awful day. 

59 



reverence grave and low ; him the busy Bezestein 
shall welcome with confiding smile. Holy mer- 
chant, now receive the double triumph of thy toil. 
Allah-illah, Allah-hu. Allah-illah, A!lah-hu." 

" The camel jibs, Abdallah ! See, there is some- 
thing in the track." 

" By the holy stone,* a dead man. Poor devil ! 
One should never make a pilgrimage on foot. I 
hate your humble piety. Prick the beast and he 
will pass the corpse." 

" The prophet preaches charity, Abdallah. He 
has favoured my enterprise, and I will practise his 
precept. See if he be utterly dead." 

It was the Mecca caravan returning to Bagdad. 
The pilgrims were within a day's journey of the 
Euphrates, and welcomed their approach to fertile 
earth with a triumphant chorus. Far as the eye 
could reach, the long line of their straggling pro- 
cession stretched across the wilderness, thousands 
of camels in strings, laden with bales of merchan- 
dise, and each company headed by an animal of 
superior size, leading, with tinkling bells, groups of 
horsemen, clusters of litters ; all the pilgrims armed 
to their teeth, the van formed by a strong division 
of Seljukian cavalry, and the rear protected by a 
Kourdish clan, who guarantied the security of the 
pious travellers through their country. 

Abdallah was the favourite slave of the charita- 
ble merchant A!i. In obedience to his master's 
orders, he unwillingly descended from his camel, 
and examined the body of the apparently lifeless 
Alroy. 

" A Kourd, by his dress," exclaimed Abdallah, 
with a sneer, " what does he here 1" 

" It is not the face of a Kourd," replied Ali, 
"perchance a pilgrim from the mountains 1" 

" Whatever he be, he is dead," answered tho 
slave : " I doubt not an accursed Giaour." 

" God is great," exclaimed Ali, " he breathes ; 
the breast of his caftan heaved." 

" 'Twas the wind," said Abdallah. 

" 'Twas the sigh of a human heart," answered 
Ali. 

Several pilgrims who were on foot had now 
gathered round the group. 

"I am a hakim,"-j- observed a dignified Arme- 
nian. " I will feel his pulse ; 'tis dull, but it 
beats." 

" There is but one God," exclaimed Ali. 

" And Mohammed is his prophet," resf)onded Ab- 
dallah. " You do not believe in him, you Arme- 
nian infidel." 

" I am a hakim," replied the dignified Armenian. 
" Although an infidel, God has granted me skill to 
cure true believers. Worthy Ali, believe, the boy 
may yet live." 

" Hakim, you shall count your own dirhems if 
he breathe in my divan in Bagdad," answered 
Ali ; " I have taken a fancy to the boy. God has 
sent him to me. He shall carry my slippers."^ 

" Give me a camel, and I will save his life. 

" We have none," said the servant. 

" Walk, Abdallah," said the master. i 

" Is a true believer to walk to save the life of a 
Kourd ? Master slipper-bearer shall answer for 



* The Caaba.— The Caaba is the same to the Mohamme- 
dan as ihe holy sepulchre to the Clirisiian. Il is the most 
unseemly, but ihe mosl sacred, pari of the mosque at 
Blecca, and is a small, .square stone buildin<;. 

t /. e. Phijsidan, an almost sacred characier in the east. 
.4s all Englishmen travid with medicine chests, the Turks 
are not to be wondered al for considering us pUysiciaua. 



466 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



this, if there he any sweetness in the bastinado," 
murmured Abdallah. 

The Armenian blooded Alroy ; the blood flowed 
slowly but surely. The prince of the captivity 
opened his eyes. 

" There is but one God !" exclaimed Ali. 

" The evil eye fall on him !"* muttered Abdallah. 

The Armenian took a cordial from his vest, and 
poured it down his patient's throat. The blood 
Howed more freely. 

" He will live, worthy merchant," said the phy- 
sician. 

" And Mohammed is his prophet," continued Ali. 

" By the stone of Mecca, I beUeve it is a Jew," 
shouted Abdallah. 

" The dog !" exclaimed Ali. 

" Pah !" said a negro slave, drawing back with 
disgust. 

" He will die," said the Christian physician, not 
even binding up the vein. 

" And be damned," said Abdallah, jumping 
again on his camel. 

'I'he party rode on, the caravan proceeded. A 
Kourdish horseman galloped forward. He curbed 
his steed as he passed Alroy bleeding to death. 

" What accursed slave has wounded one of my 
dan 1" 

The Kourd jumped off his horse, stripped off a 
slip of his blue shirt, stanched the wound, and 
carried the unhappy Alroy to the rear. 

The desert ceased, the caravan entered upon a 
vast but fruitful plain. In the extreme distance 
might be detected a long undulating line of palm 
trees. The vanguard gave a shout, shook their 
tall lances in the air, and rattled their cimeters in 
rude chorus against their small round iron shields. 
All eyes sparkled, all hands were raised, all voices 
sounded, save those that were breathless from over- 
powering joy. After months' wandering in the sul- 
try wilderness they beheld the great Euphrates. 

Broad, and fresh, and magnfiiccnt, and serene, 
the mighty waters rolled through the beautiful and 
fertile earth. A vital breeze rose from their bosom. 
Every being responded to their genial influence. 
The sick were cured, the desponding became san- 
guine, the healthy and light-hearted broke into 
shouts of laughter, jumped from their camels, and 
embraced the fragrant earth, or, wild in their reno- 
vated strength, galloped over the plain, and threw 
their wanton jcrreeds in the air.-j- as if to show 
their suflering and labour had not deprived them 
of that skill and strength, without which it were 
vain again to enter the haunts of their less adven- 
turous brethren. 

The caravan halted on the banks of the broad 
river glowing in the cool sunset. The camp was 
))itchcd, the ])!ain glittered with tents. The camels 
falling on their knees, crouched in groups, themer- 
fliandise piled up in masses by their sides. The 
unharnessed horses rushed neighing aboirt the 
plaijB^ tossing their glad heads, and rolling in the 
imaccustomcd pasture. Spreading their mats, and 



' The superglilion of ilie evil eye is well known, and is 
jircvalenl lliroii!»howt the Lfvant. 

t The Porsiana are morn famous for Uirowing the jerreed 
than any other nation. Al'ersiun f^enllcriian, while riding' 
quietly by your side, will suddenly dash olf at lull gallop, 
then suddenly check his horsf, and lake a Ions aim vvilli 
Ids lance with admiraliU; precision. [ should doul'l, how- 
ever, whether he could hurl a lanco a greater dislaiu-e, or 
with greater force and eftecl, than a Nubian, who will fix 
a mark at sixty yards with his javelin. 



kneeling towards Mecca, the pilgrims performed 
their evening orisons. Never was thanksgiving 
more sincere. They arose ; some rushed into the 
river, some lighted lamps, some pounded coffee.* 
Troops of smiling villagers arrived with fresh pro- 
visions, eager to prey upon such light hearts and 
heavy purses. It was one of those occasions when 
the accustomed gravity of the orient disappears 
Long through the night the sounds of music and 
the shouts of laughter were heard on the baidcs of 
that starry river, long through the night you might 
have listened with enchantment to the wild tales 
of the storier, or gazed with fascination on the 
wilder gestures of the dancing girls.-j- 

II. 

The great bazaar of Bagdad afforded a verj- ani- 
mated and sumptuous spectacle on the day after 
the arrival of the caravan. All the rare and costly 
products of the world were collected in that cele- 
brated mart — the shawls of Cashmere and the silks 
of Syria, the ivoi-y, and plumes, and gold of Afric, 
the jewels of Ind, the talismans of Egypt, the per- 
fumes and manuscripts of Persia, the spices and 
gums of x\raby, beautiful horses, more beautiful 
slaves, cloaks of sable, pelisses of ermine, armour 
alike magnificent in ornament and temper, rare 
animals, still rarer birds, blue apes in silver collars, 
white gazelles bound by a golden chain, gray- 
hounds, peacocks, paroquets. And everywhere 
strange, and busy, and excited groups ; men of all 
nations, creeds, and climes — the sumptuous and 
haughty Turk, the graceful and subtle Arab, the 
Hebrew with his black cap and anxious counte- 
nance ; the Armenian Christian, with his dark 
flowing robes, and mild demeanour, and serene 
visage. Here strutted the lively, affected, and su- 
perfine Persian ; and there the Circassian stalked 
with his long hair and chain cuirass. The fair 
Georgian jostled the ebony form of the merchant 
of Dongola or Sennaar. 

Through the long, narrow, arched, and winding 
streets of the bazaar, lined on each side with 
loaded stalls, all was bustle, bargaining, and barter. 
A passeirger approached, apparently of no common 
rank. Two pages preceded him, beautiful Georgian 
boys, clothed in crimson cloth, and caps of the 



* The origin of the use of coffee is obscure ; but there is 
great reason to believe that it had not been introduced in 
the time of Alroy. When we consider that the life of an 
oriental at the present day mainly consists in drinking 
coffee and smoking tobacco, we cannot resist from asking 
ourselves, '• What did he do before either of these compara- 
tively modern inventions was discovered V For a long 
lime, I was inclined to suspect lliat tobacco might have 
been in use iu Asia before it was introduced inio Europe; 
but a passage in old Sandys, in which he mentions the 
wretched tobacco smoked in Turkey, and accounts for it 
by ihalcoimlry being svipplied liy "the dregs of our mar- 
kets," demonsiraies," that in his time, there was no native 
growth in Asia. Yet the choicest tobaccos are now grown 
on the coast of Syria, the real Lev.-mt. Bui did thn Asiatics 
smidie any other plant or substance before tobacco 1 In 
Syria, at the present day, they smoke a plant called tiin- 
hac ; the Cliincse smoke opium; the artificial preparations 
for the hookah are known to all Indians. I believe, how- 
ever, that these are all refinements, and for this reason, 
that in the c!a.'«sic writers, who were as well actiuainted 
with the oriental nations as ourselves, we find no allusion 
to the practice of smoking. The anachronism of the pipe 
I have not therefore ventured to connnil, and that of coflea 
will, I trust, be pardoned. See a short Kss'ay on Oriental 
Smoking, in the New Monthly Blagazine for September, 
18132, for an account of the eastern tobaccos. 

t These dancing girls abound throughout Asia. The 
inost famous are the Alwyn of Egypt, and the Nautclj 
of India. These last are a caste, "the first only a profes 
slon. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



467 



same material, setting tight to their heads, with 
long golden tassels. One bore a blue velvet bag, 
and the other a clasped and richly bound volume. 
Four footmen, armed, followed their master, who 
rode behind the pages on a milk-white mule. He 
M'as a man of middle age, eminently handsome. 
flis ample robes concealed the only fault in hi* 
appearance, a figure which indulgence had rendered 
somewhat ample. His eyes were large, and soft, 
and dark ; his nose aquihnc, hut delicately moxild- 
ed ; his mouth small, and beautifully proportioned; 
Ills lip full and red ; his teeth regular and dazzling 
white. His ebony beard flowed, but not at too 
great a length, in graceful and natural curls, and 
was richly perfumed ; a delicate mustachio shaded 
his upper lip, but no whisker was permitted to 
screen the form and shroud the lustre of his oval 
countenance and brilliant complexion. Altogether, 
the animal, perhaps, predominated too much in the 
expression of the stranger's countenance ; but ge- 
nius beamed from his passionate eye, and craft lay 
concealed in that subtle lip. The dress of the rider 
was sumptuous. His turban, formed by a scarlet 
Cashmere shawl, was of great breadth, and, con- 
cealing half of his white forehead, increased by the 
contrast the radiant height of the other. His under 
vest was of white Damascus silk, stiff with silver 
embroidery, and confined by a girdle formed by a 
Brusa scarf of gold stuff, and holding a dagger, 
whose hilt appeared blazing with brilliants and ru- 
bies. His loose and exterior robe was of crimson 
cloth. His white hands sparkled with rings, and 
his ears glittered with pendulous gems. 

" Who is this]" asked an Egyptian merchant, 
in a lew whisper, of the dealer whose stuffs he was 
examining. 

" 'Tis the Lord Honain," replied the dealer. 

"And who may he bel" continued the Egyp- 
tian. " Is he the caliph's son 1" 

" Poh ! a much greater man — his physician," 

The white mule stopped at the very stall where 
this conversation was taking place. The pages 
halted, and stoo4 on each side of their master — the 
footmen kept off the crowd. 

" Merchant," said Honain, with a gracious smile 
of condescension, and with a voice musical as a 
flute, " Merchant, did you obtain me my wishi" 

" There is but one God," replied the dealer, who 
was the charitable Ali, " and Mohammed is his pro- 
phet. I succeeded, please your highness, in seeing 
at Aleppo the accursed Giaour of whom I spoke, 
and, behold, that which you desired is here." So 
saying, Ali produced several Greek manuscripts, 
and offered them to his visiter. 

" Hah !" said Honain, with a sparkling eye, 
" 'tis well — their cost 1" 

" The infidel would not part with them under 
five hundred dirhems," replied Ali. 

" Ibrahim, see that this worthy merchant receive 
a thousand." 

" As many thanks, my Lord Honain." 

The caUph's physician bowed gracefully. 

" Advance, pages," continued Honain. " Why 
tliis stoppage? Ibrahim, see that our way be 
cleared. What is all this V 

A crowd of men advanced, pulling along a 
youth, who, almost exhausted, still singly strug- 
gled with his ungenerous adversaries. 

" The cadi, the cadi," cried the foremost of them, 
who was Abdallah, " drag him to the cadi." 

" Noble lord," cried the youth, extricating him- 



self by a sudden struggle from the grasp of his cap 
tors, and seizijag the robe of Honain, " I am inno- 
cent and injured. I pray thy help." 

" The cadi, the cadi," exclaimed Abdallah ; " the 
knave has stolen my ring — the ring given me by 
my fjiithful Fatima on our marriage day, and 
which I would not part with for my master's 
stores." 

The youth still clung to the robe of Honain 
and, mute from exhaustion, fixed upon him hi 
beautiful and imploring eye. 

" Silence !" proclaimed Honain ; " I will judge 
this cause." 

" The Lord Honain, the Lord Honain — listen 
to the Lord Honain." 

" Speak, thou brawler ; of what hast thou to 
complain 1" said Honain to Abdallah. 

" May it please your highness," said Abdallah, 
in a whining voice, " I am the slave of your faith- 
ful servant, Ali. Often have I had the honour of 
waiting on your highness. This young knave here, 
a beggar, has robbed me, while slumbering in a 
coffee-house, of a ring — I have my witnesses to 
prove my slumbering. 'Tis a fine emerald, may 
it please your highness, and doubly valuable to me 
as a love-token from my Fatima. No considera- 
tion in the world could induce me to part with it ; 
and so, being asleep — here are three honest men 
who will prove the sleep — comes this little vaga- 
bond, may it please your highness, who, while he 
pretends to offer me my coffee, takes him my fin- 
ger, and slips off this precious ring, which he now 
wears upon his own beggarly paw, and will not 
restore to me without the bastinado." 

" Abdallah is a faithful slave, may it please your 
highness, and a Hadgee," said Ali, his master. 

" And what say est thou, boy 1" inquired Honain. 

" That this is a false knave, who lies as slaves 
ever will." 

" Pithy, and perhaps true," said Honain. 

" You call me a slave, you young scoundrel !" 
exclaimed Abdallah ; " shall I tell you what you 
are 1 Why, your highness, do not listen to him 
a moment. It is a shame to bring such a creature 
into your presence ; for, by the holy stone, and I 
am a Hadgee, I doubt little ho is a Jew." 

Honain grew somewhat pale, and bit his lip. 
He was perhaps annoyed that he had interfered so 
publicly in behalf of so unpopular a character as a 
Hebrew ; but he was unwilling to desert one whom 
a moment before he had resolved to befriend, and 
he inquired of the youth where he had obtained 
the ring. 

"The ring was given to me by my dearest 
friend when I first set out upon an arduous pilgrim- 
age not yet completed. There is but one person 
in the world, except the donor, to whom I would 
part with it, and with that person I am unacquaint- 
ed. All this may seem improbable, but all this is 
true. I have truth alone to support me. I am 
destitute and friendless; but I am not a beggar, 
nor will any suffering induce me to become one. 
Feeling, from various circumstances, utterly ex- 
hausted, I entered a coffee-house and laid down, it 
may have been to die. I could not sleep, although 
my eyes were shut, and nothing would have 
aroused me from a tremulous trance which I 
thought was dying, but this plunderer here, who 
would not wait until death had permitted him 
quietly to possess himself of a jewel I value more 
than life." 



468 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Show me the jewel." 

The youth held up his hand to Honain, who 
felt his pulse, and then took off the ring. 

" O, my Fatima !" exclaimed Abdallah. 

" Silence, sir !" said Honain. " Page, call a 
jeweller." 

Honain examined the ring very attentively. 
"U'hethcr he were near-sighted, or whether the de- 
ceptive light of the covered bazaar prevented him 
from examining it with ease, he certainly raised 
his hand to his brow, and for some moments his 
countenance was invisible. 

The jeweller arrived, and pressing his hand to 
his heart, bowed before Honain. 

" Value this ring," said Honain, in a low voice. 

The jeweller took the ring, viewed it in all direc- 
tions with a scrutinizing glance, held it to the light, 
pressed it to his tongue, turned it over and over, 
and finally declared he could not sell such a ring 
under a thousand dirhems. 

" Whatever be the justice of the case," said Ho- 
nain to Abdallah, " art thou ready to part with this 
ring for a thousand dirhems 1" 

" Most certainly," said Abdallah. 

" And thou, lad, if the decision be in thy favour, 
wilt thou take for the ring double the worth at 
which the jeweller prizes it V 

" My lord, I have spoken the truth. I catmot 
part with that ring for the palace of the caliph." 

" The truth for once is triumphant," said Ho- 
nain. " Boy, the ring is thine ; and for thee, thou 
knave," turning to Abdallah, "liar, thief, and slan- 
derer ! for thee the bastinado* thou destined for 
this innocent youth. Ibrahim, see that he receives 
five hundred. Young pilgrim, thou art no longer 
destitute or friendless. Follow me to my palace," 

III. 

The arched chamber was of great size and beau- 
tiful proportion. The ceiling, encrusted with green 
fretwork, and studded with silver stars, rested upon 
clustered columns of white and green marble. In 
the centre of a variegated pavement of the same 
material, a fountain rose and fell into a green por- 
phyry basin, and by the side of the fountain, upon 
a couch of silver, reposed Honain. 

He raised his eyes from the illuminated volume 
on which he had been long intent, he clapped his 
hands, and a Nubian slave advanced, and folding 
liis arms upon his breast, bowed in silence before 
his lord. 

" How fares the Hebrew boy, Alnaschar?" 

" Master, the fever has not returned. We gave 
him the potion ; he slumbered for many hours, and 
has now wakened, weak but well." 

" Let him rise and attend me." 

The Nubian disappeared. 

"There is nothing stranger than .sympathy," 
soliloquized the physician of the caliph, with a 
meditative air; "all resolves itself into this principle, 
and 1 confess this learned doctor treats it deeply and 
well. An erudite spirit truly, and an eloquent pen ; 
yet ae refines too much. 'Tis too scholastic. 0))- 
servation will teach us more than dogma. Medi- 
tating upon my passionate youth, I gathered wis- 
dom. I have seen so much that I have ceased to 



* The bastinado is iho common punishment of the east, 
and an effective and dreadful one. It is administered on 
the soles of the feet, the instrument a long cane or palm 
branch. Public executions are very rare. 



wonder. However we doubt, there is a mystery 
beyond our penetration. An.l yet 'tis near our 
grasp. I sometimes deem a step, a single step 
would launch us into light. Here comes my pa- 
tient. The rose has left his cheek, and his deep 
brow is wan and melancholy. Yet 'tis a glorious 
visage — meditation's throne ; and passion lingers in 
that languid eye. I know not why, a strong at- 
traction draws me to this lone child. 

" Gentle stranger, how fares it "with thee V 

" Very well, my lord. I come to thank thee for 
all thj' goodness. My only thanks are words, and 
those too weak ones ; and yet the orphan's blessing 
is a treasure." 

" You are an orphan, then 1" 

" I have no parent but my father's God." 

" And that God is — " 

"The God of Israel." 

"So I deemed. He is a Deity we all must 
honour, if he be the great Creator, whom we all 
allow." 

" He is what he, is, and we are what we are — a 
fallen people, but faithful still." 

" Fidelity is strength." 

" Thy words are truth, and strength must tri- 
umph." 

" A prophecy !" 

" Many a prophet is little honoured, till the fu- 
ture proves his inspiration." 

" You are young and sanguine." 

" So was my ancestor within the vale of Elah. 
But I speak unto a Moslemin, and this is foolish- 
ness." 

" I have read something, and can take your drift. 
As for my faith, I believe in truth, and wish all 
men to do the same. By-the-by, might I inquire 
the name of him who is the inmate of my house 1" 

" They call me David." 

" David, you have a ring, an emerald cut with 
curious characters, Hebrew, I believe." 

" 'Tis here." 

" A fine stone, and this inscription means — " 

" A simple legend — ' Parted, but one,' — the kind 
memorial of a brother's love." 

" Your brother?" 

" I never had a brother." 

" I have a silly fancy for this ring : you hesitate. 
Search my palace, and choose the treasure that you 
deem its match." 

" Noble sir, the gem is little worth ; but were it 
such might deck a caliph's brow, 'twere a poor 
recompense for all thy goodness. This ring is a 
trust rather than a possession, and strange to say, 
although I cannot oflTer it to thee who may com- 
mand, as thou hast saved, the life of its unhappy 
wearer, some stranger may cross my path to-mor- 
row, and almost claim it as his own," 

" And that stranger is — " 

" The brother of the donor." 

" The brother of Jabaster ?" 

" Jabaster !" 

" Even so. I am that parted brother. 

" Great is the God of Israel ! Take the ring. 
But what is this '! the brother of Jabaster a tur- 
baned chieftain ! — a Moslemin ! Say, O ! but say 
that thou hast not assumed their base belief, — say, 
O ! but say, that thou hast not become a traitor to 
our covenant, and I will bless the fortunes of this 
hour." 

" I am false to no God. Calm thyself, sweet 
youth. These are higher questions than thy fain 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



469 



strength can master now. Another time we'll talk 
of this, my boy. At present of ray brother and 
thyself. He lives and prospers 1" 

" He lives in faith ; the pious ever prosper." 

" A glorious dreamer ! Though our moods are 
different, I ever loved him. And thyself] Thou 
art not what thou seemest. Tell me all. Jabas- 
ter's friend can be no common mind. Thy form 
has heralded thy fame. Trust me." 

" I am Alroy." 

" What ! the prince of our captivity V 

" Even so." 

" The slayer of Alschiroch 1" 

« Ay !" 

" My sympathy was prophetic. I loved thee 
from the first. And what dost thou here 1 A price 
is set upou thy head: thou knowest itl" 

" For the first time ; but I am neither astonished 
nor alarmed. I am upon the Lord's business." 

" What wouldst thou 1" 

" Free his people." 

" The pupil of Jabaster : I see it all. Another 
victim to his reveries. I'll save this boy. David, 
for thy name must not be sounded within this city, 
the sun is dying. Let us to the terrace and seek 
the solace of the twilight breeze." 

IV. 

" What is the hour, David?" 

"Near on midnight. I marvel if thy brother 
may read in the stars our happy meeting." 

" Men read that which they wish. He is a 
learned cabalist." 

" But what we wish comes from above." 

" So they say. • We make our fortunes, and we 
call them fate." 

" Yet the Voice sounded — the Daughter of the 
Voice that summoned Samuel." 

" You have told me strange things ; I have heard 
stranger solved." 

" My faith is a rock." 

" On which you may spUt." 

" Art thou a Sadducee 1" 

" I am a man who knows men." 

" You are learned, hut different from Jabaster." 

" We are the same, though different. Day and 
night are both portions of time." 

" And thy portion is — " 

" Truth." 

" That is, light." 

"Yes; so dazzling that it sometimes seems 
dark." 

" Like thy meaning." 

" You are young." 

" Is youth a defect V 

" No, the reverse. Bu^ we cannot eat the fruit 
while the tree is in blossom." 
What fruit ]" 

" Knowledge." 

" I have studied." 

"Whatr' 

" All sacred things." 

" How know you that they are sacred." 

" They come from God." 

" So does every tiling. Is every thing sacred ?" 

" They are the deep expression of his will." 

" Accordmg to Jabaster. Ask the man who prays 
in yonder mosque, and he will tell you that Jabas- 
ter's wrong." 

"After all, thou art a Moslemin 1" 



" No." 

"What then! " 

" I have told you — a man." 

" But what dost thou worship 1" 

" What is worship 1" 

" Adoration due from the creature to the Crea- 
tor." 

"Which is he?" 

" Our God." 

"The God of Israel?" 

" Even so.'' 

" A frail minority, then, burn him incense." 

" We are the chosen people." 

" Chosen for scoffs, and scorns, and contumelies. 
Commend me to such choice." 

" We forgot him, before he chastened us." 

" Why did we ?" 

" Thou knowest the records of our holy race." 

" Yes, I know them : like all records, annals of 
blood." 

" Annals of victory, that will dawn again." 

" If redemption be but another name for carnage, 
I envy no Messiah." 

" Art thou Jabaster's brother ?" 

" So our mother was wont to say : a meek and 
blessed woman." 

" Lord Homiin, thou art rich, and wise, and pow- 
erful. Thy fellow-men speak of thee only with 
praise or fear, and both are cheering. Thou hast 
quitted our antique ark ; why — no matter. We'll 
not discuss it. 'Tis something, if a stranger, at 
least thou art not a renegade. The world goes well 
with thee, my lord Honain. But if instead of bows 
and blessings, thou, like thy brethren, wert greeted 
only with the cufi'and curse; if thou didst rise each 
morning only to feel existence was dishonour, and 
to find thyself marked out among surrounding men 
as something foul and fatal : if it were thy lot, like 
theirs, at best to drag on a mean and dull career, 
hopeless and aimless, or with no other hope or aim 
but that which is degrading, and all this too with a 
keen sense of thy intrinsic worth, and deep convic- 
tion of superior race ; why then perchance Honain 
might even discover 'twere worth a struggle to be 
free and honoured." 

" I pray your pardon, sir, I thought you were 
Jabaster's pupil, a dreaming student. I see you 
have a deep am'oition." 

" I am a prince ; and I fain would be a prince 
without my fetters." 

" Listen to me, Alroy," said Honain in a low 
voice, and he placed his arm round his waist, "I am 
your friend. Our acquaintance is very brief: no 
matter, I love you, I rescued you in injury, I tended 
you in sickness, even now your life is in my power; 
I would protect it with my own. You cannot doubt 
me. Our affections are not under our own control ; 
and mine are yours. The sympathy between us it: 
entire. You see me, you see what I am: a Hebrew, 
though unknown, one of that despised, rejected, 
persecuted people, of whom you are the chief. I 
too would be free and honoured. Freedom and 
honour are mine, but I was my own Messiah. I 
quitted in good time our desperate cause, but I gave 
it a trial. Ask Jabaster how I fought. Youth 
could be my only excuse for such indiscretion. I 
left this country, I studied, and resided among the 
Greeks. I returned from Constantinople with all 
their learning, some of their craft. No one knew 
me. I assumed their turban, and I am the Lord 
Honain. Take my experience, child, and save 
2R 



470 



D'ISRAELI S NOVELS. 



yourself much sorrow. Turn your late adventure 
to good account. No one can recognise you here. 
I will introduce you among the highest as my child, 
by some fair Greek. The world is before you. 
You may fight, you may love, you may revel. War 
and women, and luxury, are all at your command. 
With your person and talents you may be grand 
vizier. Clear your head of nonsense. In the pre- 
sent disordered state of the empire, you may even 
carve yourself out a kingdom, infinitely more de- 
lightful than the barren land of milk and honey. I 
have seen it, child ; a rocky wilderness, where I 
would not let my courser graze." 

He bent down, and fixed his eyes upon his com- 
panion with a scrutinizing glance. The moon- 
light fell upon the resolved visage of the prince of 
the captivity. 

" Honain," he replied, pressing his hand, " I 
thank thee. Thou knowest not me, but still I 
thank thee." 

" You are resolved then on destruction." 

" On glory, eternal glory." 

" Is it possible to succeed V 

" Is it possible to faill" 

" You are mad !" 

" I am a believer." 

" Enough. Not another word. You have yet 
one chance. My brother has saddled your enter- 
prise with a condition, and an impossible one. 
Gain the sceptre of Solomon, and I will agree to 
be your subject. You will waste a year in this 
frolic. You are young, and can afford it. I trust 
you will experience nothing worse than a loss of 
time, which is, however, very valuable. My duty 
will be, after all your suiferings, to send you 
forth on your adventures in good condition, and to 
provide you means for a less toilsome pilgrimage 
than has hitherto been your lot. Trust me, you 
will return to Bagdad to accept my offers. At 
present, the dews are descending, and we will re- 
turn to our divan, and take some coffee." 



Some few days after this conversation on the 
terrace, as Alroy was reclining in a bower, in the 
beautiful garden of his host, meditating on the fu- 
ture, some one touched him on the back. He 
looked up. It was Honain. 

" Follow me," said the brother of .Tabaster. 

The prince rose, and followed him in silence. 
They entered the house, and passing through the 
saloon already described, they proceeded down a 
long galleiy, which terminated in an arched flight 
of broad steps, leading to the river. A boat was 
fastened to the end of the stairs, floating on the 
blue line of the Tigris bright in the sun. 

Honain now gave to Alroy a velvet bag, which 
he requested him to carry, and then they descended 
the steps and entered the covered boat; and, with- 
out any directions to the rower, they were soon 
skimming over the water. By the sound of passing 
vessels and occasional shouts of the boatmen, Alroy, 
although he could observe nothing, was conscious 
that for some time their course lay through a prin- 
cipal thoroughfare of the city ; but by degrees the 
sounds became less fretiuent, and in time entirely 
died away, and all that caught his ear was the re- 
gular and monotonous stroke of their own oar. 

At length, after the lapse of nearly an hour from 
their entrance, the boat stopped, and was moored 



against a quay. The curtains were withdrawn, 
and Honain and his companion disembarked. 

A low but very extensive building, painted in 
white and gold arabesque, and irregular but pic- 
turesque in form, with many small domes, and tall 
thin towers, rose amid groves of cypress on the 
banks of the broad and silent river. The rapid 
stream had carried them far from the city, which 
was visible, liut distant. Around was no habita- 
tion, no human being. . The opposite bank was 
occupied by enclosed gardens. Not even a boat 
passed. 

Honain, beckoning to Alroy to accompany him, 
but still silent, advanced to a small portal, and 
knocked. It was instantly opened by a single 
Nubian, who bowed reverently as the visiters 
passed him. They proceeded along a low and 
gloomy passage, covered with arches of iret>^?ork, 
until they arrived at a door of tortoise-shell' and 
mother-of-pearl.* Here Honain, who was in ad- 
vance, turned round to Alroy, and said, " What- 
ever happen, and whoever may address you, as 
you value your life and mine, do not speak." 

The door opened, and they found themselves in 
a vast and gorgeous hall. Pillars of many-coloured 
marbles rose from a red and blue pavement of the 
same luaterial, and supported a vaulted, circular, 
and highly-embossed roof of purple, scarlet and 
gold.j- Around a fountain, which rose fifty-feet in 
height from an immense basin of lapis-lazuli, and 
reclining on small yellow Barbary mats, was a 
group of Nubian eunuchs dressed in rich habits of 
scarlet and gold,t and armed with ivory battle- 
axes, the white handles worked in precious ara- 
besque, finely contrasting with the blue and bril- 
liant blades. 

The commander of the eunuch-guard rose on 
seeing Honian, and pressing his hand to his head, 
mouth and heart, saluted him. The physician of 
the caliph motioning Alroy to remain, advanced 
some paces in front of him, and entered into a 
whispering conversation with the eunuch. After a 
few minutes, this ofticer resumed his seat, and Ho- 
nain, beckoning to Alroy to rejoin him, crossed the 
hall. 

Passing through an open arch, they entered a 
quadrangular court of roses,§ each bed of flowers 
surrounded by a stream of sparkUng water, and 
floating like an enchanted islet upon a fairy ocean. 
The sound of the water and the sweetness of the 
flowers blended together, and produced a lulling 
sensation which nothing but his strong and strange 
curiosity might have enabled Alroy to resist. Pro- 
ceeding along a cloister of light aiiy workmanship 
which connected the hall with the remainder of 
the buildings, they stood before a lofty and sump- 
tuous portal. 

It was a monolite gate, thirty feet in height, 
formed of one block of green and red jasper, and 
cut into the fanciful undulating arch of the Sara- 
cens. The consummate artist had seized the 



♦ This elesant mode of inlay is common in oriental 
palaces, and "may be observed also in Alliamlira, at Gra- 
nade. 

t In the very first style of Saracenic architecture. See 
llie hall of the ambassadors in Alhambra, and many other 
chambers in that exquisite creation. 

t Thus the guard of Nubian eimuchs of the present pasha 
of Egypt, Mehenict Ali, or rather caliph, a title which he 
wislies 10 assume. Tliey ride upon whiio liorses. 

§ So in Alhambra, "The Coukt op Myrtle.s," leading 
to the court of columns, wherein is the famous fountain of 
lions. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



471 



advantage afforded to him by the ruddy vems of the 
precious stone, and had formed them in bold relief 
into two vast and sinuous serpents, which shot 
forth from their crested heads and glittering eyes 
at Honain and his companion. 

The physician of the cahph taking his dagger 
from his girdle, struck one of the heads of the ser- 
pents thrice. The massy portal opened with a 
whirl and a roar, and before them stood an Abys- 
synian giant,* holding in his leash a roaring lion. 

"Hush! Haroun," said Honain to the animal, 
raising at the same time his arm, and the beast 
crouched in silence. " Worthy Morgargon, I bring 
you a remembrance." The Abyssinian showed his 
tusks, larger and whiter than the lion's, as he grin- 
ningly received the tribute of the courtly Honain ; 
and he uttered a few uncouth sounds, but he could 
not speak, for he was a mute. 

The jasper portal introduced the comj)anions to 
a long and lofty and arched chamber, hghted by 
high windows of stained glass, hung with tapestry 
of silk and silver, covered with prodigious carpets, 
and surrounded by immense couches. And thus 
through similar chambers they proceeded, in some 
of which were signs of recent habitation, until they 
arrived at another quadrangle nearly filled by a 
most singular fountain which rose from a basin of 
gold encrusted with pearls, and which was sur- 
rounded by figures of every rare quadruped-j" in the 
most costly materials. Here a golden tiger with 
flaming eyes of ruby, and fiowing stripes of opal, 
stole, after some bloody banquet, to the refreshing 
brink ; a camelopard raised its slender neck of sil- 
ver from the centre of a group of every inhabitant 
of the forest, and brilliant bands of monkeys glit- 
tering with precious stones, rested, in every variety 
of fantastic posture, on the margin of the basin. 

The fountain itself was a tree of gold and silver,^ 
spreading into innumerable branches, covered with 
every variety of curious birds, their plumage appro- 
priately imitated by the corresponding tints of 
precious stones, and which warbled in beautiful 
melody as they poured forth from their bills the 
musical and refreshing element. 

It was with difficulty that Alroy could refrain 
from an admiring exclamation, but Honain, eyer 
quick, turned to him, with his finger pressed on 
his mouth, and quitting the quadrangle, they entered 
the gardens. 

Lofty terraces, dark masses of cypress, winding 
walks of acacia, in the distance an interminable 
paradise, and here and there a glittering pavilion 
and bright kiosk ! Its appearance on the river had 
not prepared Alroy for the extent of the palace 
itself. It seemed infinite, and it was evident that 
he had only viewed a very small portion of it. 



* A giant is still a common appendage loan oriental 
court even at the prespnt day. See a very amusins story 
in the picturesque " Persian Sketches " of that famous 
elchee. Sir John Malcolm. 

t " The hall of audience," says Gibbon, from Cardonne, 
speaking of the magnificence of the Saracen of Cordova, 
" was encrusted with gold and pearls, and a great basin in 
the centre was surrounded wilh the curious and costly 
figures of birds and (lua-drupeds."— Decline and Fall, vol. 
X. p. 39. 

$'• Among the other spectacles of rare and stupendous 
luxury, was a tree of gold and silver, spreading inio 
eighteen large branches, on which, and on the lesser 
boughs, sat a variety of birds made of the same precious 
metals, as well as the leaves of the tree. While the ma- 
chinery effected spontaneous motions, the several birds 
warbled their natural harmony."— GtAfiow, vol. x. p. 38, 
from Abulfeda describing the court of the caliphs of Bag- 
dad in the decline of their power. 



While they were moving on, there suddenly arose 
the sound of trumpets. The sound grew nearer 
and nearer, louder and louder: soon was heard the 
tramp of an approaching troop. Honain drew Al- 
roy aside. A procession appeared advancing from 
a dark grove of cypress. Four hundred men led as 
many white bloodhounds with collars of gold and 
rubies.* Then came one hundred men, each wilh 
a hooded hawk. Then six horsemen in rich 
dresses. After them a single horseman, mounted 
on a steed, marked on its forehead with a star.f 
The rider was middle aged, handsome, and digni- 
fied. He was plainly dressed, but the staff of his 
hunting spear was entirely of diamonds, and the 
blade of gold. He was followed by a company of 
Nubian eunuchs, with their scarlet dresses and 
ivory battle-axes, and the procession closed. 

"The caliph," whispered Honain, when they 
passed, placing at the same lime his finger on 
his lip, to prevent any inquiry. This was the first 
intimation that had reached Alroy of what he had 
already suspected, that he was a visiter to the 
palace of the commander of the faithful. 

The companions turned down a wild and wind- 
ing walk, w^hich^ after some time, brought them to 
a small and gently sloping lawn, surrounded by 
cedar trees of great size. Upon the lawn was a 
kiosk, a long and many-windowed building, covered 
with blinds, and further screened by an overhang- 
ing roof. The kio.sk was built of white aniJ^green 
marble, and ascended by a flight of steps the length 
of the building, alternately of white and green 
marble, and nearly covered v^'ith rose trees. Honain 
ascended these steps alone, and entered the kiosk. 
After a few minutes, he looked out from the blinds 
and beckoned to Alroy. David advanced, but 
Honain, fearful of some indiscretion, met him, and 
said to him in a low whisper between his teeth, " re- 
member you are deaf, a mute, and a eunuch." Alroy 
could scarcely refrain from smiling, and the prince 
of the captivity and the physician of the caliph 
entered the kiosk together. Two women, veiled, 
and two eunuchs of the guard received them in an 
antechamber. And then they passed into a room 
which ran nearly the whole length of the kiosk, 
opening on one side to the gardens, and on the 
other supported by an ivory wall with niches paint- 
ed in green fresco, and in each niche a rose tree. 
Each niche, also, was covered with an almost in- 
visible golden grate, which confined a nightingale 
and made him constant to the rose he loved. At 
the foot of each niche was a fountain, but instead 
of water, each basin was replenished with the 
purest quicksilver.:^ The roof of the kiosk was of 
mother-of-pearl, inlaid with tortoise shell ; the pave- 
ment, a mosaic of rare marbles and precious stones, 
representing the most delicious fruits, and the most 
beautiful flowers. Over this pavement a Georgian 
page flung at intervals refreshing perfumes. At 
the end of this elegant chamber was a divan of 
light green silk, embroidered with pearls, and co- 
vered with cushions of white satin and gold. Upon 
one of these cushions, in the middle of the divan, 
sat a lady, her eyes fixed in abstraction upon a 



* I have somewhere read of an Indian or Persian mo- 
narch whose coursing was conducted in this gorseous style: 
if I remember right, it was Mahmoud the Gaznevide. 

t The sacred steed of Solomon. 

j " In a lofty pavilion of the gardens, one of those basins 
and fountains so delightful in a sultry climate, was reple- 
nished, not wilh water, but wilh the purest quicksilver-'- — 
Gibbon, vol. x. from Cardonne. 



472 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



volume of Persian poesy reclining on her knees, one 
hand playing- with a rosary of pearls and eme- 
ralds,* and the other Riding a long gold chain, 
which imprisoned a white gazelle. 

The lady looked up as Honain and his compa- 
nion entered. &liewas very young, as youthl-ul as 
Alroy. Her long light brown hair, drawn off a 
high white forehead covered with blue veins, fell 
braided with pearls over each other. Her eyes 
were very large, and deeply blue. Her nose small, 
but high and aquiline. The fairness of her face 
was dazzling, and when she looked up and greeted 
Honain, her lustrous cheeks broke into dimples, 
which was more fascinating from their contrast 
with the general expression of her countenance, 
which was haughty and derisive. The lady was 
dressed in a robe of crimson silk, girded round her 
waist by a green shawl, from which peeped forth 
the diamond hilt of a very small poniard.f Her 
round white arms looked infinitely small, as they 
occasionally flashed forth from their large loose 
hanging sleeves. One was covered with jewels, 
and the right arm was quite bare. 

Honain advanced, and bending, kissed the lady's 
proffered hand. Alroy fell into the background. 

"They told me that the Rose of the World 
drooped this morning," said the physician, bending 
again as he smiled, " and her slave hastened at her 
command to tend her." 

" It was a south wind. The wind has changed, 
and the Rose of the World is better," replied the 
lady, laughing. 

Honain touched her pulse. 

" Irregular," said the physician, 

" Like myself," said the lady. " Is that a new 
slave?" 

" A recent purchase, and a great bargain. He 
IS good-looking, has the advantage of being deaf 
and dumb, and is harndess in every respect." . 

" 'Tis a pity," replied the lady ; " it seems that 
all good-looking people are born to be useless. I, 
for instance." 

" Yet rumour whispers the reverse," remarked 
the physician. 

" How so V inquired the lady. 

" The j'oung King of Karasme." 

" Poh ! I have made up my mind to detest him. 
A barbarian !" 

" A hero !" 

" Did you ever see him V 

"I have." 

" Handsome?" 

"An archangel." 

" And sumptuous ? 

"Is he not a conqueror? All the plunder of 
the world will be yours." 

" I am tired of magnificence. I built this kiosk 
to forget it." 

" It is not in the least degree splendid," said 
Honain, looking round vifith a smile. 

"No," answered the lady, with a self-satisfied 
air; " here at least one can forget one has the mis- 
fortune to be a princess." 

" It is certainly a great misfortune," said the 
jihysician. 



* Moslemin of rank are never without the rosary, some- 
tunes of aniler anil rare woods, sonielinies of jewels. The 
most esteemed, is of that peculiar substance called Mecca 
Wdoil. 

^ The ensignia of a royal female. 



" And yet it must be the only tolerable lot," re 
plied the lady. 

" Assuredly," replied Honain. 

" For our unhappy sex, at least." 

" Very unhappy." 

" If I were only a man !" 

" M^hata hero you would be !" 

"I should like to live in endless confusion." 

" I have not the least doubt of it." 

" Have you got me the books ?" eagerly inquired 
the princess. 

" My slave bears them," replied Honain 

" Let me see them directly." 

Honain took the bag from Alroy, and unfolded 
its contents — the very volumes of Greek romances 
which Ali, the merchant, had obtained for him. 

" I am tired of poetry," said the princess, 
glancing over the costly volumes and tossing them 
away. " I long to see the world." 

" You would soon be tired of that," replied the 
physician. 

" I suppose common people are never tired," said 
the princess. 

" Except with labour," .said the physician ; " care 
keeps them alive." 

'"What is care ?" as':ed the princess, with a 
smile. 

" It is a god," replied the physician, " invisible, 
but omnipotent. It steals the bloom from the cheek 
and lightness from the pulse — it talies away the 
appetite, and turns the hair gray." 

" It is no true divinity, then," replied the prin- 
cess, " but an idol we make ourselves. I am a 
sincere Moslemin, and will not worship it. Tell 
me some news, Honain." 

"The young King of Karasme — " 

" Again ! the barbarian ! You are in his pay. 
I'll none of him. To leave one prison, and to be 
shut up in another — why do you remind me of it ? 
No, my dear hakim, if I marry at all, I will marry 
to be free." 

" An impossibility," said Honain. 

" My mother was free till she was a queen and 
a slave. I intend to end as she began. You know 
what she was." 

Honain knew well, but he was too politic not to 
affect ignorance. 

" The daughter of a bandit," continued the 
princess, " who fought by the side of her father. 
That is existence ! I must be a robber. 'Tis in 
the blood. I want my fate foretold, Honain. You 
arc an astrologer ; do it." 

" I have already cast your nativity. Your star 
is a comet." 

" That augurs well ; brilliant confusion and 
erratic splendour. I wish I were a star," added 
the princess in a deep rich voice, and with a pen- 
sive air ; " a star in the clear blue sky, beautiful 
and free. Honain, Honain, the gazelle has broken 
her chain, and is eating my roses." 

Alroy rushed forward and seized the graceful 
truant. Honain shot him an anxious look ; the 
princess received the chain from the hand of Alroy, 
and cast at him a .scrutinizing glance. 

" What splendid eyes the poor beast has got !" 
exclaimed the princess. 

" The gazelle ?" inquired the physician. 

"No, your slave," replied the princess. "Why, 
he blushes ! Were he not deaf as well as diunb, 
I could almost believe he understood me." 

"He is very modest," replied Honain, ralner 



TITE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



473 



alarmed ; " and is frightened at the liberty he has 
taken." 

"I hke modesty," said the princess; "it is so 
interesting. I am modest ; don't you think so 1" 

"Certainly," said Honain. 

" And interesting V 

" Very." 

" I detest an interesting person. After all, there 
is nothing like plain dulness." 

" Nothing," said Honain. 

"The day flows on so serenely in such society." 

" It does," said Honain. 

" No confusion ; no scenes." 

" None." 

" I make it a rule only to have ugly slaves." 

" You are quite right." 

" Honain, will you ever contradict me ] You 
know very well I have the handsomest slaves in 
the world." 

" Every one knows it." 

" And do you know I have taken a very great 
fancy to your new purchase, who, according to 
your account, is eminently qualified for the post. 
Why, you don't agree with me !" 

"Why, yes; I doubt not your highness would 
find him eminently qualified, and certainly few 
things would give me greater pleasure than offer- 
ing him for your acceptance ; but I got into such 
disgrace by that late affair of the Circassian, 
that — " 

" ! leave it to me, leave it to me," said the 
princess. 

" Certainly," said the physician, turning the 
conversation ; " and when the young King of Ka- 
rasme arrives at Bagdad, you can offer him to his 
majesty as a present." 

" Delightful ! and the king is really handsome 
and young as well as brave ; but has he any taste ]" 

" You have enough for both." 

" If he would but make war against the 
Greeks !" 

" Why so violent against the poor Greeks'!" 

" You know they are Giaours. Besides, they 
might beat him, and then I should have the plea- 
sure of being taken prisoner." 

" Delightful !" 

" Charming ! to see Constantinople and marry 
the emperor !" 

" Marry the emperor!" 

" To be sure. Of course he would fall in love 
with me." 

" Of course." 

" And then — and then, I might conquer Paris !" 

" Paris !" 

" Yon have been at Paris ]"* 

" Yes." 

" The men are shut up there," said the princess, 
with a sinile, " are they not ! and the women do 
what they like V 

" You will always do what you like," said 
Honain, rising. 

" You are going V 

" My visits must not be too long." 

" Farewell, dear Honain !" said the princess 
with a melancholy air. " You are the only person 
who has an idea in all Bagdad, and you leave me. 



* Paris was known to the orientals at this time as a 
city of considerable luxury aud importance. The embassy 
from Harouii Alraschid to Charlemagne at an earlier date, 
M of course recollected. 

60 



A miserable lot is mine, to feel every thing, and be 
nothing. These books and flowers, these sweet 
birds, and this fair gazelle — ah ! poets may feign 
as they please, but how cheerfully would I resign 
all these elegant consolations of a captive hfe for 
one hour of freedom. I wrote some verses on my- 
self yesterday ; take them, and get them blazoned 
for me bj' the finest scribe in the city ; letters of 
silver on a violet ground with a fine flowing border ; 
I leave the design to you. Adieu ! Come hither, 
mute." Alroy advanced to her beckon, and knelt. 
" There, take that rosary for thy master's sake, and 
those dark eyes of thine." 

The companions withdrew and reached their 
boat in silence. It was sunset. The musical and 
sonorous voice of the muezzin resounded from the 
innumerable minarets of the splendid city. Honain 
drew back the curtains of the barque. Bagdad 
rose before them in the huge masses of sumptuous 
dwellings, seated amid groves and gardens. An 
infinite population, summoned by the invigorating 
twilight, poured forth in all directions. The glow- 
ing river was covered with sparkling caiques, the 
glittering terraces with showy groups. Splendour, 
and power, and luxury, and beauty, were arrayed 
before them in their most captivating forms, and 
the heart of Alroy responded to their magnificence. 

" A glorious vision !" said the prince of the 
captivity. 

" Very different to Hamadan," said the physician 
of the caliph. 

"To-day I have seen wonders," said Alroy. 

" The world is opening to you," said Honain. 

Alroy did not reply ; but, after some minutes, 
he said, in a hesitating voice, " Who was that 
lady V 

" The Princess Schirene," replied Honain, " the 
favourite daughter of the caliph. Her mother was 
a Georgian and a Giaour." 

II. 

The moonlight fell upon the figure of Alroy 
lying on a couch ; his countenance was hidden 
in his arm. He was motionless, but did not sleep. 

He rose and paced the chamber with agitated 
steps ; sometimes he stopped, and gazed on the 
pavement, fixed in abstraction. He advanced to 
the window, and cooled his feverish brow in the 
midnight air. 

An hour passed away, and the young prince of 
the captivity remained fixed in the same position. 
Suddenly he turned, dashed to a tripod of porphyry, 
and seizing a rosary of jewels, pressed it to his lips. 

" The spirit of my dreams, she comes at last, the 
form for which I have sighed and wept, the form 
which rose upon my radiant vision when I shut 
my eyes against the jarring shadows of this gloomy 
world. 

" Schirene ! Schirene! here in this solitude I 
pour to thee the passion long stored up — the 
passion of my life, no common life, a life full of 
deep feeling and creative thought. O ! beautiful, 
O, more than beautiful, for thou to me art as a 
dream unbroken — why art thou not mine, why lose 
a moment in our glorious lives, and balk our des- 
tiny of half its bliss ? 

" Fool, fool, hast thou forgotten 1 The rapture 
of a prisoner in his cell, vvlio.se wild fancy for a 
moment belies his fetters ! The daughter of the 
caliph and a — Jew ! 

2 ii2 



474 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Give me my father's sceptre ! 

" A plague on talismans ! O ! I need no in- 
spiration but her memory, no magic but her name. 
By heavens, I'll enter this glorious city a conqueror, 
or I'll die, 

" Why, vvliat is life, for meditation mingles ever 
with my passion — why, what is life ! Throw ac- 
cidents to the dogs, and tear off the painted mask 
of false society ! Here am I a hero ; with a mind 
that can divise all things, and a heart of super- 
human daring, with youth, with vigour, with a 
glorious lineage, with a form that has made full 
many a lovely maiden of our tribe droop her fair 
head by Hamadan's sweet fount, and I am — 
nothing, 

" Out on society ; 'twas not made for me. I'll 
form my own, and be the deity I sometimes feel. 

" We make our fortunes and we call them fate. 
Thou saidst well, Honain. Most subtle Sadducce ! 
The saintly blood flowed in my father's veins, and 
they did nothing ; but I have an arm formed to 
wield a sceptre, and I will win one, 

" I cannot doubt my triumph. Triumph is a 
part of my existence. I am born for glory, as a 
tree is born to bear its fruit, or to expand its flowers. 
The deed is done. 'Tis thought of, and 'tis done. 
I'll confront the greatest of my diademed ancestors, 
and in his tomb. Mighty Solomon ! he weddcil 
Pharaoh's daughter. Hah ! what a future dawns 
upon my hope. An omen, a choice omen ! 

" Heaven and earth are mingling to form my 
fortunes. My mournful youth I have so often 
cursed, I hail thee — thou wert a glorious prepara- 
tion ; and when, feeling no sympathy with the lifa 
around me, I deemed myself a fool, I find I was a 
most peculiar being. By heavens, I am joyful ; 
for the first time in my life I am joyful. I could 
laugh, and fight, and drink. I am new-born ; I am 
another being; I am mad ! 

" ! time, great time, the world belies thy 
fame. It calls thee swift. Methinks thou art 
wondrous slow. Fly on, great time, and on thy 
coming wings bear me my sceptre ! 

" All is to be. It is a lowering thought. My 
fancy, like a bright and wearied bird, will sometimes 
flag and fall, and then I am lost. The young King 
of Karasme, a youthful hero ! Would he had 
been Alschiroch ! My heart is sick even at the 
very name. Alas ! my trials have not yet begun. 
Jabasler warned me ; good, sincere Jabaster ! His 
talisman presses on my frantic heart, and seems to 
warn me. I am in danger. Braggart to stand 
here, filling the careless air with idle words, while 
all is unaccomplished. I grow dull. The young 
King of Karasme ! Why, what am I compared to 
this same prince ] Nothing, but in my thoughts. 
In the full bazaar, they would not deem me worthy 
even to hold his stirrup or his slipper — O ! this 
contest, this constant, bitter, never-ending contest 
between my fortune and my fancy ! Why do I 
exist 1 or, if existing, why am I not recognised as I 
would be 1 

" Sweet voice, that in Jabastcr's distant cave 
descended from thy holy home above, and whispered 
consolation, breathe again ! Again breathe thy still 
summons to my lonely ear, and chase away the 
thoughts that hover round me. Thoughts dark and 
doubtful, like fell birds of ])rey hovering round an 
expected hero s fall, and gloating on their triumph 
o'er the brave. There is something fiUal in these 
crowded cities. Faith flourishes in soUtude," 



He threw himself upon the couch, and, leaning 
down his head, seemed lost in meditation. He 
started up, and, seizing his tablets, wrote upon 
them these words : — 

" Honain, I have been the whole night like 
David in the wilderness of Ziph ; but, by the aid 
of the Lord, I have conquered. I fly from this 
dangerous city upon his business, which I have too 
much neglected. Attempt not to discover me, and 
accept my gratitude," 



PART YI. 



I, 

A sconcHixR sun, a blue and burning sky, on 
every side lofty ranges of black and barren moun- 
tains, dark ravines, deep caverns, unfathomable 
gorges ! 

A solitary being moved in the distance. Faint 
and toiling, a pilgrim slowly clambered up the 
steep and stony track. 

The sultiy hours moved on, the pilgrim at length 
gained the summit of the mountain, a small and 
rugged table-land strewn with huge masses of loose 
and heated rock. All around was desolation : no 
spring, no herbage ; the bird and the insect were 
alike mute. Yet still it was the summit ; no loftier 
peaks frowned in the distance; the pilgrim stopped, 
and breathed with more facility, and a faint smila 
played over his worn and solemn countenance. 

He rested a few minutes, he took from his 
wallet some locusts and wild honey, and a small 
skin of water. His meal was short as well as 
simple. An ardent desire to reach his place of 
destination before nightfall urged liim to proceed. 
He soon passed over the table-land, and commenced 
the descent of the mountain. A straggling olivo 
tree occasionally appeared, and then a group, and 
soon the groups swell into a grove. His way 
wound through the grateful and unaccustomed 
shade. He emerged from the grave, and founc^ 
that he had proceeded down more than half the 
side of the mountain. It ended precipitously in a 
very dark and narrow ravine, formed on the side 
by an opposite mountain; the lofty steep of which 
was crested by a city gently rising on a very gra- 
dual slope. 

Nothing could be conceived more barren, wild, 
and terrible, than the surrounding scenery, unillu- 
mincd by a single trace of culture. The city stood 
like the last gladiator in an amphitheatre of desola- 
tion. 

It was surrounded by a lofty turretcd wall, of an 
architecture to which the pilgrim was unac- 
customed : gates with drawbridge and portcullis, 
square towers, and loopholes for the archer. Sen- 
tinels, clothed in steel and shining in the sunset, 
paced, at regular intervals, the cautious wall, and 
on a lofty tower a standard waved, a snowy stan- 
dard, with a red, red cross I 

The ))rince of the captivity at length beheld the 
lost capital of his fathers.* 



* The finest view of Jerusalem is from the Mount of Olivea. 
It is little altered since the period when David Alroy is 
supposed to have gazed upon it, but it is enriched by the 
splendid mosque ol Omar, built by the Woslemin coniiuer 
ors on the supposed site of the temple, and which, wilh its 
gardens, and arcades, aud courts, and fountains, may fairly 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



475 



11. 

A VT.w months back and such a spectacle would 
have called forth all the latent passion of Alroy ; 
but time and suflering, and sharp experience, had 
already somewhat curbed the fiery spirit of the He- 
brew prince. He gazed upon .Tci'usalem ; he beheld 
the city of David garrisoned by the puissant war- 
riors of Christendom, and threatened by the innu- 
merable armies of the crescent. The two great 
divisions of the world seemed contending for a 
prize, which he, a lonely wanderer, had crossed the 
desert to rescue. If his faith restrained him from 
doubting the possibility of his enterprise, he was at 
least deeply conscious that the v^'orld was a very dif- 
ferent existence to what he had fancied amid the 
gardens of Hamcdan and the rocks of Caucasus, 
and that if his purpose could be accomplished, it 
could only be effected by one means. Calm, per- 
haps somewhat depressed, but full of pious humi- 
liation, and not deserted by holy hope, he descended 
into Oie valley of Jehoshaphat, and so, slacking 
his thirst at Siloa, and mounting the opposite 
height, David Alroy entered Jerusalem by the gate 
of Sion.* 

He had been instructed that the quarter of his 
people was portioned near this entrance. He 
inquired the direction of the sentinel, who did 
not condescend to answer him. An old man in 
very shabby robes, who was passing, beckoned to 
him. 

" What want you, friend 1" inquired Alroy. 
■ "You were asking for the quarter of our people. 
You nmst be a stranger indeed in Jerusalem, to 
suppose that a Frank would speak to a Jew. You 
were lucky to get neither kicked nor cursed." 

" Kicked and cursed ! Why, these dogs — " 

" Hush ! hush ! for the love of God," said his 
new companion, very much alarmed. " Have you 
lent money to their captain, that you speak thus 1 
In Jerusalem our people speak only in a whisper." 

" No matter ; the cure is not by words. Where 
is our quarter 1" 

" Was the like ever seen ! Why, he speaks as 
if he were a Frank. I saved him from having his 
head broken by a guantlet, and — " 

" My friend, I am tired. Our quarter 1" 

" Whom may you want]" 

" The chief rabbi." 

" You bear letters to him 1" _ , 

"What is that to you 1" - " • 

'' Hush ! hush ! You don't know what Jerusa- 
lem is, young man. You must not think of going 
on in this way. Where do you come from!" 

" Bagdad." 

" Bagdad ! Jerusalem is not Bagdad. A Turk 
is a brute, but a Christian a demon." 

" But our quarter, our quarter V 

" Hush ! hush ! You want the chief rabbi V 

«Ay! ay!" 

?' Rabbi Zimri 1" 



be tlescribed as the most imposing of Moslemin fanes. I 
eiiileavourpcl lo enter it at llie hazard of my life. I was 
detPCtPil, and surrounded by a crowd of turlmned fanatics, 
and escaped with difficulty; but I saw enough to feel that 
niinule inspection would not belie the general character I 
formed of it from the IMounl of Olives. I caught a glorious 
glimpse of splendid conns, and light airy gales of Saracenic 
triuMipli, flights of noble steps, long arcades, and interior 
gardens, where silvej fountains spouted their tall streams 
(iniid the taller cypress. 

• The gate of Sion still remains, and from it you descend 
aiio the valley of Siloa 



" It may be so. I neither know nor care." 
" Neither knows nor cares I This will never do , 
you must not go on in this way at Jerusalem. You 
must not think of it." 

" Fellow, I see thou art a miserable prattler. Show 
me to our quarter, and I will pay thee, well — or be 
off." 

" Be off! Art thou a Hebrew 1 to say ' be off' to 
any one. You come from Bagdad ! I'll tell you 
what — go back to Bagdad. You will never do for 
Jerusalem." 

" Your grizzled beard protects you. Old fool, I 
am a pilgrim just arrived, wearied beyond ex- 
pression, and you keep me here listening to your flat 
talk !" 

" Flat talk ! Why ! what would you 1" 
" Lead me to the Rabbi Zimri — if that be his 
name." 

" If that be his name ! Why, every one knows 
Rabbi Zimri, the chief rabb' of Jerusalem, the suc- 
cessor of Aaron. We have our temple yet, say 
what they like. A very learned doctor is Rabbi 
Zimri." 

" Wretched driveller. I am ashamed to lose my 
patience with such a dotard." 

"Driveller! dotard! Why, who are you 1" 
" One you cannot comprehend. Without another 
word, lead me to your chief." 

" Chief ! you have not far to go. I know no 
one of the nation who holds his head higher, than 
I do here, and they call me Zimri." 

" What, the chief rabbi — the very learned doc- 
tor !" 

" No less ; I thought you had heard of him." 
" Let us forget the past, good Zimri. When 
great men play the incognito they must sometimes 
hear rough phrases. It is the caliph's lot as well 
as yours. I am glad to make the acquaintance of 
so great a doctor. Though young, and roughly 
habited, I have seen the world a little, and may 
offer next Sabbath in the synagogue more dirhems 
than you would perhaps suppose. Good and learned 
Zimri, I would be your guest." 

" A very worshipful young man ! And he speaks 
low and soft now ! But it was lucky I was at hand. 
Good — what's your name 1" 
" David." 

" A very honest name — good David. It was 
lucky I was at hand when you spoke to the sentinel 
though. A Jew speak to a Frank, and a sentinel 
too ! Hah ! hah ! hah ! that is very good. How 
Rabbi Maimon will laugh ! Faith, it was very lucky, 
now, was it not 1" 

" Indeed, most fortunate." 

" Well, that is candid ! Here ! this way. 'Tis 
not far. We number few, sir, of our brethren 
here, but a better time will come — a better time will 
come." 

" I think so. This is your door V 
" An humble one. Jerusalem is not Bagdad, but 
you are welcome." 

III. 

" KixG PiHGAif Dicus* entered them,"said Rabbi 
Maimon ; " but no one since." 

♦ According to a Talmudical story, however, of which I 
find a note, this monarch was not a Hebrew, but a Gentile, 
and a veiT wicked one. He once invited eleven famous 
doctors of the holy nation to supner. They were received 
in the most magnificent style, and were then invited, under 
paiu of death, either to eat pork, to accept a pagan mistress, 



476 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



"And when did he live?" inquired Alroy. 

" His reign is recorded in the Talmud," answered 
Rabbi Zimri, " but in the Talmud there are no 
dates." 

" A long while ago ]" said A,lroy. 

" Since the captivity," ans«vered Rabbi Maimon. 

" I doubt that," said Rabbi Zimri, " or why 
should he be called king 1" 

" Was he of the house of David 1" said Alroy. 

" Without doubt," said Rabbi Maimon ; " he 
was one of our greatest kings, and conquered Julius 
Csesar."* 

" His kingdom was in the northernmost parts of 
Africa," said Rabbi Zimri, " and exists to this day, 
if we could hut tind it." 

" Ay, truly," added Rabbi Maimon, " the sceptre 
has never departed out of Judah ; and he rode al- 
ways upon a white elephant." 

" Covered with cloth of gold," added Rabbi 
Zimri. 

" And he visited the tombs of the kings V'j^ in- 
quired Alroy. 

" Without doubt," said Rabbi Maimon. 

" The whole account is in the Talmud." 

" And no one can now find them !" 

"No one," replied Rabbi Zimri : " but according 
to the learned Doctor Moses Hallevy, they are in a 
valley in the mountains of Lebanon, which was 
sealed up by the archangel Michael." 

" The illustrious Doctor Abarbanel, of Babylon," 



or to drink wine consecrated lo idols. Afler long congiilla- 
tion, the doctors, in great tribulation, agreed to savethpjr 
heads by accepting the last alternative, since the two first 
were forbidden by tlie law of iMoses, and llie last only liy 
the rabbin. The king assented, the doctors drank the 
impure wine, and, as it was exceedingly good, drank freely. 
The wine, as will sometimes happen, created a terrible ap- 
petite; the table was covered with dishes, and the doctors, 
heated by the grape, were not sufficiently careful of what 
they partook. In short, the wicked king Pirsandicus con- 
trived that they should sup off pork, and lleing carried 
from the table nuite tipsy, each of the eleven had the mor- 
tification of finding himself next morning in the arms of a 
pa^an mistress. 

In the course of the year all the eleven died sudden 
deaths; and this visitation occurred to them, not because 
Ihey had violated the law of Muses, but because they had 
believed that ilie precepts of the rabbin coulJbe outraged 
with more impunity than the word of God. 

*Thi3 classic hero often figures in the erratic pa" es of 
the Talmud. 

+ The present pilgrim to Jerusalem will have less trouble 
than Alroy in discovering the tombs of the kings, though 
he probably would nut as easily obtain the sceptre of Solo- 
mon. The tomliS that bear this title are of the lime of the 
Asmonean princes, and of a moreambiiiuuscharacter than 
any other of the remains. An open court about fifty feet 
in breadth, and exn-emely deep, is excavated out of the 
rock. One side is furmed iiy a portico, tlie frieze of wliich 
is sculpuired in a goud Syro-Greek style. There is no 
grand portal ; you crawl into the tombs Ijy a small opening 
on one of the sides. There are a few small cliambers witit 
niches, recesses, and sarcophagi, some sculptured in the 
same flowing siyleas the frieze. This isthe most important 
monument at Jerusalem : and Dr. Clarke, who has lavished 
wonder and aduuration on llie tomtis of Zachariah and 
Aljsalum, has announced the tombs of the kings as one of 
the marvellous productions of anli(iuily. But tlie truth is, 
all that we speof artin Jerusalem is of the most mean and 
contemptible cliaracler, exhibiting not the slightest feeling 
for the beautiful or the grand, amf not for a inomenl lo be 
mentioned witli ilie creation of a neighbouring country. It 
is of course uul of the question to speak of the pyramids uf 
Memphis, and the obelisk of Heliopolis, the temples of 
Kariiak. and the palaces ofLuxoiir, the sigantic cavern 
fanes of Ipsambul, the imaginative l)endera,"and the refined 
Phila;; but it is not toomuch to say, that there are in many 
Egyptian towns, lo wliich the satiated traveller cannot 
spare a parting glance, more surprising mcmuments than 
in all Jerusalem together; ranges of painted sepulchres, in- 
finitely more striking from their exlent and beauty than 
the tombs of the kings; and relics of temples which must 
have cost more time and treasure than the whole valley of 
Jehoshaphat. 



said Rabbi Maimon, "gives one hundred and twenty 
reasons in his commentary on the Gemara to prove 
that they sunk under the earth at the taking of the 
temple." 

" No one reasons like Abarbanel of Babylon," 
said Rabbi Zimri. 

" The great Rabbi Akiba, of Pundcbita, has an- 
swered them all," said Rabbi Maimon, " and holds 
that they were taken up to heaven." 

" And which is right V inquired Rabbi Zimri. 
" Neither," said Rabhi Maimon, 

" One hundred and twenty reasons are strong 
proof," said Rabbi Zimri. 

" The most learned and illustrious Doctor Aaron 
Mendola, of Granada," said Rabbi Maimon, '' has 
shown that we must look for the tombs of the 
kings in the south of Spain." 

"All that Mendola writes is worth attention," 
said Rabbi Zimri. 

" Rabbi Hiilel,* of Samaria, is worth two Men- 
dolas any day," said Rabbi Maimon. 

" 'Tis a most learned doctor," said Rabbi Zimri ; 
" and what thinks he 1" 

" Hiilel proves that there are two tombs of the 
kings," said Rabbi Maimon, " and that neither of 
them are the right ones." 

" What a learned doctor !" exclaimed Rabbi 
Zimri. 

" And very satisfactory," remarked Alroy. 

" These are high subjects," continued Maimon, 
his blear eyes twinkling with complacency. "Your 
guest, Rabbi Zimri, must read the treatise of the 
learned Shimei, of Damascus, on ' Elfecting Im- 
possibilities.' " 

" That is a work !" exclaimed Zimri. 

" I never slept for three nights afler reading that 
work," said Rabbi Maimon. " It contains twelve 
thousand live hundred and thirty-seven quotations 
from the Pentateuch, and not a single original ob- 
servation." 

" There were giants in those days," said Zimri 
" we are children now." 

" The first chapter makes equal sense, read 
backward or forward," continued Rabbi Maimon. 

" Ichabod !" exclaimed Rabbi Zimri. 

" And the initial letter of every section is a 
cabalistical type of a king of Judah !" 

" The temple will yet be built," said Rabbi 
Zimri. 

" Ay, ay ! that is learning I" exclaimed Rabbi 



* " Rabbi Hiilel was one of the eminentest that ever was 
among the Jewish doctors, both for birth, learning, rule, 
and children. He was of the seed of Pavid by his moiher's 
side, being of the posterity of Shephaliah, tlie son of Aliilal, 
David's wife. He was brought up in Babel, I'rom whence 
he came up to Jerusalem "at forty years old. and there 
sludied the law forty years more under Shemaiah and Ab- 
talion, and after them he was president of the sanhedrim 
forty years more. The beginning of his presidency is 
generally concluded upon to have been just one hundred 
years before the temple was destroyed : Ijy which acotiimt 
he began eight-and-twenly years before our Saviour was 
born, and died when he was about twelvp years old. He 
is renowned for his fourscore scliolars." — Lighifoot, vol. ii. 
p. -2003. 

The great rival of Hiilel was Shammai. Their conlro- 
versies, and the fierceness of their partisans, are a princi 
['al feature of rabl'inical history. They werp the same as) 
the Scotisls and Thomists. At last the Balli Kol interfered, 
and decided for Hiilel. but in a spirit of conciliatory dex- 
terity. " The Bath Kol came f irward and spake thus : — 
'The words both of the one party and the other are the 
words of the living God, but the certain decision uf iha 
matter is according to the decrees of ihe school of Hiilel. 
K\\i\ from hencefurih, whoever shall transgress the deciee^ 
of the school of HHlel is guilty of death.' " 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



477 



Maiinon ; " but what is the great treatise on Effect- 
ing Impossibilities to that profound, admirable, 
and " 

" Holy rabbi !" said a youthful reader of the 
synagogue, who now entered, "the hour is at 
hand." 

" You don't say so ! Learned Maimon, I must 
to the synagogue. I could sit here all day listen- 
ing to you. Come, David, the people await us." 

Zimri and Alroy quitted the house, and proceeded 
along the narrow hilly streets to the chief temple 
of the Hebrews. 

'• It grieves the venerable Maimon much that he 
cannot join us," said Rabbi Zimri. " You have 
doubtless heard of him at Bagdad ; a most learned 
doctor." 

Alroy bowed in silence. 

" He bears his years well. You would hardly 
believe that he was my master." 

" I perceive that you inherit much of his erudi- 
tion." 

" You are kind. If he have breathed one year, 
Rabbi Maimon will be a hundred and ten next 
Passover." 

" I doubt it not." 

" When he is gathered to his fathers, a great 
light will be extinguished in Israel. You wanted 
to know something about the tombs of the kings ; 
I told you he was your man. How full he was ! 
His mind, sir, is an egg." 

" A somewhat ancient one. I fear his guidance 
will hardly bring me the enviable fortune of King 
Pirgandicus." 

" Between ourselves, good David, talking of King 
Pirgandicus, I cannot help fancying that the learned 
Maimon made a slight mistake. I hold Pirgandi- 
cus was only a prince. It was after the captivity, 
and I know no authority for any of our rulers since 
the destruction, assuming a higher title. Clearly 
a prince, eh ] But, though I would whisper to no 
one but you, I think our worthy friend grows a 
little old. We should remember his years, sir. 
A hundred and ten, next Passover. 'Tis a great 
burden." 

" Ay ! with his learning added, a very fearful 
burden indeed !" 

"You have been a week in Jerusalem, and have 
not yet visited our synagogue. It is not of cedar 
and ivory, but it is still a temple. This way. Is it 
only a week that you have been here 1 Why, you 
look another man ! I shall never forget our first 
meeting : you did not know me. That was good, 
eh 1 And when I told you I was the chief Rabbi 
Zimri, how you changed ! You have quite re- 
gamed your appetite. Ah ! 'tis pleasant to mix 
once more with our own people. To the left. So ! 
we must descend a little. We hold our meetings 
in an ancient cemetery. You have a finer temple, 
I warrant me, in Bagdad. Jerusalem is not Bag- 
dad, but this has its conveniences. 'Tis safe, and 
we are not very rich, nor wish to seem so." 

IV. 

A LONG passage brought them to a number of 
small square low chambers leading into each other.* 
They were lighted by brass lamps, placed at inter- 
vals in vacant niches, that once held corpses, and 

* These excavated cemeteries which abound in Palestine 
and Egypt were often converted into places of worship by 
the Jews and early Christians. Sandys thus describes the 
synagogue at Jerusalem in his time. 



which were now soiled by the smoky flame. Be- 
tween two and three hundred individuals were 
assembled in these chambers, at first scarcely dis- 
tinguishable by those who descended from tho 
broad daylight : but by degrees the eyesight 
became accustomed to the dim and vaporous at- 
mosphere, and Alroy recognised in the final and 
more illumined chamber a high cedar cabinet, the 
type of the ark, and which held the sacred vessels, 
and the sanctified copy of the law. ''• 

Standing in lines, with their heads mystically 
covered,* the forlorn remnant of Israel, captives in 
their ancient city, avowed, in spite of all their 
suffering, their fidelity to their God, and notwith- 
standing all the bitterness of hope delayed, their 
faith in the fulfilment of his promises. Their 
simple service was completed, their prayers were 
read, their responses made, their law exhibited, and 
their charitable offerings announced by their high 
priest. After the service, the venerable Zimri, 
opening a volume of the Talmud, and fortified by 
the opinions of all these illustrious and learned 
doctors, the heroes of his erudite conversations 
with the aged Maimon, expounded the law to the 
congregation of the people, j- 

" It is written," said the rabbi, " ' Thou shalt 
have none other God but me.' Now know ye, 
what our father Abraham said when Nim rod ordered 
him to worship fire ] ' Why not water,' answered 
Abraham, ' which can put out fire 1 why not the 
clouds, which can pour forth water 1 why not the 
winds, which can produce clouds I why not God, 
which can create winds V " 

A murmur of approbation sounded throughout 
the congregation. 

" Eliezer," said Zimri, addressing himself to a 
young rabbi, " it is written, that He took a rib from 
Adam when he was asleep. Is God then a rob- 
ber ]" 

The young rabbi looked puzzled, and cast his 
eyes on the ground. The congregation was very 
perplexed and a little alarmed. 

" Is there no answer]" said Zimri. 

" Rabbi," said a stranger, a tall, swarthy African 
pilgrim, standing in a corner, and enveloped in a 
red mantle, over which a lamp threw a flickering 
light. " Rabbi, some robbers broke into my house 
last night, and stole an earthen pipkin, but they 
left a golden vase in its stead." 

" It is well said, it is well said," exclaimed the 
congregation. The applause was loud. 

" Learned Zimri," continued the African, " it is 
written in the Gemara, that there was a youth in 
Jerusalem who fell in love with a beautiful damsel, 
and she scorned him. And the youth was so 
stricken with his passion that he could not speak ; 
but when he beheld her, he looked at her implor- 
ingly, and she laughed. And one day the youth, 
not knowing what to do with himself, went out 
into the desert ; and towards night he returned 
home, but the gates of the city were shut. And 
he went down into the valley of Jehoshaphat, 
and entered the tomb of Absalom and slept ;:f: and 



♦ The Hebrews cover their heads during their prayers 
with a sacred shawl. 

t The custom, I believe, even to the present day among 
the Hebrews, a remnant of llieir old academies, once so fa- 
mous. 

t In the vale of Jehoshaphat, amone many other tombs, 
are two of considerable size, and which, although of a 
corrupt Greciin architecture, are dignified by the titles o', 
tombs of Zachariah and Absalom. 



478 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



he dreamed a dream : and next morning he came 
into the city smilinq^. And the maiden met him, 
and she said, 'Is that then; art thou a hiiighcr'?' 
And he answered, ' Behold, yesterday being dis- 
consolate, I went out of the city into the desert, 
and I returned home, and the gates of the city 
were shut, and I went down into the valley of Je- 
hoshaphat, and I entered the tomb of Absalom, and 
I slept, wid I dreamed a dream, and ever since 
then I hfwe laughed.' And the damsel said, ' Tell 
me thy dream.' And he answered and said, ' I 
may not tell my dream only to my wife, for it 
regards her honour.' And the maiden grew sad 
curious, and said, ' I am thy wife, tell me thy 
dream.' And straightforth they went and were 
married, and ever after they both laughed. Now, 
learned Zimri, what means this tale, an idle jest 
for a master of the law, yet it is written by the 
greatest doctor of the captivity 1" 

" It passeth my comprehension," said the chief 
rabbi. 

Rabbi EHezer was silent; the congregation 
groaned. 

" Now hear the interpretation," said the African. 
" The youth is our people, and the damsel is our 
lost Sion, and the tomb of Absalom proves that 
salvation can only come from the house of David. 
Dost thou hear this, young man ]" said the Afri- 
can, coming forward, and laying his hand on Alroy, 
" I speak to thee, because I have observed a deep 
attention in thy conduct." 

The prince of the captivity started, and shot a 
glance at the dark visage before him, hut the glance 
read nothing. The upper part of the countenance 
of the African was half concealed by masses of 
dark matted hair, and the lower by his uncouth 
robes. A flashing eye was its only characteristic, 
which darted forth like lightning out of a black 
cloud. 

" Is my attention the only reason that induces 
you to address me 1" inquired Alroy. 

"Who ever gave all his reasons?" replied the 
African with a laughing sneer. 

" I seek not to learn them. Suffice it, stranger, 
that how much soever you may mean, as much I 
can understand." 

" 'Tis well — learned Zimri, is this thy pupil ] I 
congratulate thee. I will match him against the 
hopeful Eliezer." So saying, the lofty African 
stalked out of the chamber. The assembly also 
broke up. Alroy would willingly have imme- 
diately followed the African, and held some further 
and more private conversation with him ; but 
some minutes elapsed, owing to the officious atten- 
tions of Zimri, before he could escape ; and when 
he did, his search after the stranger was vain. He 
inquired among the congregation, but no one knew 
the African. He was no man's guest, and no 
man's debtor, and apparently had never before 
been seen. 



The trumpet was soundmg to close the gates, 
as Alroy passed the Sion entrance. The tempta- 
tion was irresistible. He rushed out, and ran for 
more than one hundred yards without looking 
hack, and when he di<l, he had the satisfaction of 
ascertaining that he was fairly shut out for the 
niglit. The sun had set, still the mount of Olives 
was flushed with the reflection of his dying beams, 
bdt Jehoshaphat at its leet was in deep shadow. 



He wandered among the mountains for some 
time, beholding Jerusalem from a hundred different 
points of view, and watching the single planets and 
clustering constellations that gradually burst into 
beauty or gathered into light. At length, some- 
what exhausted, he descended into the vale. The 
scanty rill of Siloah* looked like a thread of sil- 
ver winding in the moonlight. Some houseless 
wretches were slumbering under the arch of its 
fountain. Several isolated tombs of considerable 
sizef rose at the base of Olivet, and into the largtst 
of these Alroy entered. He entered through a 
narrow passage into a small square chamber. On 
each side was an empty sarcophagus of granite, 
one with its lid broken. Between these the prince 
of the captivity laid his robe, and, wearied by his 
ramble, soon soundly slept. 

After some hours he awoke. He f;mcied that 
he had been wakened by the sound of voices. The 
chamber was not quite dark. A straggling moon- 
beam fought its way through an open fret-work 
pattern in the top of the tomb, and just revealed 
the dim interior. Suddenly a voice spoke — a 
strange and singular voice. 

" Brother, brother, the sounds of the night 
begin." 

Another voice answered, 

" Brother, brother, I hear them, too." 

" The woman in labour !" 

"The thief at his craft!" 

" The sentinel's challenge !" 

" The murderer's step !" 

" O ! the mcn-y soundsof the night !" 

" Brother, brother, let us come forth and wander 
about the world." 

" We have seen all things. I'll lie here and 
listen to the baying hound. 'Tis music for a 
tomb." 

" Choice and rare. You are idle. I like to 
sport in the starry air. Our hours are few — they 
should be fair." 

" What shall we see — heaven or earth 1" 

" Hell for me — 'tis more amusing." 

" As for me, I am sick of Hades." 

" Let us visit Solomon !" 

" In his unknown metropolis 1" 

" That will be rare." 

" But, where, O ! where ?" 

" Even a spirit cannot tell. But they sav, but 
they say — I dare not whisper what they say," 

" who told you V 

" No one. I overheard an Afrite whispering to 
a female Ghoul he wanted to seduce." 

" Hah ! hah ! hah ! hah ! choice pair ! choice 
pair ! We are more ethereal." 

" She was a beauty in her way. Her eyes were 
luminous, though somewhat dank, and her cheek 
tinged with carnation caught from infant blood." 

" O ! gay, O ! gay — what said they 1" 

" He was a deserter without leave from Solo- 



* The sublinip Siloah is now a muddy rill ; you Jpscend 
by sleps 10 ihe fuunlain which is ils smircp, and wiiich is 
covered wiUi an arch. Here Ihe blind man received his 
siglil: and singular enough, lo this very day ihe healing 
i-eputalion of fls waters prevails, and summons to its 
brink all those neighbouring Arabs who sulTer from 
the ophthalmic atfeclions not uncommon in this pari ot 
the world. 

t There are no remains of ancient Jerusalem, or the 
ancient Jews. Some tombs there are which may be as- 
cribed to the Asmonean princes ; but all the monuments of 
David and Solomon, and their long posterity, have utterly 
disappeared. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



479 



mon's body-guard. The trull wriggled the secret 
out." 

" Tell me, kind brother." 

" I'll show, not t/jll." 

" I pr'ythee tell me." 

" Well, then, well. In Genthesma's gloomy 
cave there is a river none has reached, and you 
must sail, and you must sail Brother !" 

" Ay." 

" Methinks I smell something too earthly." 

" What's that 1" 

" The breath of man." 

" Scent more fatal than tlie morning air ! Away, 
away !" 

VI. 

Iv the range of mountains that lead from Olivet 
to the river Jordan is the great cavern of Gen- 
thesma, a mighty excavation formed by the com- 
bined and immemorial work of nature and of art. 
For on the high basaltic columns are cut strange 
cliaracters and unearthly forms,* and in many 
places the natural ornaments have been completed 
by the hands of the sculptor into symmetrical en- 
tablatures and fanciful capitals. The work, they 
say, of captive Dives and conquered Afrites, for 
the great king. 

It was midnight ; the cold full moon showered 
Its brilliancy upon this narrow valley, shut in on 
all sides by black and barren mountains. A single 
being stood at the entrance of the cave. 

It was Alroy. Desperate and determined, after 
listening to the two spirits in the tomb, he was re- 
solved to penetrate the mysteries of Genthesma. 
He took from his girdle a flint and steel, with 
vv'hich he lighted a torch, and then he entered. 

The cavern narrovs^ed as he cautiously advanced, 
and soon he found himself at the head of an evi- 
dently artificial gallery. A crowd of bats rushed 
forward and extinguished his torch.f He leaned 
down to relight it, and in so doing observed that 
he trod upon an artificial pavement. 

The gallery was of great extent, with a gradual 
declination.t Being in a straight line with the 
mouth of the cavern, the moonlit scene was long 
visible; but Alroy, on looking round, now per- 
ceived that the exterior was shut out by the emi- 
nence that he had left behind him. The sides 
of the gallery were covered with strange and sculp- 
tured forms. 

The j)rince of the captivity proceeded along this 
gallery for nearly two hours. A distant murmur 
of falling water, which might have been distin- 
guished nearly from the first, increased in sound 
as he advanced, and now, from the loud roar and 
dash at hand, he felt Uiat he was on the brink of 
some cataract. It was very dark. His heart trem- 
bled. He felt his footing ere he ventured to ad- 
vance. The spray suddenly leaped forward, and 
extinguished his torch. His imminent danger 
fdled him with terror, and he receded some paces, 
but in vain endeavoured to reilluinine his torch, 
which was soaked with the water. 

His courage deserted him. Energj"- and exertion 
seemed hopeless. He was about to deliver him- 

* As at Benihassan, and many other of the sculptured 
calacimitis of Esypt. 

+ In eiilering ihe temple of Dendera, our torches were ex- 
tinguislieil liy a crowd oi" bats. 

t So, in the great Egyptian tombs. 



self up to despair, when an expanding lustre at 
tracted his attention in the opposing gloom. 

A small and bright red cloud seemed sailing to- 
wards him. It opened, discharged from its bosom 
a silvery stir, and dissolved again into darkness. 
But the star remained, the silvery star, and threw 
a long line of tremulous light upon the vast and 
raging rapid, which now, fleet and foaming, re- 
vealed itself on all sides to the eye of Alroy. 

The beautiful interposition in his fi ^'jour reani- 
mated the adventurous pilgrim. A dark shadow 
in the foreground, breaking the line of light shed 
by the star upon the waters, attracted his attention 
He advanced, regained his former footing, and 
more nearly examined it. It was a boat, and in 
the boat, mute and immovable, sat one of those 
vast, singular, and hideous forms, which he had 
observed sculptured on the walls of the gallery. 

David Alroy, committing his fortunes to the 
God of Israel, leaped into the boat. 

VII 

AvT) at the same moment the Afrite,* for it was 
one of those dread beings, raised the oars, and the 
boat moved. The falling waters suddenly parted 
in the long line of the star's reflection, and the 
bark glided through their high and severed 
masses. 

In this wise they proceeded for a few minutes, 
until they entered a beautiful and moonlit lake. 
In the distance was a mountainous country. Alroy 
examined his companion with a feeling of curiosity 
not unmixed with terror. It was remarkable that 
Alroy could never succeed in any way attracting 
his notice. The Afrite seemed totally unconscious 
of the presence of his passenger. At length the 
boat reached the opposite shore of the lake, and the 
prince of the captivity disembarked. 

He disembarked at the head of an avenue of co- 
lossal lions of red granite,"j- which extended far as 
the eye could reach, and which ascended the side 
of the mountain, which was cut into a flight of 
magnificent steps. The easy ascent was in con- 
sequence soon accomplished, and Alroy, proceeding 
along the avenue of lions, soon gained the summit 
of the mountain. 

To his infinite astonishment, he beheld Jerusa- 
lem. That strongly marked locality could not be 
mistaken : at his feet was Jehoshaphat, Kedron, 
Siloa : he stood upon Olivet ; before him was Sion. 
But in all other respects, how ditTerent was the 
landscape to the one he had gazed upon a few days 
back, for the first time ! The surrounding hills 
sparkled with, vineyards, and glowed with summer 
palaces, and voluptuous pavilions, and glorious 
gardens of pleasure. The city, extending all over 
Mount Sion, was encompassed with a wall of white 
marble, with battlements of gold, a gorgeous mass 
of gates and pillars, and gardened terraces, lofty 
piles of rarest materials, cedar, and ivory, and pre- 
cious stones, and costly columns of the richest 
workmanship, and the most fanciful orders, capitals 
of the lotus and the palm, and flowing friezes cf 
the olive and the vine. 



* Beings of a monstrous form, the most terrible of all liio 
orders of the Dives. 

t An avenue of sphinxes moreihan a mile in length con- 
nected the quarters of l.uxoor and Carnac in Ksyplian 
Tliebes. Its fragments remain. Many other avenues of 
sphinxes and lion-headed kings may be observed in various 
parts of Upper Egypt. 



480 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



And in the front a mighty temple rose, with in- 
spiration in its very form, a temple so vast, so 
sumptuous, there required no priest to tell us that 
no human hand planned that suhlime magnificence ! 

" God of my fothcrs !" said Alroy, " I am a poor, 
weak thing, and my life has been a life of dreams 
and visions, and I have sometimes thought my brain 
lacked a sufficient master — where am 11 Do I 
leep or live 1 Am I a slumberer or a ghost ? 
This trial is too much." He sank down and hid 
his face in his hands : his over-exerted mind ap- 
peared to desert him ; he wept hysterically. 

Many minutes elapsed before Alroy grew com- 
posed. His wild bursts of weeping sank into sobs, 
and the sobs died oft" into sighs. And at length, 
calm from exhaustion, he again looked up, and lo ! 
the glorious city was no more ! Before him was a 
moonlit plain, over which the avenue of lions still 
advanced, and apjicared to terminate only in the 
mountainous distance. 

This limit, the prince of the captivity at length 
reached, and stood before a stupendous portal, cut 
out of the solid rock, four hundred feet in heiglit, 
and supported by clusters of colossal caryatides.* 
Upon the portals were engraven some Hebrew 
characters, which, upon examination, proved to be 
the same as those upon the talisman of Jabaster. 
And so taking from, liis boijOm tliat all-precious and 
long-cherished deposit, Dqi'vid Alroy, in obedience 
to his instructions, pressed the signet against the 
gigantic portal. 

The portal opened with a crash of thunder louder 
than an earthquake. Pale, panting, and staggering, 
the prince of the captivity entered an illimitable 
hall, illumined by pendulous and stupendous balls 
of glowing metal. On each side of the hall, sitting 
on golden thrones, was ranged a line of kings, and 
as the pilgrim entered, the monarchs rose, and took 
of their diadems, and waved them thrice, and thrice 
repeated, in solemn chorus, " All hail, Alroy ! Hail 
to thee, brother king. Thy crown awaits thee !" 

The prince of the captivity stood trembling, with 
his eyes fixed upon the ground, and leaning breath- 
less against a column. And when at length, he 
had a little recovered himself, and dared again to 
look up, he found the monarchs were reseated ; and, 
from their still and vacant visages, apparently un- 
conscious of his presence. And this emboldened 
him, and so staring alternately at each side of the 
hall, but with a firm, perhaps desperate step, Alroy 
advanced. 

And he came to two thrones which were set 
apart from the others in the middle of the hall. On 
one was seated a noble figure, far above the common 
stature, with arms folded and downcast eyes. His 
feet rested upon a broken sword, and a shivered 
sceptre, which told he was a monarch, in spite of 
his discrowned head. 

And on the opposite throne was a venerable 
personage, with a long flowing beard, and dressed 
in white raiment. His countenance was beautiful, 
although ancient. Age had stole on without its im- 
perfections, and time had only invested it with a 
sweet dignity and solemn grace. The countenance 
of the king was upraised with a seraphic gaze, and 

* See the (;reat rock temple of Ipsambul in Lower Nubia. 
Tlie silling colossi are nearly seventy feet in height. But 
there is a lorso of a statue o( Rameses the Second at Thebes, 
vulgiirly called the great Memnon, which measures up- 
war'ds of sixty feel round the shoulders. 



as he thus looked up on high, with eyes full of love, 
and thanksgiving, and praise, his consecrated fin- 
gers seemed to touch the trembling wires of a golden 
harp. 

And further on, and far above the rest, upon a 
throne that stretched across the hall, a most impe- 
rial presence straightway flashed upon the startled 
vision of Alroy. Fifty steps of ivory, and each 
step guarded by golden lions,* led to a throne of 
jasper. A dazzling light blazed forth from the glitter- 
ing diadem and radiant countenance of him who sat 
upon the throne — one beautiful as a woman, but 
with the majesty of a god. And in one hand he 
held a seal, and in the other a sceptre. 

And when Alroy had reached the foot of the 
throne, he stopped, and his heart misgave him. 
And he prayed for some minutes in silent devotion, 
and without daring to look up, he mounted the first 
step of the throne, and the second, and the third, 
and so on, with slow and faltering feet, until he 
reached the forty-ninth step. 

The prince of the captivity raised his eyes. He 
stood before the monarch face to face. In vain 
Alroy attempted to attract his attention, or to fix 
his gaze. The large black eyes, full of supernatural 
lustre, appeared capable of piercing all things, and 
illuminating all things, but they flashed on without 
shedding a ray upon Alroy. 

Pale as a spectre, the pilgrim, whose pilgrimage 
seemed now on the point of completion, stood cold 
and trembling before the object of aU his desires^ 
and all his labours. But he thought of his country, 
his people, and his God, and while his noiseless 
lips lireathed the name of Jehovah, solemnly he 
put forth his arm, and with a gentle firmness 
grasped the unresisting sceptre of his great ances- 
tor. 

And as he seized it, the whole scene vanished 
from his sight. 

vin. 

Hours or years might have passed away, as far 
as the suflerer vi'as concerned, when Alroy again 
returned to self-consciousness. His eyes slowly 
opened, he cast round a vacant stare, he was lying 
in the cavern of Genthesma. The moon had set, 
but the morn had not broken. A single star glit- 
tered over the brow of the black mountains. He 
faintly moved his limbs, he would have raised his 
hand to his bewildered brain, but found that it 
grasped a sceptre. The memory of the past re- 
turned to him. He tried to rise, and found that he 
was reposing in the arms of a human being. He 
turned his head — he met the anxious gaze of Ja- 
baster ! 



PART VII. 

I. 

" Your pace is troubled, uncle." 

" So is my mind." 

" All may go well." 

" Miriam, we have seen the best. Prepare your- 
self for sorrow, gentle girl. I care not for myself, 
for I am old, and age makes heroes of us all. I 

♦ See Isl Kings, chap.x. lS-20. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



481 



have endured, and can endure more. As we ap- 
proach our limit it would appear our minds grow 
callous. I have seen my wealth, raised with th« 
labours of a thoughtful life, vanish in the morn ; 
my people, a fragile remnant, nevertheless a people 
dispersed, or what is worse. I have wept for them, 
although no tear of selfish giief has tinged this 
withered cheek. And were I but alone — ay ! there's 
the pang. The solace of my days is now my 
sorrow." 

" Weep not for me, dear uncle. Eather let us 
pray our God will not desert us." 

" We know not when we are well. Our hours 
stole tranquilly along, and then we murmured; 
prospering, we murmured, and now we are rightly 
stricken. The legend of the past is Israel's bane. 
The past is a dream ; and in the waking present we 
should discard the enervating shadow. Why would 
we be free'? We murmured against captivity. 
This is captivity : this damp, dim cell, where we are 
brought to die. 

" O ! youth, rash youth, thy being is destraction. 
But 3'esterday a child — it seems but yesterday I 
nursed him in these arms, a thoughtless child — and 
now our house has fallen by liis deeds. I'll not 
think of it ; 'twill make me mad." 

'' Uncle, dearest, dearest uncle, we have lived 
together, and we will die together, and both in love : 
but, but, I pray you, — speak no harsh word of 
David." 

" Shall I praise him ]" 

"Say nothing. W^hat he has done, if done in 
grief, has been done all in honour. Would you 
that he had spared Alschiroch 1" 

" Never ! I would have struck him myself. 
Brave boy, he did his duty, and I — I, Miriam, thy 
uncle, at whom they wink behind his back and call 
him niggard, was I wanting in that hour of triall 
Was my treasure spared to save my people ? Did 
I shrink from all the toil and trouble of that time ? 
A trying time, my Miriam, but compared with this, 
the building of the temple." 

" You were then, what you have ever been, the 
best and wisest. And since our father's God did 
not desert us, even in that wilderness of wildest wo, 
I offer gratitude in present faith, and pay him for 
past mercies by my prayers for more." 

" Well, well; life must end. The hour approaches 
when we must meet our rulers and mock trial ; pre- 
cious justice that begins in threats and ends in tor- 
ture. You are silent, Miriam." 

" 1 am speaking to my God." 

" What is that noise] A figure moves behind 
the dusky grate. Our jailer. No, no, it is Caleb ! 
Faithful child, I fear you have perilled much." 

" I enter with authority, my lord, and bear good 
tidings." 

" He smiles ! Is't possible 1 Speak on, speak 
on!" 

" Alroy has captured the harem of our governor, 
as they journeyed from Bagdad to this city, guarded 
by his choicest troops. And he has sent to olfer 
that they shall be exchanged for you and for your 
household. And Hassan has answered that his 
women shall owe their freedom to nothing but his 
sword. But in the meantime it is agreed between 
him and the messenger of your nephew, that both 
companies of prisoners shall be treated with all be- 
coming courtesy. You, therefore, are remanded to 
your palace, and the trumpet is now sounding before 
tl e great mosque to summon all the ho^t against 
CI 



Alroy, whom Hassan has vowed to bring to Hama« 
dan dead or alive." 

" The harem of the governor, guarded too by his 
choicest troops. 'Tis a great deed. He did re- 
member us. Faithful boy I The harem of the 
governor ! — his choicest troops ! 'Tis a very great 
deed. Methinks the Lord is with him. He has 
his great father's heart. Only think of David — a 
child ! I nursed him — often. Caleb ! Can this* 
be David, our David, a child, a girl ! Yet he struck 
Alschiroch ! Miriam ! where is she 1 Worthy 
Caleb, look to your mistress ; she has fallen. Dead, 
quite dead. Fetch water. 'Tis not very pure — 
but we shall be in our palace soon. The harem of 
the governor ! I can't believe it. Sprinkle, sprin- 
kle. David take them prisoners ! Why, when 
they pass, we are obliged to turn our heads, and 
dare not look. More water : I'll rub her hands. 
'Tis warmer ! Her eyes are open ! Miriam, choice 
news, my darling ! The harem of the governor ! — 
I'll not beheve it !" 

II. 

" OxcE more within our walls, Caleb. Life is a 
miracle. I feel young again. This is home ; and 
yet I am a prisoner. You said the host were as- 
sembling ; he can have no chance. Think you, 
Caleb, he has any chance? I hope he will die. I 
would not have him taVen. I fear their tortures. 
We will die too ; we will all die. Now I am out 
of that dungeon, methinks I even could fight. Is it 
true that he has joined with robbers !" 

" I saw the messenger, and learned that he first 
repaired to some bandits in the ruins in the desert. 
He had become acquainted with them in his pilgrim- 
age. They say their leader is one of our people." 

" I am glad of that. He can eat with him. I 
v>'ould not have him eat unclean things with tlie 
Ishmaelites." 

" Lord, sir ! our people gather to him from all 
quarters. 'Tis said Jabaster, the great cabalist, has 
joined him from the mountains with ten thousand 
men." 

" The great Jabaster ! then there is some chance. 
I know Jabaster well. He is too wise to join a despe- 
rate cause. Art sure about Jabaster ? 'Tis a great 
namd, a very potent spirit. I have heard such things 
of that Jabaster, sir, would make you stare like Sau! 
before the spirit ! Only think of our David, Caleb, 
making all this noise ! I am full of hope. I feel not 
like a prisoner. He beat the harem guard, and 
now he has got Jabaster, he will beat them all." 

" The messenger told me he captured the harem 
only to free his uncle and his sister." 

" He ever loved me ; I have done my duty to 
him ; I think I have. Jabaster ! why, man, the 
name is a spell ! There are men at Bagdad who 
will get up in the night to join Jabaster. I hope 
David will follow his counsels in all things. I 
would I had seen his servant, I could have sent hira 
a message." 

" Lord, sir ! the Prince Alroy has no great need 
of counsellors, I can tell you. 'Tis said he bears 
the sceptre of great Solomon, which he himself ob- 
tained in the unknown tombs of Palestine." 

" The sceptre of Solomon ! — could I but believe 
it ! 'Tis an age of wonders ! Where are we ? 
Call for Miriam, I'll tell hor this. Only think of 
David — a mere child — our David with the sceptra 
of Solomon I and Jabaster too ! 1 have great faitk. 
The Lord confound liis enemies !" 
2S 



482 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



III. 

" Gextlt: Rachel, I fear I trouble you ; sweet 
Beruna, I thank you for your zeal. I am better 
now; the shock was great. These are strange 
tidings, maidens." 

" Yes, dear lady ! who would have thought of 
our brother turning out a captain?" 
"I am sure I always thought he was the quietest 
person in the world," said Beruna, " though he did 
kill Alschiroch." 

" One never could gel a word out of him," said 
Kachel. 

" He was always moping alone," said Beruna. 
" And when one spoke to him he always turned 
away," said Leah. 

" Or blushed," added Imra. 
" Well, for my part," said the beautiful Bath- 
sheba, "I always tliought Prince David was a 
genius. He had such beautiful eyes !" 

"I hope he will conquer Hassan," said Rachel. 
" So do I," said Beruna. 

" I vvonder what he has done with the harem," 
said Leah. 

" I don't think he will dare to speak to them," 
^sgidlmra. 

" ' i' Ygjiare very much mistaken," said Bathsheba. 
"llark!" said Miriam. 
I-*-' Tis Hassan," said Bathsheba; " may he never 
rfniirn !" 

The wild drum of the Seljuks sounded, then a 
flourish of their fierce trumpets, and soon the tramp 
of horse. Behind the blinds of their chamber, 
Miriam and her maidens beheld the magnificent 
troop of turbaned horsemen, who, glittering with 
splendid armour and bright shawls, and proudly 
bounding on their fieiry steeds, now went forth to 
crush and conquer the only hope of Israel. Upon 
an Arab, darker than night, rode the superb Hassan, 
and as he passed the dwelling of his late prisoners, 
whether from the exulting anticipation of coming 
triumph, or from a soft suspicion that, behind that 
l;ittice, bright eyes and brilliant faces were gazing 
on his state, the haughty but handsome Seljuk 
flourished his cimeter over his head, as he threw 
liis managed steed into attitudes that developed, the 
skill of its rider. 

" He is handsomer than Alschiroch," said Ra- 
chel. 

" What a shawl !" said Beruna. 
" His cimeter was like lightning," said Leah. 
" And his steed like thunder," said Imra. 
" The evil eye fall on him !" said Bathsheba. 
"Lord, remember David !" said Miriam, " and all 
his afflictions!" 



IV. 

The deserted city of the wilderness presented a 
very different appearance to that which met the 
astonished gaze of Ahoy when he first beheld its 
noble turrets, and wandered in its silent streets of 
jialaces. 

Without the gates was pitched a numerous camp 
of those low black tents common among the Kourds 
and Turkmans ; the princi{)al street was full of busy 
groups engaged in all the preparations of warfare, 
and all the bustling expedients of an irregular and 
adventurous life ; steeds were stalled in ruined 
chambers, and tall camels raised their still visages 



among the clustering columns, or crouched in 
kneeling tranquillity amid fallen statues and pros- 
trate obelisks. 

Two months had scarcely elapsed since Alroy 
and Jabaster had sought Scherirah in his haunt, 
and announced to him their sacred mission. The 
callous heart of him, " whose mother was a Jewess," 
had yielded to their inspired annunciations. He 
embraced their cause with all the fervour of con- 
version, and his motley band were not long skeptical 
of a creed which, while it assuredly offered danger 
and adventure, held out the prospects of wealth and 
even empire. From the city of the wilderness the 
new Messiah sent forth his messengers to the neigh- 
bouring cities to announce his advent to his brethren 
in captivity. The Hebrews, a proud and stiff-necked 
race, ever prone to rebellion, received the an 
nouncement of their favourite prince with transport. 
The descendant of David, and the slayer of Alschi 
roch, had double claims upon their confidence and 
allegiance, and the flower of the Hebrew youth in 
the neighbouring cities of the caliphate repaired in 
crowds to pay their homage to the recovered sceptre 
of Solomon. 

The afliiir was at first treated by the government 
with contempt, and the sultan of the Seljuks con- 
tented himself with setting a price upon the head 
of the murderer of his brother ; but when several 
cities had been placed under contribution, and more 
than one Moslemin caravan stopped and plundered 
in the name of the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and 
of Jacob, orders were despatched from Bagdad to 
the new Governor of Hamadan, Hassan Subah, to 
suppress the robbers, or the rebels, and to send 
David Alroy dead or alive to the capital. 

The Hebrew malcontents were well apprized bj' 
their less adventurous, but still sj^mpathizing breth- 
ren, of every thing that took place at the head- 
quarters of the enemy. Spies arrived on the same 
day at the city of the wilderness, who informed 
Alroy that his uncle was thrown into a dungeon at 
Hamadan, and that a body of chosen troops were 
about to escort a royal harem of Bagdad into Persia. 
Alroy attacked the escort in person, utterly dis- 
comfited them, and captured their charge. It 
proved to be the harem of the Governor of Hama- 
dan, and if, for a moment, the too sanguine fancy 
of the captor experienced a passing pang of disap- 
pointment, the prize at least obtained, as we have 
seen, the freedom and security of his dear, though 
distant friends. This exploit precipitated the expe- 
dition which was preparing at Hamadan for his de- 
struction. The enraged Hassan Subah started from 
his divan, seized his cimeter, and without waiting 
for the auxiliaries he had summoned from the 
neighbouring chieftains, called to horse, and at the 
head of two thousand of the splendid Seljukian 
cavalry, hurried to vindicate his love, and satiate his 
revenge. 

Within the amphitheatre which he first entered 
as a prisoner, Alroy sat in council. On his right 
was Jabaster ; Scherirah on his left. A youth, lit- 
tle his senior, but tall as a palm tree, and strong as 
a young lion, was the fourth captain. In the dis- 
tance, some standing, some reclining, were about 
fifty men completely anned. 

"Are the people numbered, Abner 1" inquired 
Alroy of the youth. 

" Even so ; three hundred effective horsemen, 
and two thousand footmen; but the footmen lack 
arms." 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



483 



" The Lord will send them in good time," said 
.Tabaster, " meanwhile let them continue to make 
yivelins." 

" Trust in the Lord," murmured Scherirah, bend- 
ing his head, with his eyes fixed on the ground. 

A loud shout was heard throughout the city. 
Alroy started from his carpet. The messenger had 
returned. Pale and haggard, covered with sweat 
and sand, the faithful envoy was borne into the 
amphitheatre almost upon the shoulders of the peo- 
ple. In vain the guard endeavoured to stem the 
passage of the multitude. They clambered up the 
tiers of arches, they filled the void and crumbling 
seats of the antique circus, they supported them- 
selves upon each other's shoulders, they clung to 
the capitals of the lofty columns. The whole multi- 
tude had assembled to hear the intelligence ; the 
scene recalled the ancient purpose of the building, 
and Alroy and his fellow-warriors seemed like the 
gladiators of some old spectacle. 

" Speak," said Alroy, " speak the worst. No 
news can be bitter to those whom the Lord will 
avenge." 

" Ruler of Israel ! thus saith Hassan Subah," 
answered the messenger ; " My harem shall owe 
their freedom to nothing but my sword. I treat 
not with rebels, but I war not with age or woman ; 
and between Bostenay and his household on one 
side, and the prisoners of thy master on the other, 
let there be peace. Go tell Alroy, I will seal it in 
his best blood. And lo ! thy uncle and thy sister 
ere again in their palace." 

Alroy placed his hand for a moment to his eyes, 
and then instantly resuming his self-possession, he 
inquired as to the movements of the enemy. 

" I have crossed the desert on a swift dromedary* 
lent to me by Shelomi of the Gate, whose heart is 
with our cause, I have not tarried, neither have I 
slept. Ere to-morrow's sunset, the Philistines will 
be here, led by Hassan Subah himself. The Lord 
of Hosts be with us ! Since we conquered Canaan, 
Israel hath not struggled with such a power !" 

A murmur ran through the assembly. Men 
exchanged inquiring glances, and involuntarily 
pressed each other's arms. 

" The trial has come," said a middle-aged He- 
brew, who had fought twenty years ago with Ja- 
baster. 

" Let me die for the ark !" said a yomig enthusi- 
ast of the band of Abncr. 

" I thought we should get into a scrape," whis- 
pered Kisloch, the Kourd, to Calidas, the Indian. 
" What could have ever induced us to give up 
robbing in a quiet manner 1" 

" And turn Jews !" said the Guebre, with a sneer. 

" Look at Scherirah," said the Negro, grinning. 
" If he is not kissing the sceptre of Solomon !" 

" I wish to heaven he had only hung Alroy the 
first time he met him," said Calidas. 

"Sons of the Covenant!" exclaimed Alroy, 
"the Lord hath delivered them into our hands. 
To-morrow eve we march to Hamadan !" 
A cheer followed this exclamation. 
" It is written," said Jabaster, opening a volume, 
•" Lo ! I will defend this city, to save it, for mine 
own sake, and for my servant David's sake. 

" ' And it came to pass that night, that the angel 
of the Lord went out and smote in the camp of the 



* The difference between a camel and a dromedary is 
the difference between a hack and a Ihorough-bred horse, 
ere is no other. 



Assyrians, an hundred fourscore and five thousand . 
and when they arose early in the morning, behold ! 
they were all dead corpses.' 

" Now, as I was gazing upon the stars this morn, 
leading that celestial alphabet* known to the true 
cabalist, behold ! the star of the house of David and 
seven other stars moved and met together, and 
formed into a circle. And the word they formed 
was a mystery to me ; but lo ! I have opened the 
book, and each star is the initial letter of each line 
of the targum that I have now read to you. There- 
fore the fate of Sennacherib is the fate of Hassan 
Subah! 

" Trust in him at all times, ye 
people ; pour out your heart before 
him : Gud is a refuge for us. Se- 
lah .'" 

Suddenly a female form appeared upon the very 
top of the amphitheatre, upon the slight remains of 
the uppermost tier, of which a solitary arch alone 
was left. The chorus instantly died away, every 
tongue was silent, every eye fixed. Hushed, mute, 
and immovable, even Kisloch and his companions 
were appalled as they gazed upon Esther the pro- 
phetess. 

Her eminent position, her imposing action, the 
flashing of her immense eyes, her beautiful but 
awful countenance, her black hair, that hung al- 
most lo her knees, and the white light of the moon, 
just rising over the opposite side of the amphithea- 
tre, and which threw a silvery flash upon her form, 
and seemed to invest her with some miraculous 
emanation, while all beneath her were in deep 
gloom, all these circumstances combined, rendered 
her an object of universal interest and attention, 
while in a powerful, but very high voice, she thus 
addressed them. 

" They come, they come ! But will they go ] 
Lo ! hear ye this, O house of Jacob, which are 
called by the name of Israel, and are come forth 
out of the waters of Judah ! I hear their drum in 
the desert, and the voice of their trumpets is like the 
wind of eve, but a decree hath gone forth, and it 
says, that a mortal shall be more precious than fine 
gold, yea, a man than the rich ore of Ophir, 

"They come, they come! But will they go? 
I see the flash of their cimeters, I mark the pranc- 
ing of their cruel steeds ■ but a decree hath gone 
forth, and it says, a gleaning shall be left among 
them, as in the shaking of the olive tree; two or 
three berries on the top of the uppermost bough ; 
four or five on the straggling branches. 

" They come, they come ! But will they go ? 
Lo ! a decree hath gone forth, and it says, Hama- 
dan shall be to thee for a spoil, and desolation shall 
fall upon Babylon. And there shall the wild beasts 
of the desert lodge, and howling monsters shall fill 
their houses, and there shall the daughters of the 
ostrich dwell, and there .shall the screech-owl pitch 
her tent, and there shall the night-raven lay her 
eggs, and there shall the satyrs hold their revels, 
and wolves shall howl to one another in their pala- 
ces, and dragons in their voluptuous pavilions. 
Her time is near at hand, her days shall not be 
prolonged, the reed and the lotus shall wither in 
her rivers, and the meadows by her canals shall he 
as the sands of the desert. For is it a light thing 
that the Lord should send his servant to raise up 
the tribes of Jacob, and to restore the preserved of 

* See a former note* 



484 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Israel ? Sing, heavens, and be joyful, O earth, 
and break forth into singing, O mountains, for the 
Lord hath comforted his people, and will have 
mercy upon his afflicted I" 

She ceased, she descended the precipitous side 
of the amphitheatre, with rapid steps, vaulting from 
tier to tier, and bounding with wonderful agility 
from one mass of ruin to another. At length she 
reached the level ; and then, foaming and panting, 
she rushed to Alroy, threw herself upon the ground, 
embraced his feet, and wiped ofl' the dust from his 
sandals with her hair. 

The assembly broke into long and loud acclama- 
tions of supernatural confidence, and sanguine en- 
thusiasm. They beheld their Messiah wave his 
miraculous sceptre. They thought of Hassan Su- 
bah and his Scljuks only as of victims, and of to- 
moiTow only as of a day which was to commence a 
new era of triumph, freedom and empire ! 



Hassan Suuaii, after five days of forced marches, 
pitched his sumptuous pavilion in that beautiful 
oasis, which had afforded such delightful refresh- 
ment to Alroy when a solitary pilgrim. Around, 
for nearly half a mile, were the tents of his war- 
I riors, and of the numerous caravans that had accom- 
' panicd him, laden with water and provisions for his 
troops. Here, while he reposed, he also sought in- 
formation as to the position of his enemy. 

A party of observation, which he had immediate- 
ly despatched, returned almost instantly with a 
small caravan that had been recently plundered by 
the robbers. The merchant, a venerable and pious 
Moslcmin, was ushered into the presence of the 
governor of Hamadan. 

"From the robbers" haunt 1" inquired Hassan. 

" Unfortunately so," answered the merchant. 

"Is it farl" 

" A day's journey." 

" And you quitted iti" 

" Yesterday morn." 

" What is their force ]" 

The merchant hesitated. 

" Do they not make prisoners ?" inquired the 
governor, casting a scrutinizing glance at his com- 
panion. 

" Holy prophet ! what a miserable wretch am 
I!" exclaimed the venerable merchant, bursting in- 
to tears. " A faithful subject of the caliph, I am 
obliged to serve rebels — a devout Moslemin, I am 
forced to aid Jews ! Order me to be hanged at 
once, my lord," continued the unfortunate mer- 
chant, wringing his hands. " Order me to be 
hanged at once. I have lived long enough." 

"What is all this]" inquired Hassan ; "speak, 
friend, without fear." 

" I am a faithful subject of the caliph," answer- 
ed the merchant : " I am a devout Moslemin, but 
I have lost ten thousand dirhems." 

" I am sorry for you, sir ; I also have lost some- 
thing, but my losses are nothing to you, nor yours 
to me." 

" Accursed be the hour when these dogs tempt- 
ed me ! Tell me, is it a sin to break faith with a 
Jew 1" 

" On the contrary, I could find you many reve- 
rend mollahs, who will tell you that such a breach 
IS the highest virtue. Come, come, I see how it is : 
you have received your freedom on condition of 



not betraying your merciful plunderers. Promises 
exacted by terror are the bugbears of fools. Speak, 
man, all you know. Where are they 1 What is 
their force 1 Are we supposed at hand V 

" I am a faithful subject of the caliph, and I am 
bound to serve him," replied the merchant ; " I am 
a devout Moslcmin, and 'tis my duty to destroy all 
Giaours, but I am also a man, and I must look af- 
ter my own interest. Noble governor, the long and 
the short is, these scoundrels have robbed me of ten 
thousand dirhems, as my slaves will tell you ; at 
least, goods to that amount. No one can prove 
that they be worth less. It is true that I include 
in that calculation the fifty per cent. I was to make 
on my shawls at Hamadan, but still to me it is as 
good as ten thousand dirhems. Ask my slaves if 
such an assortment of shawls was ever yet be- 
held." 

" To the point, to the point. The robbers 1" 

" I am at the point. The shawls is the point. 
For when I talked of the shawls and the heavi- 
ness of my loss, you must know that the captain of 
the robbers — " 

" Alroy ]" 

" A very fierce young gentleman ; I don't know 
how they call him. Says the captain to me, ' Mer- 
chant, you look gloomy.' ' Gloomy,' says I, ' you 
would look gloomy if you were a prisoner, and had 
lost ten thousand dirhems.' ' What, is this trash 
worth ten thousand dirhems V says he. ' With the 
fifty per cent. I was to make at Hamadan,' says I. 
' Fifty per cent,' says he, ' you are an old knave.' 
' Knave,' said I, ' I should like to hear any one call 
me a knave at Bagdad.' ' Well, knave or not,' says 
he, ' you may get out of this scrape.' ' How V says 
I. ' Why you are a very respectable looking man,' 
says he, ' and are a good Moslemin into the bar- 
gain, I warrant.' ' That I am,' says I ' although 
you be a Jew : but how the faith is to serve me 
here I am sure I do not know, unless the angel 
Gabriel, as in the fifty-fifth verse of the twenty- 
seventh chapter of the Koran — ' " 

" Hush, hush, hush !" exclaimed Hassan ; " to 
the point ! — to the point !" 

" I always am at the point, only you put me out 
However, to make it as short as possible, the cap- 
tain knows all about your coming, and is fright- 
ened out of his wits, although he did talk big ; I 
could easily see that. And he let me go, you see, 
with some of my slaves, and gave me an order for 
five thousand dirhems on one Bostcnay, of Hama- 
dan, (perhaps you know him, I don't ; is he a good 
man ?) on condition that I would fall in with you, 
and, Mohammed forgive me, tell you a lie !" 

" A lie !" • 

" Yes ! a lie ; but these Jewish dogs don't un- 
derstand what a truly rehgious man is, and when 
I began to tell the lie, I was soon put out. Now, 
noble Hassan, if a promise to a Jew be not bind- 
ing on a true believer, and you will see me straight 
with the five thousand dirhems, I will betray every 
thing at once. 

" Be easy about the five thousand dirhems, good 
man, and tell me all." 

" You will see mc paid ?" 

" My honour upon it." 

" 'Tis well ! Know then, the infamous dogs 
are very weak, and terrified at the news of your 
progress : one, whom I think they call Jabaster, 
has departed with the great majority of the people 
into the interior of the desert, about seven hua 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



485 



tired strong. I heard so ; but mind, I don't know 
it. The young man, whom you call Alroy, being 
wounded in a recent conflict, could not depart with 
them, but remains among the ruins with some 
female prisoners, some treasure, and about a hun- 
dred companions hidden in sepulchres. He gave 
me m}^ freedom on condition I fell in with you, 
and assured you that the dogs, full five thousand 
strong, had given you the go by in the night, and 
marched towards Hamadan. They wanted me to 
frighten you ; it was a lie, and I could not tell it. 
And now you know the plain truth ; and if it be 
a sin to break faith with an infidel, you are respon- 
sible for it, as well as for the five thousand dirhenis, 
which, by-the-by, ought to have been ten." 

" Where is your order 1" 

" 'Tis here," said the merchant, drawing it from 
liis vest, " a very business-like document, drawn 
upon one Bostenay, whom they described as very 
rich, and who is here enjoined to pay me five 
thousand dirhems, if, in consequence of my infor- 
mation, Hassan Subah, that is, yourself, return 
forthwith to Hamadan without attacldng them." 

" Old Bostenay 's head shall answer for this." 

" I'm glad of it. But were I you, I would 
make him pay me first." 

" Merchant," said Hassan, " have vou any ob- 
jection to pay another visit to your friend Alroy ]" 

" Allah forbid !" 

" In my company ]" 

" That makes a dilference.' 

" Be our guide. The diihems shall he doubled." 

" That will make up for the fifty per cent. I 
hardly like it ; but in your company, that makes a 
difference. Lose no time. If you push on, Alroy 
must be captured. Now or never ! The Jewisli 
dogs, to rifle a true believer !" 

" Oglu," said Hassan to one of his officers. 
" To horse ! You need not strike the tents. Can 
we reach the city by sunset, merchant V 

" An hour before, if you be off at once." 

" Sound the drums. To horse, to horse !" 

VI. 

Thf, Seljuks halted before the walls of the, de- 
serted city. Their commander ordered a detach- 
ment to enter and reconnoitre. They returned 
and reported its apparent desolation. Hassan Su- 
bah, then directing that a guard should surround 
the walls to prevent any of the enemy from es- 
caping, passed with his warriors through the vast 
portal into the silent street. 

The still magnificence of the strange and splen- 
did scene influenced the temper even of this ferocious 
cavalry. They gazed around them with awe and 
admiration. The fierceness of their visages was 
softened, the ardour of their impulse stilled. A 
supernatural feeling of repose stole over their senses. 
No one brandished his cimeter, the fiery courser 
seemed as subdued as his lord, and no sound was 
heard but the melanchol3^ mechanical tramp of the 
disciplined march, unrelieved by martial music, 
inviolate by oath or jest, and unbroken even by 
the ostentatious caracoling of any showy steed. 

It was sunset : the star of eve glittered over the 
white Ionian fane that rose serene and delicate in 
the flashing and purple sky. 

" This way, my lord," said the merchant guide, 
turning round to Hassan Subah, who, surrounded 
Dy his officers, led the van. The whole of the 



great way of the city was filled v/ith the Seljukian 
warriors. Their ebon steeds, their snowy turbans, 
adorned with plumes of tlie black eagle and the red 
heron, their dazzling shawls, the blaze of their ar- 
mour in the sunset, and the long undulating per- 
spective of beautiful forms and brilliant colours, — 
this regiment of heroes in a street of palaces, — 
war had seldom afforded a more imposing, or a 
more picturesque spectacle. 

" This way, my lord," said the merchant, point- 
ing to the naiTow turning that, at the foot of the 
temple, led, through ruined streets, to the amphi- 
tlieatre. 

" Halt !" exclaimed a wild, shrill voice. 

Each warrior suddenly arrested his horse. 

" Who spoke V exclaimed Hassan Subah. 

" 1 1" answered a voice. A female form stood 
in the portico of the temple, with uplifted arras, 

"And who art tlioul" inquired Hassan Subah, 
not a little disconcerted. 

" Thy evil genius, Seljuk !" 

Hassan Subah, pale as his ivory battle-axe, did 
not answer ; every man within hearing shuddered ,• 
still the dread woman remained immovable within 
the porch of the temple. 

" Woman, witch, or goddess," at length ex- 
claimed Hassan Subah, " what wouldst thou here ?" 

"Seljuk ! behold this star. 'Tis a single drop 
of light, yet who even of thy wild band can look 
upon it without awe. And yet thou, worse than 
Sisera, thou comc^st to combat agaiufrt those, foe 
whom even ' the stars in courses fought.' " 

" A Jewish witch !" exclaimed the Seljuk. 

" A .lewish witch ! Be it so ; behold then my 
spell falls upon thee, and that spell is Destruction. 

" Awake, awake, Deborah; awake, awake, uttei 
a song ; arise, Barak, and lead thy captivity captive, 
thou son of Abinoam !" 

Immediately the sk}' appeared to darken, a cloud 
of arrows and javelins broke from all sides upon 
the devoted Seljuks: immense masses of stone and 
marble were hurled from all directions, horses were 
stabbed by spears impelled by invisible hands, and 
riders foil to the ground without a struggle, and 
were trampled upon by their disordered and af- 
frighted brethren. 

" We are betrayed," exclaimed Hassan Subah, 
hurling a javelin at the merchant, but the mer- 
chant was gone. The Seljuks raised their famous 
war-(rry. 

" Oglu, regain the desert," ordered the chieftain. 

But no sooner had the guard without the walls 
heard the war-cry of their companions, than, alarm- 
ed for their safety, they rushed to their assistance. 
The retreating forces of Subah, each instant di- 
minishing as they retreated, were baffled in their 
project by the very eagerness of their auxiliaries. 
The unwilling contention of the two parties in- 
creased the confusion ; and when the Seljuks, 
recently arrived, having at length formed into some 
order, had regained the gate, they found to their 
dismay that the portal was barricadoed and garri- 
soned by the enemy. Uninspired by the presence 
of their commander, who was in the rear, the 
puzzled soldiers were seized with a panic, and, 
spurring their horses, dispersed in all directions of 
the city. In vain Hassan Subah endeavoured to 
recall order. The moment was past. Dashmg 
with about thirty men to an open ground, which 
his quick eye had observed in his progress dowr: 
the street, and dealing destruction with every blow 



486 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



the dreaded Governor of Hamadan, like a true sol- 
dier, awaited an inevitable fate, not wholly despe- 
rate that some ehance might yet turn up to extri- 
cate him from his forlorn situation. j 

And now, as it were by enchantment, wild armed 
men seemed to arise from every part of the city. 
From every mass of ruin, from every crumbling 
temple and mouldering mansion, from every cata- 
comb and cellar, from behind every column and 
every obelisk, upstarted some desperate warrior 
with a bloody weapon. The massacre of the Scl- 
juks was universal. The horsemen dashed wildly 
about the ruined streets, pursued by crowds of foot- 
men ; sometimes formed in small companies, the 
Seljuks frequently charged and fought desperately ; 
but however stout might be their resistance to the 
open foe, it was impossible to withstand their secret 
enemies. They had no place of refuge, no power 
of gaining even a moment's breathing time. If 
they retreated to a wall, it instantly bristled with 
spears; if they endeavoured to form in a court, 
they sank under the falling masses which were 
showered upon them from all directions. Strange 
shouts of denunciation blended with the harsh 
crving of horns, and the clang and clash of cym- 
bals and tambours sounded in every quarter of the 
city. 

" If we could only mount the walls, Ibrahim, 

and leap into the desert," exclaimed Hassan Su- 

bah to one of his few remaining comrades. " 'Tis 

our only chance. We die here like dogs ! Could 

'I but meet Alroy !" 

Three of the Seljuks dashed swiftly across the 
open ground in front, followed by several Hebrew 
horsemen. 

" Smite all, Abner. Spare none, remember Ama- 
lek!" exclaimed their youthful leader, waving his 
bloody cimeter. 

" They are down, — one, two, — there goes the 
third. My javelin has done for him." 

" Your horse bleeds freely. Where's Jabaster 1" 

" At the gates : my arm aches with slaughter. 
The Lord hath delivered them into our hands. 
Could I but meet their chieftain !" 

" Turn, bloodhound, he is here," exclaimed Has- 
san Subah. 

" Away, Abner, this affair is mine." 

" Prince, you have already slain your thousands." 

" And Abner his tens of thousands. Is it so 1 
This business is for me only. Come on, Turk." 

" Art thou Alroy 1" 

" The same." 

" The slayer of Alschiroch 1" 

" Even so." 

" A rebel and a murderer." 
What you please. Look to yourself." 

The Hebrew prince flung a javelin at the Seljuk. 
It glanced from the breast-plate ; but Hassan Subah 
stasgered in his seat. Recovering, he charged 
Alroy with great force. Their cimeters crossed, 
and the blade of Hassan shivered. 

" He who sold me that blade, told me it was 
charmed, and could be broken only by a caliph," 
said Hassan Su'oali. " He was a liar!" 

"As it may he," said Alroy, and he cut the 
Seljuk to the ground. Abner had dispersed his 
comrades. Alroy leaped from his fainting steed, 
and mounting the ebon courser of his late enemy, 
dashed again into the thickest of the fight. 

The shades of night descended, the clamour 
gradually decreased, tlie struggle died away. A few 



unhappy Moslemin, who had quitted their saddles 
and sought concealmeni among the ruins, werfi 
occasionally hunted out, and brought forward and 
massacred. Long ere midnight the last of the 
Seljuks had expired.* 

The moon shed a broad light upon the street of 
palaces crowded with the accumulated slain and the 
living victors. Fires were lit, torches illumined, 
the conquerors prepared the eager meal as they 
sang hymns of praise and thanksgiving. 

A procession approached. Esther, the prophetess, 
clashing her cymbals, danced before the Messiah of 
Israel, who leaned upon his victorious cimeter, sur- 
rounded by Jabaster, Abner, Scherirah and his 
chosen chieftains. Who could now dcibt the 
validity of his mission 1 The wide and silent desert 
rang with the acclamations of his enthusiastic vota- 



VII. 

Hkavily the anxious hours crept on in the 
Jewish quarter of Hamadan. Again and again the 
venerable Bostenay discussed the chances of success 
with the sympathizing but desponding ciders. Miri- 
am was buried in constant prayer. Their most 
sanguine hopes did not extend beyond the escape 
of their prince. 

A fortnight had elapsed, and no news had been 
received of the progress of the expedition, when 
suddenly towards sunset, a sentinel on a watch- 
tower announced the appearance of an armed force 
in the distance. The walls were instantly lined 
with the anxious inhabitants, the streets and squares 
fdled with curious crowds. Exultation sat on the 
triunijihant brow of the Moslemin : a cold tremor 
stole over the fluttering heart of the Hebrew. 

" There is but one God," said the captain of the 
gate. 

" And Mohammed is his prophet," responded a 
sentinel. 

" To-morrow we will cut off the noses of all these 
Jewish dogs." 

" The sceptre has departed,'' exclaimed the de- 
spairing Bostenay. 

" Lord, remember David !" whispered Miriam, as 
she threw herself upon the court of the palace, and 
buried her face in ashes. 

The mollahs in solemn procession advanced to 
the ramparts to shed their benediction on the victo- 
rious Hassan Subah. The muezzin ascended the 
minarets to watch the setting sun, and proclaim the 
power of Allah with renevred enthusiasm. 

" I wonder if Alroy be dead or alive," said the 
captain of the gate. 

" If he be alive, he will be impaled," responded 
a sentinel. 

" If dead, the carcass will be given to the dogs," 
rejoined the captain ; " that is the practice." 

" Bostenay will be hung," said the sentinel. 

" And his niece, too," answered the captain. 

" Hem !" said the sentinel. " Hassan Subah loves 
a black eye." 

" I hope a true Moslemin will not touch a Jewess," 
exclaimed an hidignant black eunuch. 

* The orientals are famous for their massacres : that »f 
the IMamlouk by the present Pasha of Egypt, and of the 
Janissaries by the sullan, are notorious. Rut one of the 
most territ'le, anil etfected under the most diflicult and dan 
serous circumstances, was the massacre of the AUianian 
beys liy the present grand vizier in the autumn of 1830. 1 
was in Albania at the lirae. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



487 



" They approach. What a dust !" said the cap- 
tain of the gate. 

" I see Hassan Subah !" said the sentinel. 

" So do I," said the eanuch, " I know his black 
horse." 

" I wonder how many dirhcras old Bostenay is 
worth," said the captain. 

" Immense !" said the sentinel. 

" No plunder, I suppose V said the eunuch. 

" We shall see," said the captain ; " at any rate, 
I owe a thousand to old Shelomi. We need not 
pay now, you know." 

" Certainly not," said the black eunuch. " The 
rebels !" 

A body of horsemen dashed forward. Their 
leader in advance reined in his fiery charger be- 
neath the walls. 

"In the name of the prophet, who is thatl" ex- 
claimed the captain of the gate, a little confused. 

'' I never saw him before," said the sentinel, 
" although he is in the Seljuk dress. 'Tis some one 
from Bagdad, I guess." 

A trumpet sounded. 

" Who keeps the gate 1" called out the warrior. 

'' I am the captain of the gate," answered our 
friend. 

" Open it then to the King of Israel." 

" To whom 1" inquired the astonished captain. 

" To King David. The Lord hath delivered 
Hassan Subah and his host into our hands, and of 
all thy proud Seljuks none remaineth. Open thy 
gates, I say, and lose no time. I am Jabaster, a 
lieutenant of the Lord ; this cimeter is my commis- 
eion. Open thy gates, and thou and thy people 
shall have that mercy which they have never shown ; 
but if thou delayest one instant, thus saith the king, 
our master — ' I will burst open your portal, and 
emite, and utterly destroy all that you have, and 
spare them not; but slay both man and woman, 
infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.'" 

" Call forth the venerable Lord Bostenay," said 
the captain of the gate, with chattering teeth. " He 
will intercede for us." 

" And the gentle Lady Miriam," said the sentinel. 
" She is ever charitable." 

" I will head the procession," said the black 
eunuch ; " I am accustomed to women." 

The procession of mollahs shuffled back to their 
college with most profane precipitation ; the sun set, 
and the astounded muezzin stood with their mouths 
open, and quite forgot to announce the power of 
their deity, and the validity of their prophet. The 
people all called out for the venerable Lord Bostenay 
and the gentle Lady Miriam, and ran in crowds to 
see who could first kiss die hem of their garments. 

The principal gate of Hamadan opened into the 
square of the great mosque. Here the whole popu- 
lation of the city appeared assembled. The gates 
were thrown open ; Jabaster and his companions 
mounted guard. The short twilight died away, 
the shades of night descended. The minarets were 
illumined,* the houses hung with garlands, the 
ramparts covered with tapestiy and carpets. 

A clang of drums, trumpets, and cymbals an- 
nounced the arrival of the Hebrew army. The 
people shouted, the troops without responded with 



* So, I remember, at Constanlinople, at the coQimence- 
ment of 1S31, ai ihe departure of the Mecca caravan, and 
also at the annual feasi of Ramadan. 



a long cheer of triumph. Amid the blaze of torches 
a youth, waving his cimeter, upon a coal-black 
steed, bounded into the city, at the head of his 
guards. The people fell upon their knees, and 
shouted, " Long five Alroy !" 

A venerable man, leading a beauteous maiden, 
with downcast eyes, advanced. They headed a 
deputation of the chief inhabitants of the city. 
They came to solicit mercy and protection. At 
their sight the youthful warrior leaped from his 
horse, flung away his cimeter, and clasping the 
maiden in his arms, e.Kclaimed, " Miriam, my sister, 
this, this indeed is triumph !" 

VHL 

"DRi?fK," said Kisloch the Kourd, to Calidas 
the Indian ; " you forget, comrade, we are no longer 
Moslemin." 

" Wine, methinks, has a peculiarly pleasant 
flavour in a golden cup," said the Guebre. " I got 
this little trifle to-day in the bazaar," he added, 
holding up a magnificent vase studded with gems. 

" I thought plunder was forbidden," grinned the 
negro. 

" So it is," replied the Guebre : " but we may 
purchase what we please — upon credit." 

" Well, for my part, I am a moderate man," ex- 
claimed Calidas the Indian, " and would not injure 
even those accursed dogs of Turks. I have not cut 
my host's throat, but only turned him into my por- 
ter, and content myself with his harem, his baths, 
his fine horses, and other little trifles." 

" What quarters we are in I there is nothing like 
a true Messiah!" exclaimed Kisloch, very devoutly. 

" Nothing," said Calidas ; " though, to speak 
truth, I did not much believe in the efllcacy of 
Solomon's sceptre, till his majesty clove the head 
of the valiant Seljuk with it." 

" But now there's no doubt of it !" said the 
Guebre. 

" We should indeed be infidels if we doubted 
now," replied the Indian. 

" How lucky," grinned the negro, " as I had no 
religion before, that I have now fixed upon the 
right one!" 

" Most fortunate !" said the Guebre. " What 
shall we do to amuse ourselves to-night?" 

" Let's go to the coffee-house and make the 
Turks drink wine," said Calidas the Indian. 

" What say you to burning down a mosque l" 
said Kisloch the Kourd. 

" I had great fun with some dervishes this morn- 
ing," said the Guebre. 

" I met one asking alms with a wire run through 
his cheek,* so I caught another, bored his nose, and 
tied them both together!" 

" Hah ! hah ! hah 1" burst the negro. 

IX. 

Asia resounded with the insurrection of the Jews, 
and the massacre of the Seljuks. Crowds of 
Hebrews, from the rich cities of Persia, and the 
populous settlements on the Tigris and the Eu- 
phrates, hourly poured into Hamadan. 

The irritated Moslemin persecuted the brethren of 
the successful rebel, and this impolicy precipitated 

* Not uncommon. These dervishes fr jquent the bazaars 



488 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



their flight. The wcahh of Bagdad flowed into 
the Hebrew capital. Seated on the divan of 
Hassan Subah, and wielihngthe sceptre of Solomon, 
the King of Israel received the homage of his de- 
voted subjects, and despatched his envoys to Syria 
and to Egypt. The well-stored magazines and 
arsenals of Hamadan soon converted the pilgrims 
into warriors. The city was unable to accommo- 
date the increased and increasing population. An 
extensive camp, under the command of Abncr, was 
formed without the walls, where the troops were 
daily disciplined, and where they were prepared for 
greater exploits than a skirmish in the desert. 

Within a month after the surrender of Hamadan, 
the congregation of the people assembled in the 
square of the great mosque, now converted into a 
synagogue. The multitude was disposed in ordered 
ranks, and the terrace of every house was crowded. 
In the centre of the square was an immense altar 
of cedar and brass, and on each side stood a com- 
pany of priests, guarding the victims, one young 
bullock and two rams without blemish. 

Amid the flourish of trumpets, the gates of the 
sj-nagogue opened, and displayed to the wondering 
eyes of the Hebrews a vast and variegated pavilion, 
planted in the court. The holy remnant, no longer 
forlorn, beheld that tabernacle, of which they had 
so long dreamed, once more shining in the sun, 
with its purple and scarlet hangings, its curtains of 
rare skins, and its furniture of silver and of gold. 

A procession of priests advanced, bearing, with 
staves of cedar, run through rings of gold, a gor- 
geous ark, the work of the most cunning artificers of 
Persia. Night and day had they laboured, under 
the direction of Jabaster, to profluce this wondrous 
spectacle. Once more the children of Israel beheld 
tlie chernbim. They burst into a triumphant hymn 
of thanksgiving, and many drew their swords, and 
cried aloud to be led against the Canaanites. 

From the mysterious curtains of the tabernacle, 
Alroy came forward, leading Jabaster. They ap- 
proached the altar. And Alroy took robes from 
the surrounding priests, and put them upon Jabas- 
ter, and a girdle, and a breastplate of jewels. And 
Alroy took a mitre, and placed it upon the head of 
Jabaster, and upon the mitre he placed a crown ; 
and, pouring oil upon his head, the pupil anointed 
the master, high priest of Israel. 

The victims were slain, the sin-offerings burnt. 
Amid clouds of incense, bursts of music, and the 
shouts of a devoted people ; amid odour, and 
melody, and enthusiasm, Alroy mounted his 
charger, and at the head of twenty thousand men, 
departed to conquer Media. 

X. 

The extensive and important province of Ader- 
bijan, of which Hamadan was the capital, was 
formed of the ancient Media. Its fate was decided 
ny one battle. On the plain of Nehauend, Alroy 
met the hastily-raised levies of the Atabek of Kcr- 
manshah, and entirely routed them. In the course 
of a month, every city of the province had acknow- 
ledged the sujjremacyof the new Hebrew monarch, 
and, leaving Abncr to complete the conquest of 
Louristan, Alroy entered Persia. 

The incredible and irresistible progress of Alroy 
routed 'I'n.^rul, the Turkish Sultan of Persia, from 
the luxurious indolence of the palaces of Nishabur. 
He summoned his emirs to meet him at the im- 



perial city of Rhey, and crush, by one overwhelm- 
ing effort, the insolent rebel. 

Religion, valour, and genius alike inspired the 
arms of Alroy, but he was, doubtless, not a little 
assisted by the strong national sympathy of his 
singular and scattered people, which ever insured 
him prompt information on all the movements of 
his enemy. Without any preparation, he found 
agents in every court, and camp, and cabinet, and 
by their assistance he anticipated the designs of his 
adversaries, and turned even their ingenuity to 
their confusion. The imperial city of Rhey was sur- 
prised in the night, sacked and burnt to the ground. 
The sacred and baffled emirs who escaped, fled to 
the Sultan Togrul, tearing their beards, and pro- 
phesying the approaching termination of the world. 

The palaces of Nishabur resounded with the im- 
precations of their master, who, cursing the Jewish 
dogs, and vowing a pilgrimage to Mecca, placed 
himself at the head of a motley multitude of war- 
riors, and rushed upon the plains of Irak, to exter- 
minate Alroy. 

The Persian force exceeded the Hebrew at least 
five times in number. Besides a large division of 
Seljuks, the Caucasus had poured forth its strange 
inhabitants to swell the ranks of the faithful. The 
wild tribes of the Bactiari were even enlisted with 
their fatal bows, and the savage Turkmans, 
tempted by the sultan's gold, for a moment yielded 
their liberty, and shook their tall lances in his ranks. 

But what is a wild Bactiari, and what is a savage 
Turkman, and what evn a disciplined and im- 
perious Seljuk, to the warriors of the God of 
Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob ? At the first on- 
set, Alroy succeeded in dividing the extended 
centre of Togrul, and separating the greater part of 
the Turks from their less disciplined comrades. At 
the head of his Median cavalry the Messiah charged 
and utterly routed the wamors of the Caucasus. 
The wild tribes of t?ie Bactiari shot their arrows 
and fled, and the savage Turkmans plundered the 
baggage of their own commander. 

The Turks themselves fought desperately ; hut, 
deserted by their allies, and surrounded by an inspired 
foe, their eflorts were unavailing, and their slaugh- 
ter terrible. Togrul was slain while heading a des- 
perate and fruitless charge, and after his fall, the 
battle resembled a massacre rather than a combat. 

The plain was clotted with Scljukian gore. No 
quarter was given or asked. Twenty thousand 
chosen troops fell on the side of the Turks; the rest 
dispersed and gained the mountains. Leaving 
Scherirah to restore order, Alroy the next morning 
pushed on to Nishabur at the head of three thou- 
sand horsemen, and summoned the city ere the in- 
habitants were apprized of the defeat anj death of 
the sultan. 

The capital of Persia escaped the fate of Rhey by 
an inglorious treaty, and a lavish tribute. The 
treasures of the Chosroes and the (Jasncvides were 
despatched to Hamadan, on which city day dawncil, 
only to bring intelligence of a victory or a conquest. 

While Alroy dictated peace on his own terms 
in the palaces of Nishabur, Abner, having reduced 
Louristan, crossed the mountains, and entered 
Persia with the reinforcements he had received 
from Jabaster. Leaving the government and 
garrisoning of his new conquests to this valiant 
captain, Alroy, at the head of the conquerors of 
Persia, in consequence of intelligence received from 
Hamadan, returned by forced marches to that city 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



489 



XI. 

Leatikr the army within a day's march of the 
capital. Ahoy, accompanied only by his staff, en- 
tered Hamadan in the evening, and immediately 
repairing to the citadel, summoned Jabaster to 
council. The night was passed by the king 
and the high priest in deep consultation. The 
next morning a decree apprized the inhabitants of 
the return of their monarch, of the creation of the 
new "kingdom of the Medes and Persians," of 
which Hamadan was appointed the capital, and 
Abner the viceroy, and of the intended and imme- 
diate invasion of Syria, and reconquest of the land 
of promise. 

The plan of this expedition had been long ma- 
tured, and the preparations to effect it were con- 
siderably advanced. Jabaster had not been idle 
during the absence of his pupil. One hundred 
thousand warriors were now assembled* at the 
capital of the " kingdom of the Medes and Per- 
sians;" of these the greater part were Hebrews, 
but many Arabs, wearied of the Turkish yoke, and 
many gallant adventurers from the Caspian, easily 
converted from a vague idolatry to a religion of 
conquest, swelled the ranks of the army of the 
" Lord of Hosts." 

The plain of Hamadan was covered with tents, 
the streets were filled with passing troops, the 
bazaars loaded with military stores ; long caravans 
of camels laden with supplies every day arrived 
from the neighbouring towns ; each instant some 
high-capped Tartar with his despatches rushed into 
the city and galloped his steed up the steep of the 
citadcl.-j- The clang of arms, the prance of horses, 
the flourish of warlike music, resounded from all 
quarters. The business and the treasures of the 
world see"med, as it were in an instant, to have 
become concentrated in Hamadan. Every man 
had some great object ; gold glittered in every 
hand. All great impulses were stirring; all the 
causes of human energy were in lively action. 
Every eye sparkled, every foot stood firm and fast. 
Each man acted as if the universal fate depended 
on his exertions ; as if the universal will sympa- 
thized with his particular desire. A vast popula- 
tion influenced b}' a high degree of excitement is 
the most sublime of spectacles. 

The commander of the faithful raised the stand- 
ard of the prophet on the banks of the Tigris. It 
was the secret intelligence of this intended event 
that had recalled Alroy so suddenly from Persia. 
The latent enthusiasm of the Moslemin was ex- 
cited by the rare and mystic ceremony, and its 
efifects were anticipated by previous and judicious 
preparations. The Seljuks of Bagdad alone 
amounted to fifty thousand men : the Sultan of 
Syria contributed the warriors who had conquered 
the Arabian princes of Damascus and Aleppo, 
while the ancient provinces of Asia Minor, which 
formed the rich and powerful kingdom of Seljukian 
Roum, poured forth a myriad of that matchless 
cavalry which had so often bafiled the armies of the 



• * In crmntries where the whole populntion are armed, a 
vast military force is soon assemljled. Barchochebas was 
speedily at the head of uvo hundred thousand fifrhiina men, 
and held the Romans long in check; under one of their most 
powerful emperors. 

1 1 have availed myself of a familiar character in oriental 
life, but the use of a Tartar as a courier in the time of Alroy 
is, I fear, an anachronism. 



Cffisars. Never had so imposing a force been col- 
lected on the banks of the Tigris since the reign of 
Haroun Alraschid. Each day some warlike 
Atabek* at the head of his armed train poured 
into the capital of the caliphs, or pitched his pa- 
vilion on the banks of the river; each day the 
proud emir of some remote principality astonished 
or aflrighted the luxurious Babylonians by the 
strange or uncouth warriors that had gathered 
round his standard in the deserts of Arabia, or on 
the shores of the Euxine. For the space of twenty 
miles, the banks of the river were, on either side, 
far as the eye could reach, covered v»ith the varie- 
gated pavilions, the glittering standards, the flow- 
ing streamers and twinkling pennons of the mighty 
host, of which Malek, the Grand Sullan of the Sel- 
juks, and governor of the caliph's palace, was chief 
commander. 

Such was the power assembled on the plains of 
Asia to arrest the progress of the Hebrew prince, 
and to prevent the conquest of the memorable land 
promised to the faith of his fathers, and forfeited by 
their infidelity. Before the walls of Hamadan, 
Alroy reviewed the army of Israel — sixty thousand 
heavy armed footmen, thirty thousand archers and 
light troops, and twenty thousand cavalry. Be- 
sides these, a body of ten thousand picked horse- 
men had been formed, all of whom had served in 
the Persian campaign, styled " the sacred guard." 
In their centre, shrouded in a case of wrought gold, 
studded with carbuncles, and carried on a lusty 
lance of cedar, a giant — for the height of Elnebar 
exceeded that of common men by three feet — bore 
the sceptre of Solomon. The sacred guard was 
commanded by Asricl, the brother of Abner. 

'J'he army was formed into three divisions. All 
marched in solemn order before the throne of Al- 
roy, raised upon the ramparts, and drooped their 
standards and lances as they passed t^eir heroic 
leader. Bostenay, and Miriam, and the whole po- 
pulation of the city, witnessed the inspiring spec- 
tacle from the walls. That same eve, Scherirah, 
at the head of forty thousand men, pushed on to- 
wards Bagdad, by Kermanshah ; and Jabaster, 
who commanded in his holy robes, and who had 
vowed not to give up his sword until the rebuilding 
of the temple, conducted his division over the vic- 
torious plain of Nehauend. They were to concen- 
trate at the pass of Kerrund, which conducted into 
the province of Bagdad, and await the arrival of the 
king. 

At dawn of day, the royal division and the 
sacred guard, the whole imder the command of As- 
riel, quitted the capital. Alroy still lingered, and 
for some hours the warriors of his staff might have 
been observed lounging about the citadel, or prac- 
tising their skill in tlirowing the jerreed as they 
exercised their impatient chargers before the gates. 
The king was witii the Lady Miriam. 

The king was with the Lady Miriam, walking hi 
(he garden of their micle. His arm was wound round 
her delicate waist, and with the other he clasped her 
soft and graceful hand. The hca^'y tears burst 
from her downcast eyes, and stole along her pale 
and pensive cheek. They walked in silence, the 
brother and the sister, before the purity of whose 
surpassing love even ambition vanished. Ho 

* I was at Yanina, the capital of Albania, when the grand 
vizier summoned the chieftains of the coimtry, anu was 
struck by iheir niaguilicem arrays each day pouriug idw 
the city. 



490 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



opened the lattice gate. They entered into the 
valley small and green ; before them was the mar- 
hie fountain with its columns and cupola, and, in 
the distance, the charger of Ahoy and his single 
attendant. 

They stopped, and Alroy gathered flowers, and 
placed them in the hair of Miriam. He would have 
softened, the bitterness of parting with a smile. 
Gently he relaxed his embracing arm — almost in- 
sensibly he drojjped her quivering hand. 

" Sister of my soul," he whispered, " when we 
last parted here, I was a fugitive, and now I quit 
you a conqueror." 

She turned, she threw herself upon his neck, 
and buried her face in his breast. 

" My beautiful, restrain yourself — we shall meet 
at Bagdad." 

He beckoned to her distant maidens they ad- 
vanced — he delivered Miriam into their arms. He 
seized her hand and pressed it to his mouth, and 
rusliing to his horse, mounted and disappeared. 

xn. 

A BOUT of irregular cavalry feebly defended the 
pass of Kerrund. It was carried with slight loss by 
the vanguard of Scherirah, and the fugitives pre- 
pared the host of the caliph for the approach of the 
Hebrew army. 

Upon the plain of the Tigris, the enemy formed 
into battle array. The centre was commanded by 
Malek, the Grand Sultan of the Seljuks himself; 
the right wing, headed by the Sultan of Syria, was 
protected by the river ; and the left, under the Sul- 
tan of Roum, was posted upon the advantageous 
position of some irregular and rising ground. 
Thus, proud in the number, valour, discipline, and 
disposition of his forces, Malek awaited the con- 
queror of Persia. 

The glittering columns of the Hebrews might 
even now be perceived defding from the mountains, 
and forming at the extremity of the plain. Before 
nightfall the camp of the invaders was pitched 
within hearing of that of Malek. The moving 
lights in the respective tents might plainly be dis- 
tinguished ; and ever and anon the flourish of hos- 
tile music fell with an ominous sound upon the 
ears of the opposed foemen. A few miles only 
separated those mighty hosts. Upon to-morrow 
depejided, perhaps, the fortunes of ages. How 
awful is the eve of battle ! 

Alroy, attended by a few chieftains, personally 
visited the tents of the soldiery, promising them on 
the morrow a triumph, before which the victories 
of Nehaucnd and IVishabur would sink into insig- 
nificance. 1'hcir fiery and excited visages proved 
at once their courage and their faith. The sceptre 
of Solomon was paraded throughout the camp in 
solemn procession. On the summit of a huge tu- 
mulus, perhaps the sepulchre of some classic hero, 
Esther the prophetess, surrounded by the chief 
zealots of the host, poured forth her inspiring in- 
spiration. It was a grand picture, that beautiful 
wild girl, the grou[)s of stern devoted warriors, the 
red flame of the watch-fires mixing with the silver 
shadows of the moon as they illumined the va- 
riegated turbans and gleaming armour of her 
votaries . 

_ In tne pavilion of Alroy, .labaster consulted witli 
his pupil on the conduct of the morrow. 

" This is a ditfcreiit scene from the cavern of the 



Caucasus," said Alroy, as the high priest rose to 
retire. 

" It has one great resemblance, sire ; the God of 
our fathers is with us." 

" Ay ! the Lord of Hosts. Moses was a great 
man. There is no career except conquest." 

" You muse !" 

" Of the past. The present is prepared. Too 
much thought will mar it." 

" The past is for wisdom, the present for action, 
but for joy the future. The fecHng that the build- 
ing of the temple is at hand that the Lord's 
anointed will once again live in the house of Da- 
vid, absorbs my spirit ; and when I muse over our 
coining glory, in my fond ecstasy I almost lose the 
gravity that doth beseem my sacred oflice." 

" Jerusalem — I have seen it. How many hours 
to dawn?" 

" Some three." 

" 'Tis strange — I could sleep. I remember, on 
the eve of battle I was ever anxious. How is this, 
Jabaster 1" 

" Your faith, sire, is profound." 

" Yes, I have no fear. My destiny is not com- 
plete. Good night, Jabaster. See Asriel, valiant 
priest. Pharez !" 

" My lord." 

" Rouse me at the second watch. Good night, 
boy." 

" Good night, my lord." 

" Pharez ! 

" Be sure you rouse me at my second watch. 
Think you it wants three hours to dawn V 

" About three hours, my lord." 

" Well ! at the second watch, remember — good 
night." 

XIIL 

"It is the second watch, my lord." 

" So soon ! Have I slept 1 I feel fresh as an 
eagle. Call Scherirah, boy. 

" 'Tis strange, I never dream now. Before my 
flight, my sleep was ever troubled. Say what they 
like, man is made for action. My life is now har- 
monious, and sleep has now become what nature 
willed it, a solace, not a contest. Before, it was a 
struggle of dark passions and bright dreams, in 
whose creative fancy andfair vision my soul sought 
refuge from the dreary bale of daily reality. 

" I will withdraw the curtains of my tent. O < 
most majestic vision ! And have I raised this host '^ 
O'er the wide plain, far as my eye can range, thel 
snowy tents studding the purple landscape, embat 
tied legions gather round their flags, to struggle fo. 
my fate. It is the agony of Asia. 

" A year ago, upon this very spot, I laid mt 
down to die, an unknown thing, and known and 
recognised only to be despised ; and now the sul- 
tans of the world come fortli to meet me. I have 
no fear. My destiny is not complete. And whi- 
ther tends it? Let that power decide that hitherto 
has fashioned all my course. 

" Jerusalem, Jerusalem — ever harping on Jeru- 
salem. With all his lore, he is a narrow-minded 
zealot, whose dreaming memory would fondly 
make a future like the past. O ! Bagdad, Bagdad, 
within thy glittering halls there is a charm worth 
all his cabala I 

" Hah ! Scherirah ! The dawn is near at hanJ 
— the stars still shininsr. The air is very pleasant; 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY 



491 



To-morrow will be a great day, Scherirah, for Israel 
anil for you. You lead the attack. A moment in 
my tent, my brave Scherirah !" 

XIV. 

The dawn broke — a strong column of Hebrews, 
commanded by Scherirah, j)oured down upon the 
centre of the army of the caliph. Another column, 
commanded by Jabaster, attacked the left wing, 
headed by the Sultan of Roum. No sooner had 
Alroy perceived that the onset of Scherirah had 
succeeded in penetrating the centre of the Turks, 
than he placed himself at the head of the sacred 
guard, and by an irresistible charge completed their 
disorder and confusion. The division of the Sultan 
of Syria, and a great part of the centre were en- 
tirely routed and driven into the river, and the 
remainder of the division of Malek was eflectually 
separated from his left wing. 

But while to Ahoy the victory seemed already 
decided, a far different fate awaited the division of 
.labaster. The Sultan of Roum, posted in an 
extremely advantageous position, and commanding 
troops accustomed to the discipline of the Romans 
of Constantinople, received the onset of Jabaster 
without yielding, and not only repelled his attack, 
but finally made a charge which completely dis- 
ordered and dispersed the column of the Hebrews. 
In vain Jabaster endeavoured to rally his troops, 
in vain he performed prodigies of valour, in vain he 
himself struck down the standard-bearer of the 
sultan, and once even penetrated to the pavilion of 
the monarch. His division was fairly routed. The 
eagerness of the Sultan of Roum to effect the 
annihilation of his antagonists prevented him from 
observing the forlorn condition of the Turkish 
centre. Had he, after routing the division of Ja- 
baster, only attacked Alroy in the rear, the fortune 
of the day might have been widely diflerent. As 
it was, the eagle eye of Alroy soon detected his 
inadvertence, and profited by his indiscretion. 
Leaving Ithamar to keep the centre in check, he 
charged the Sultan of Roum with the sacred guard, 
and afforded Jabaster an opportunity of rallying 
some part of his forces. The Sultan of Roum, 
perceiving that the day was lost by the ill-conduct 
of his colleagues, withdrew his troops, retreated in 
haste, but in good order, to Bagdad, carriod off the 
caliph, his harom, and some of his treasure, and 
effected his escape into Syria. In the mean time 
the discomfiture of the remaining Turkish army 
was complete. The Tigris was dyed with their 
blood, and the towns through which the river 
flowed were apprized of the triumph of Alroy by 
the floating corpses of his enemies. Thirty thou- 
sand Turks were slain in battle : among them the 
Sultans of Bagdad and Syria, and a vast number 
of atabeks, emirs, and chieftains. A whole division 
finding themselves surrounded, surrendered on 
terms, and delivered up their arms. The camps 
and the treasure of the three sultans were alike 
captured, and the troops that escaped so completely 
dispersed, that they did not attempt to rally, but, 
disbanded and desperate, prowled over and plun- 
dered the adjoining provinces. The loss of the 
division of Jabaster was also severe, but the rest 
of the army suffered little. Alroy himself was 
slightly wounded. The battle lasted barely three 
hours. Its results were immense. David Alroy 
was now master of the East. 



XV. 



The plain was covered with the corpses of men 
and horses, arms and standards, and prostrate 
tents. Returning from the pursuit of the Sultan 
of Roum, Alroy ordered the trumpets to sound to 
arms, and covered with gore and dust dismounted 
from his charger, and stood before the pavilion of 
Malek, leaning upon his bloody cimeter, and sur- 
rounded by liis victorious generals. 

" Ah, Jabaster !" said the conqueror, giving his 
hand to the pontiff, " 'twas well your troops had 
such a leader. No one but you could have rallied 
them. You must drill your lads a little before 
they meet again the Cappadocian cavalry. Brave 
Scherirah, we shall not forget our charge. Asriel, 
tell the guard, for me, that the victory of the Tigris 
was owing to their cimeters. Ithamar, what are 
our freshest troops 1" 

" The legion of Aderbijan, sire." 
" How strong can they muster?" 
" It counts twelve thousand men : we might 
collect two-thirds." 

" Valiant Ithamar, take the Aderbijans, and a 
division of the guard, push on towards Bagdad, 
and summon the city. If his sultanship of Roum 
offer battle, take up a position, and he shall quickly 
have his desire. For the present, after these hasty 
marches and sharp fighting, the troops must rest. 
I guess he will not tarry. Summon the city, and 
say that if any resistance be offered, I will make it 
as desolate as old Babylon. Treat with no armed 
force. Where is the soldier that saved me a 
cracked scull — his name Benaiah !" 
" I wait your bidding, sire." 
" You're a captain. Join the division of Itha 
mar, and win fresh laurels ere we meet again. 
Gentle Asriel, let your brother know our fortune." 
" Sire, several Tartars have already been des- 
patched to Hamadan." 

" 'Tis well. Send another with these tablets to 
the Lady Miriam. Despatch the pavilion of Ma- 
lek as a trophy for the town. Elnebar, Goliath of 
the Hebrews, you bore our sacred standard like a 
hero ! How tares the prophetess 1 I saw her 
charging in our ranks, wavijig a sabre with her 
snowy arm, her long dark hair streaming like a 
storm, from whence her eyes flashed Ughtning." 
" The king bleeds," said Jabaster. 
" Slightly. It will do me service. I am some- 
what feverish. A kingdom for a draught of water ! 
And now for our wounded friends. Asriel, do you 
marshal the camp. It is Sabbath eve.* Time 
presses." 



* " They Itpgan tlipir Sabballi from sunset, and the same 
time of day they ended \i:'~Talm. Hierosolym in Sheveiih. 
fol. 33. col. 1. 

" The eve of the Sabbath, or the day before, wag called 
thR day of preparation fnrthe Sabbath."— tM/ce xxxiii. 54. 

" And from the lime of the evening sacrifice and forward, 
they began to fit themselves for the'Sabbalh, and to cease 
from their works, so as not to go to the barber, not to sit ia 
judgment, &c. ; nay, thenceforward they would not set 
things on working which being set a-work, would complete 
their business of themselves, unless il would be completed 
before the Sabbath came— a^ wool teas not put to dt/e, iintess 
it could lake roloitr while it was i/el day," ^-c. — I'aliri. in 
Sat), par. 1 ; Lightfoot, vol. i. p. 218. 

"Towards sunseltin^, when the Sabbath was now ap- 
proaching, they lighted up the Sabbath lamp. Men and 
women were bound to have a lamp lighted up in their 
houses on the Sabbath though ihey were never so poor — 
nay, though they were forced to go a becging for oil for this 
purpose: and the lighting up of this lamp was a part of 
making the Sabbath a delight: and women were especially 
commanded to look to this business."— Momo/izdes in 
Sab. par. 36. 



492 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



XVI. 

The dead were plundered, and thrown into the 
river, the encampment of the Hebrews completed. 
Alroy, with his principal officers, visited the 
wounded, and praised the valiant. The bustle 
which always succeeds a victory, was increased in 
the present instance by the anxiety of the army 
to observe with grateful strictness the impending 
Sabbath. 

When the sun set, the Sabbath was to com- 
mence. The undulating horizon rendered it diffi- 
cult to ascertain the precise moment of his fall. 
The crimson orb sunk behind the purple moun- 
tains, the sky was flushed with a rich and rosy 
glow. Then might be perceived the zealots, proud 
in their Talmudical lore, holding a skein of white 
silk in their hands, and announcing the approach 
of the Sabbath by their observation of its shifting 
tints. While the skein was yet golden, the forge 
of the armourer still sounded, the fire of the cook 
still blazed, still the cavalry led their steeds to the 
river, and still the busy footmen braced up their 
tents, and hammered at their pallisades. The 
skein of silk became rosy, the armourer worked 
with renewed energy, the cook pulfed with increas- 
ed zeal, the horsemen scampered from the river, 
the footmen cast an anxious glance at the fading 
twilight. 

The skein of silk became blue ; a dim, dull, 
sepulchral, leaden tinge fell over its purity. The 
hum of gnats arose, the bat flew m circling whirls 
over the tents, horns sounded from all quarters, the 
sun had set, the Sabbath had commenced. The 
forge was mute, the fire extinguished, the prances 
of horses and the bustle of men in a moment 
ceased. A deep, a sudden, and all-pervading still- 
ness dropped over that mighty host. It was night ; 
the sacred lamp of the Sabbath sparkled in every 
tent of the camp, which vied in silence and in 
brillianc}' with the mute and glowing heavens. 

Morn came ; the warriors assembled around the 
altar and the sacrifice. The high priest and his 
attendant Levites proclaimed the unity of the 
omnipotence of the God of Israel, and the sym- 
pathetic responses of his conquering and chosen 
people re-echoed over the plain. They retired 
again to their tents, to listen to the expounding of 
the law ; even the distance of a Sabliath walk was 
not to exceed that space that lies between Jerusa- 
lem and the Mount of Olives. This was the 
distance between the temple and the tabernacle ; it 
had been nicely measured, and every Hebrew who 
ventured forth from the camp this day might be 
observed counting the steps of a Sabbath-Jay's 
journey. At length the sun again set, and on a 
sudden fires blazed, voices sounded, men stirred, in 
the same enchanted and instantaneous manner that 
had characterized the stillness of the jircccding 
eve. Shouts of laughter, bursts of music, an- 
nounced the festivity of the coming night; sup- 
plies poured in from all the neighbouring villages, 
and soon the jiious conquerors commemorated 
their late triumph in a round of banqueting. 

On the morrow, a Tartar arrived from Ithamar, 
informing Alroy thai, the Sultan of Koum had 
retreated into Syria, tnat Bagdad was undefended, 
but that ho had acceded to the request of the in- 
habitants that a deputation should wait upon Alroy 
before the troops entered the city, and had accorded 
» safe conduct for their passage. 



XVII. 

Ox the morrow messengers announced the ap- 
proach of the deputation. All the troops were 
imdcr arms. Alroy directed that the suppliants 
should be conducted through the whole camp before 
they arrived at the royal pavilion, on each side of 
which the sacred guard was mustered in array. 
The curtains of his tent withdrawn displayed the 
conqueror himself seated on a sumptuous divan. 
On his right hand stood Jabaster in his priestly 
robes, on his left Scherirah. Behind him, the 
giant Elnebar supported the sacred sceptre, A 
crowd of chieftains was ranged on each side of the 
pavilion. 

Cymbals sounded, muffled kettle-drums, and the 
faint flourish of trumpets; the commencement of 
the procession might be detected in the long per- 
spective of the tented avenue. First came a com- 
pany of beauteous youths, walking two b}' two, and 
strewing flowers, then a band of musicians in flow- 
ing robes of cloth of gold, plaintively sounding 
their silver trumpets. After these followed slaves 
of all climes, bearing a tribute of tlie most rare 
and costly production of their comitries : negroes 
with tusks and teeth of the elephant, plumes of 
ostrich feathers, and caskets of gold dust ; Syrians 
with rich armour ; Persians with vases of atar-gul, 
and Indians with panniers of pearls of Ormuz, and 
soft shawls of Cashmere. Encircled by his child- 
ren, each of whom held alternately a white or fawn- 
coloured gazelle, an Arab, clothed in his blue bor- 
nouz, led by a thick cord of crimson silk a tall and 
tawny giratfe. Fifty stout men succeeded two by 
two, carrying in company a silver shield laden with 
golden coin, or chased goblets studded with gems. 

The clash of cymbals announced the presence of 
the robes of honour,* culled from the wardrobe 
of the commander of the faithful ; the silk of 
Aleppo and the brocades of Damascus, lined with 
the furs of the sal)le and the ermine, down from 
the breast of the swan, and the skins of white 
foxes. 

After these followed two gray dromedaries with 
furniture of silver, and many caparisoned horses, 
each led by a groom in rich attire. The last of 
these was a snow-white steed, upon whose front 
was the likeness of a ruby star, a courser of the 
sacred stud of Solomon, and crossed only by the 
descendants of the prophet. 

The mufHed kettle-drums heralded the company 
of black eunuchs, with their scarlet vests and ivory 
battle-axes. They surrounded, and shrouded from 
the vulgar gaze, fourteen beautiful Circassian girls, 
whose brilliant visages and perfect forms were 
otherwise concealed by their long veils and ample 
drapery. 

'I'he gorgeous procession, as they approached 
the conqueror, bowed humbly to Alroy, and formed 
in order on each side of the broad avenue. The 
deputation appeared : twelve of the principal citi- 
zens of Bagdad, with folded arms, and downcast 
eyes, and disordered raiment. Meekly and mutely 
each touched the earth with his hand, and kissed 
it in token of submission, and then moving aside, 
made way f >r the chief envoy and orator of the 
company — Honain ! 



* Thr-se are over carried in prnc,ession,anJ iheir numl'er 
linnous llie r.aiili; anil quality of the chief, or of the indivi. 
dual 10 whom Ihey are oifBred. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



493 



XVIII. 

HuMBiT, but gracefully, the physician of the 
caliph boweil before the conqueror of the East. His 
appearance and demeanour afforded a contrast to 
the aspect of his brother envoys ; not less calm or 
contented his countenance; not less sumptuous or 
studied his attire, than when he iirst rescued Al- 
roy in the bazaar of Bagdad from the gripe of the 
false Abdallah. 

He spoke, and every sound was hushed before 
the music of his voice. 

" Conqueror of the world, that destiny with which 
it is in vain to struggle, has placed our lives and 
fortunes in your power. Your slaves offer for your 
approbation specimens of their riches ; not as tribute, 
for all is yours : but to show you the products of 
weeunty and peace, and to induce you to believe that 
mercy may be a policy as profitable to the conqueror 
as to the conquered ; that it may be better to pre- 
serve than to destroy ; and wiser to enjoy than to 
extirpate. 

" Fate ordained that we should be bom the 
slaves of the caliph ; that same fate has delivered 
his sceptre into your hands. We offer you the 
same devotion we yielded to him, and we entreat 
the same protection he accorded to us. 

" Whatever may be your decision we must bow 
to your decree with the humility that recognises su- 
perior force. Yet we are not without hope. We 
cannpt forget that it is our good fortune not to be 
addressing a /barbarous chieftain unable to sympa- 
thize with the claims of civilization, the creation of 
art, and the finer impulses of humanity. We ac- 
knowledge your irresistible power, but we dare to 
hope every thing from a prince whose genius all 
acknowledge and admire, who has spared some 
portion of his youth from the cares of government 
and the pursuits of arms, for the ennobling claims 
of learning, whose morality has been moulded 
by a pure and sublime faith, and who draws his 
lineage from a sacred and celebrated race, whose 
unrivalled antiquity even the prophet acknow- 
ledges." 

He ceased ; a buzz of approbation sounded 
throughout thepavihon which was hushed instantly 
as the lips of the conqueror moved. 

" Noble emir," replied Alroy, " return to Bagdad, 
and tell your fellow-subjects that the King of Israel 
grants protection to their persons, and security to 
their property." 

" And for their faith 1" inquired the envoy m a 
lower voice. 

"Toleration," rephed Alroy, turning to Ja- 
baster. 

" Until further regulations," added the high 
priest. 

" Emir," said Alroy, " the person of the caliph 
will be respected." 

" May it please your highness," replied Honain, 
"the Sultan of Roum has retired with our late 
ruler." 

"And his harem 1" 

" And his harem." 

" It was needless. We war not with women." 

" Men, as well as women, must acknowledge the 
gracious mercy of your highness." 

" Benomi," said Alroy, addressing himself to a 
young officer of the guard, " command the guard 
of honour that will attend this noble emir on his 
return. We soldiers deal only in iron, sir, and 



canix)t vie with the magnificence of Bagdad, yet 
wear this dagger for the donor's sake ;" and Al- 
roy held out to Honain a poniard flaming with 
gems. 

The envoy of Bagdad advanced, took the dagger, 
kissed it, and placed it in his vest.* 

" Scherirah," continued Alroy, " this noble emir 
is your charge. See that a choice pavilion of the 
host be for his use, and that his train complain not 
of the rough customs of our camp." 

"May it please your highness," replied Honain, 
" I have done my duty, and with your gracious 
permission would at once return. I have business 
only less urgent than the present, because it con- 
cerns myself." 

" As you will, noble emir. Benomi, to your post. 
Farewell, sir." 

The deputation ad/anced, bowed, and retired. 
Alroy turned to Jabaster. 

" No common person that, Jabaster." 

" A very gracious Turk, sire." 

" Think you he is a Turkl" 

" By his dress." 

" It may be so. Asriel, break up the camp. 
We'll march at once to Bagdad." 

XIX. 

The chiefs dispersed to make the necessary ar- 
rangements for the march. The news that the 
army was immediately to advance to Bagdad soon 
circulated througjiout the camp, and excited the 
most lively enthusiasm. Every hand was at work, 
striking the tents, preparing the arms and horses. 
Alroy retired to his pavilion. The curtains were 
drawn. He was alone, and plunged in profound 
meditation. 

" Alroy !" a voice sounded. 

He started and looked up. Before him stood 
Esther the prophetess. 

"Esther! is it thou?" 

" Alroy! enter not into Babylon." 

" Indeed." 

" As I live, the Lord hath spoken it. Enter not 
into Babylon." 

" Not enjoj' my fairest conquest, maiden V 

" Enter not into Babylon." 

" What affrights thee 1" 

" Enter not into Babylon." 

" I shall not surely change the fortunes of my 
life without a cause !" 

" The Lord hath spoken. Is not that a cause ?" 

" I am the Lord's anointed. His warning has 
not reached me. 

" Now it reaches thee. Doth the king despise 
the prophetess of the Lord? It is the sin of 
Ahab." 

" Despise thee ! despise the mouth that is the 
herald of my victories ! 'Twere rank blasphemy. 
Prophecy triumph, Esther, and Alroy will never 
doubt thy inspiration. 

" He doubts it now. I see he doubts it now. 
! my king, I say again, enter not into Babylon." 

" Beauteous maiden, those eyes flash lightning. 
Who can behold their wild and liquid glance, and 
doubt that Esther is inspired ! Be calm, sweet girl, 
some dream disturbs thy fancy." 

" Alroy, Alroy, enter not into Babylon !" 



* The elegant mode in which the orientals receive pr» 
seuta. 

2T 



494 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



" I have no fear — I bear a charmed hfe." 

" Ah me ! he will not listen. All is lost !" 

" All is gained, my beautiful." 

" I would we were upon the holy mount, and 
gazing on the stars of sacred Sion." 

" Esther," said Alroy, advancing, and gently 
taking her hand, " the capital of the East will soon 
unfold its marvels to thy sight. Prepare thyself for 
wonders. Girl, we are no longer in the desert. 
Forget thy fitful fancies. Come, choose a husband 
from my generals, child, and I will give thee a 
kingdom for thy dower ; I would gladly see a crown 
upon that tall imperial brow. It well deserves 
one." 

'i'he prophetess turned her dark eyes full upon 
Alroy. What passed in her mind was neither 
evident nor expressed. She gazed intently upon 
the calm and inscrutable countenance of the con- 
queror, she tiung away liis hand, and rushed out of 
tiie pavihon. 



PART VIII. 

I. 

The waving of banners, the flourish of trumpets, 
the neighing of steeds, and the glitter of spears ! 
On the distant horizon, they gleam like the morn- 
ing, when the gloom of the night shivers bright into 
the day. •> 

Hark ! the tramp of the foemen, like the tide of 
the ocean, flows onward and onward, and conquers 
the shore. From the brow of the mountain, like 
the rush of a river, the column defiling melts into 
the plain. 

Warriors of Judah ! holy men that battle for the 
Lord ! The land wherein your fathers wept, and 
touched their plaintive psaltery ; the haughty city 
•where your sires bewailed their cold and distant 
hearth : your steeds are prancing on its plain, and 
you shall fill its palaces. Warriors of Judala ! holy 
men that battle for the Lord ! 

March, onward march, ye valiant tribes, the 
hour has come, the hour has come ! All the 
promises of ages, all the signs of sacred sages, meet 
in this ravishing hour. Where is now the op- 
pressor's chariot, where your tyrant's purple robe ? 
The horse and the rider are both overthrown, the 
horse and the rider are both overthrown ! 

Kisc, Kachel, from the wilderness arise, and weep 
no more. No more thy lonely palm Iree's shade 
need shroud thy sacred sorrowing. The Lord hath 
heard the widow's sigh, the Lord hath stilled the 
widow's tear. Be comforted, be comforted, thy 
children live again ! 

Yes ! yes ! upon the bounding plain fleet Asriel 
glances like a star, and stout Scherirah shakes his 
spear by stern Jabastcr's cimeter. And he is there, 
the chosen one, hymned by prophetic harps, whose 
life is like the morning dew on Sion's holy hill : the 
chosen one, the chosen one, that leads his race to 
victory, warriors of Judah! holy men that battle 
for the Lord ! 

They come, they come, they come! 

The ramparts of the city were crowded with the 
inhabitants, the river sparkled with ten thousand 
boats, the Inizaars were shut, the streets lined with 
the populace, and the terrace of every house covered 
with spectators. In the morning, Itliamar had 



entered with his division and garrisoned the city. 
And now the vanguard of the Hebrew army, afie. 
having been long distinguished in the distance, 
approached the walls. A large body of cavalry at 
full speed dashed forward from the main force. 
Upon a milk-white charger, and followed by a glit- 
tering train of warriors, amid the shouts of the vast 
multitude, Alroy galloped up to the gates. 

He was received by Ithamar and the members of 
the deputation, but Honain was not there. Accom- 
panied by his staff and a strong detachment of the 
sacred guard, Alroy was conducted through the 
principal thoroughfares of the city, until he arrived 
at the chief entrance of the sejail, or palace of the 
caliph. The vast portal conducted him into a large 
quadrangular court, where he dismounted, and 
where he was welcomed by the captain of the eu 
nuch guard. Accompanied by his principal gene- 
rals and his immediate attendants, Alroy was then 
ushered through a suite of apartments, which re 
minded him of his visit with Honain, until he ar- 
rived at the grand council chamber of the caliphs. 

The conqueror threw himself upon the gorgeous 
divan of the commander of the faithful. 

" An easy seat after a long march," said Alroy, 
as he touched the cotTee with his lips, which the 
chief of the eunuchs presented to him in a cup of 
transparent pink porcelain, studded with pearls.* 
" Ithamar, now for your report. What is the tem- 
per of the city ] where is his sultanship of Koum 1" 

" The city, sire, is calm, and, J believe, content. 
The sultan and the caliph are still hovering on the 
borders of the province." 

" So I supposed. Scherirah will settle that. Let 
the troops be encamped without the walls, the gar- 
rison, ten thousand strong, must be changed month- 
ly. Ithamar, you are governor of the city : Asriel 
commands the forces. Worthy Jabaster, draw up 
a report of the civil afi'airs of the capital. Youi 
quarters arc the college of the dervishes. Brave 
Scherirah, I cannot aiford you a long rest. In three 
days time you must have crossed the river with your 
division. It will be quick work. I foresee the'y 
will not fight. Meet me all here in council by 
to-morrow's noon. Farewell. 

The chieftains retired, tlie high priest lingered. 

" Were it not an intrusion, sire, I would fain en- 
treat a moment's audience." 

" My own Jabaster, you have but to speak." 

" Sire, I would speak of Abidan, as valiant a 
warrior as any in the host. It grieves me much, 
by some fatality, his services seem ever overcast." 

" Abidan ! I know him well, — a valiant man, 
but a dreamer, a dreamer." 

" A dreamer, sire ! Believe me, a true son of 
Israel, and one whose faith is deep." 

" Good Jabaster, we are all true sons of Israel. 
Yet let me have men about me who see no visions 
in the mid-day sun. We must beware of dreamers." 

" Dreams are the oracles of God." 

" When God sends them. Very true, Jabaster. 
But this Abidan, and the company with whom he 
consorts, arc tilled with high-flown notions, caught 
from old traditions, which if acted on, would render 
government impracticable — in a word, they arc 
dangerous men." 

" The very flower of Israel ! Some one has poi- 
soned your sacred ear against them." 



* Thus, a great Turk, who afforded me hospitality, was 
accustomed to drluk his cotfee. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



495 



" No one, worthy Jabaster. I have no counsellor 
except yourself. They may be the flower of Israel, 
but they are not the fruit. Good warriors, — bad 
subjects : excellent means, by which we may ac- 
complish greater ends. I'll have no dreamers in 
authority. I must have practical men about me — 
practical men. See how Abner, Asriel, Ithamar, 
Medad, — see how these conform to what surrounds 
them, yet invincible captains, invincible captains. 
But then they are practical men, Jabaster; they 
have eyes and use them. They know the difference 
of times and seasons. But this Abitlan, he has no 
oilier thought but the rebuilding of the temple : a 
narrow-souled bigot, who would sacrifice the essence 
to the form. The rising temple soon would fall again 
with such constructors. Why, sir, what think you, 
— this very same Abidan preached in the camp 
against my entry into what the quaint fanatic 
chooses to call ' Babylon,' and bored me with some 
vision !"' 

" There was a time your majesty thought not so 
ill of visions." 

" Am I Abidan, sir 1 Are other men to mould 
their conduct or their thoughts by me ? In this 
world I stand alone, a being of another order to 
yourselves, incomprehensible even to you. Let 
this matter cease. I'll hear no more, and have 
heard too much. To-morrow at council, to-morrow 
at council." 

The high priest withdrew in silence. 

" He is gone — at length I am alone. I cannot 
bear the presence of these men, except in action. 
Their words, even their looks, disturb the still cre- 
ation of my brooding thought. I am once more 
alone ; and loneliness hath been the cradle of my 
empire. Now I do feel inspired. There needs no 
mummery now to work a marvel, 

" The sceptre of Solomon ! It may be so. What 
then 1 Here's now the sceptre of Alroy. What's 
that without his mind 1 The legend said that none 
should free our people, hut he who bore the sceptre 
of great Solomon. The legend knew that none 
could gain that sceptre, but with a mind, to whose 
supreme volition the fortunes of the world would 
bow like fate. I gained it ; I confronted the spec- 
tre monarchs in their sepulchre ; and the same 
hand that grasped their shadowy rule, hath seized 
the diadem of the mighty caliphs by the broad 
rushing of their imperial river. 

" The world is mine : and shall I yield the prize, 
the universal and heroic prize, to realize the dull 
tradition of some dreaming priest, and consecrate a 
legend] He conquered Asia, and he built the 
temple. Are these my annals 1 Shall this quick 
blaze of empire sink to a glimmering and a twilight 
sway over some petty province, the decent patriarch 
of a pastoral horde 1 Is the I/Ord of Hosts so slight 
a God that we must place a barrier to his sove- 
reignty, and fix the boundaries of Omnipotence 
between the Jordan and the Lebanon ? It is not 
thus written : and were it so, I'll pit my inspiration 
against the presence of my ancestors. I also am a 
prophet, and Bagdad shall be my Sion. The Daugh- 
ter of the Voice ! Well, I am clearly summoned. 
I am the Lord's servant, not Jabaster's. Let me 
make his worship universal as his power ; and 
where's the priest shall dare impugn my faith be- 
cause his altars smoke on other hills than those of 
Judah ] 

"I must see Honain. That man has a great 
mind. He aloae can comprehend my pijrpose. 



Universal empire must not be founded on sectarian 
prejudices and exclusive rights. Jabaster would 
massacre the Moslemin like Amalek ; the Moslemin, 
the vast majority, and most valuable portion of my 
subjects. He would depopulate my empire, that it 
might not be said that Ishmael shared the heritage 
of Israel. Fanatic ! I'll send him to conquer Ju- 
dah. We must conciliate. Something must be 
done to bind the conquered to our conquering for- 
tunes. That bold Sultan of Roum, — I wish Abner 
had opposed him. To run off with the harem ! I 
have half a mind to place myself at the head of the 
pursuing force, and — passion and policy alike com- 
bine — and yet — Honain is the man — I might send 
him on a mission. Could we make terms 1 I de- 
test treaties. My fancy flies from all other topics. 
I must see him. Could I but tell him all I think ! 
This door — where leads iti Hah ! methinks I do 
remember yon glittering gallery ! No one in at- 
tendance. The discipline of our palace is somewhat 
lax. My warriors are no courtiers. What an ad- 
mirable marshal of the palace Honain would make! 
Silence everywhere. So ! 'tis well. These sa- 
loons I have clearly passed through before. Could 
I but reach the private portal by the river side, 
unseen or undetected ! 'Tis not impossible. Here 
are many dresses. I will disguise myself. Trusty 
cimeter, thou hast done thy duty, rest a while. 
'Tis lucky I am beardless. I shall make a capital 
eunuch. So ! a very handsome robe. One dagger 
for a pinch, slippers powdered with pearls,* a caftan 
of cloth of gold, a Cashmere girdle, and a pelisse of 
sables. One glance at the mirror. Good! I begin 
to look like the conqueror of the world !" 

II. 

It was twilight : a small and solitary boat, with 
a single rower, glided along the Tigris, and stopped 
at the archway of a house that descended into the 
river. It stopped, the boatman withdrew the cur- 
tains, and his single passenger disembarked, and 
descended the stairs of the archway. 

The stranger reached the landing-place, and, 
unfastening a golden grate, proceeded along a gal- 
ler)% and entered a beautiful saloon of white and 
green marble, opening into gardens. No one was 
in the apartment ; the stranger threw himself upon 
a silver couch, placed at the side of the fountain 
that rose from the centre of the chamber, and fell 
into a porphyry basin. A soft whisper roused the 
stranger from his revcry, a soft whisper, that faintlv 
uttered the word " Honain." The stranger looktil 
up, a figure, enveloped in a veil, that touched the 
ground, advanced from the gardens. 

" Honain !" said the advancing figure, throwing 
off the veil, " Honain ! Ah ! the beautiful mute 
returned !" 

A woman more lovely than the rosy morn, beheld 
an unexpected guest. They stood, the lady and the 
stranger gazing on each other in silence. A man, 
with a light, entered the extremity of the hall. 
Carefully he closed the portal, slowly he advanced, 
with a subdued step ; he approached the lady and 
the stranger. 

" Alroy !" said the astonished Honain, the light 
fell from his hand. 

* The slippers in the East form a very fanciful portion 
of the costume. It is not uncommon to see them thus 
adorned, ami beautifully embroidered. In precious em- 
broidery and enamelling, the Turkish artists are unri 
vailed. 



496 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Alroy !" exclaimed the lady, with a bewildered 
air : she turned pale, and leaned against a column. 

" Daughter of the caliph !" said the leader of 
Israel ; and he advanced, and fell upon his knee, 
and stole her passive hand, "I am indeed that 
Alroy to whom destiny has delivered the empire 
of thy sire ; but the Princess Schirene can have 
nothuig to fear fi-om one who values, above all his 
victories, this memorial of her good-will ;" and he 
took from his breast a rosary of pearls and emeralds, 
and rising slowly, left it in her trembling hand. 

The princess turned and hid her face in her 
arm, which reclined against the column. 

" My kind Honain," said Alroy, " you thought 
me forgetful of the past, — you thought me ungrate- 
ful. My presence here proves that I am not so. I 
come to inquire all your wishes. I come, if in my 
power to gratify and to fulfil them." 

" Sire," replied Honain, who had recovered from 
the emotion in which he rarely indulged, and from 
the surprise which seldom entrapped him, " Sire, 
my wishes are slight. You see before you the 
daughter of my master. An interview, for which 
I fear I shall not easily gain that lady's pardon, has 
made you somewhat acquainted with her situation 
and sentiments. The Princess Schirene seized the 
opportunity of the late convidsions to escape from 
a mode of life long repugnant to all her fcehngs, and 
from a destiny at which she trembled. I was her 
onl3' counsellor, and she may feel assured, a faith- 
ful, although perhaps an indiscreet one. The 
irresistible solicitations of the inhabitants, that I 
should become their deputy to their conqueror, 
prevented us from escaping as we had intended. 
Since then, from the movement of the troops, I 
have deemed it more prudent that we should re- 
main at present here, although I have circulated 
the intelligence of my departure. In the kiosk of 
my garden, the princess is now a willing prisoner. 
At twilight she steals forth for the poor relaxation 
of my society, to listen to the intelligence which I 
acquire during the day in disguise. The history, 
sire, is short and simple. We are in your power; 
but instead of deprecating your interference, I now 
solicit your protection." 

" Dear Honain, 'tis needless. The Princess Schi- 
rene has only to express a wish that it may be ful- 
filled. I came to speak with you on weighty mat- 
ters, Honain, but I retire, for I am an intruder now. 
To-morrow, if it please you, at this hour, and in 
this disguise, I will again repair here. In the 
mean time, this lady may perchance express to you 
her wishes, and you will bear them to me. If an 
escort to any country, if any palace or province for 
her rule and residence — but I will not offer to one 
who should command. Lady! farewell. Pardon 
the past ! To-morrow, good Honain ! pr'ythee let 
us meet. Good even !" 

III. 

" The royal brow was clouded," said Ithamar to 
Asriel, as departing from the council they entered 
their magnificent bark. 

" With thought ; he has so much upon his mind, 
'tis wondrous how he bears himself." 

" I have seen him gay on the eve of battle, and 
lively though calm, with weightier matters than now 
oppress him. His brow was clouded, but not, me- 
thinks, with thought; one might rather say with 
temper. Mark you, how he rated Jabastcr ]" 



" Roundly ! The stem priest writhed under it, 
and as he signed the ordinance, shivered his reed in 
rage. I never saw a man more pale." 

" Or more silent. He looked like an imbodied 
storm. I tell you what, Asriel, that stern priest 
loves not us." 

" Have you just discovered that secret, Ithamar? 
We are not of his school. Nor, in good faiih, is 
our ruler. I am glad to see the king is so stanch 
about Abidan. Were he in council, he would 
support Jabaster." 

" ! his mere tool. What think you of Sche- 
rirahl" 

" I would not trust him. As long as there is 
fighting, he will meddle with nothing else ; but, 
mark my words, Ithamar : in quiet times he will 
support the priest." 

" Medad will have a place in council. He is 
with us." 

" Heart and soul. I would your brother were 
here, Asriel : he alone could balance Jabaster. 
Alroy loves your brother like himself. Is it true 
he marries the Lady Miriam 1" 

" So the king wishes. 'Twill be a fine match 
for Abner." 

" The world is all before us. I wonder who will 
be viceroy of Syria." 

" When we conquer it. Not Scherirah. Mark 
my words, Ithamar : he never will have a govern- 
ment. You or I, perchance. For my own part, 
I would sooner remain as I am." 

" Yours is a good post ; the best." 

" With the command of the city. It should go 
with the guard." 

" Well, then, help me in getting Syria, and you 
can ask for my connnand." 

" Agreed. Jabaster will have that in a Hebrew 
monarchy, the chief priest is in fact the grand 
vizier." 

" Alroy will be his own minister." 

" I am not so sure of that. He may choose to 
command the Syrian expedition in person ; he must 
leave some head at Bagdad. Jabaster is no gene- 
ral." 

" ! none at all. Alroy will be glad to leave 
him at home. The Sultan of Roum may not be 
always so merciful." 

" Hah ! hah ! that was an escape !" 

" By heavens ! I thought it was all over. You 
made a fine charge." 

" I shall never forget it. I nearly ran over Ja- 
baster." 

" Would that you had !" 

IV. 

It is the tender twilight hour, when maidens in 
their lonely bower, sigh softer than the eve ! The 
languid rose her head upraises, and listens to the 
nightingale, while his wild and thrilling praises, 
from his trembling bosom gush : the languid rose 
her head upraises and listens with a blush. 

In the clear and rosy air, sparkling with a single 
star, the sharp and spiry cypress tree, rises like a 
gloomy thought, amid the flow of revelry. A sing- 
ing bird, a single star, a solemn tree, an odorous 
flower, are dangerous in the tender hour, when 
maidens in their twilight bower, sigh softer than 
the eve ! 

The daughter of the caliph comes forth to breathe 
the air : her lute her only company. She sits her 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF A L R Y. 



497 



f^ iwn by a fountain's side, and gazes on the water- 
fall. Her cheek reclines upon her arm, like fruit 
upon a graceful bough. Very pensive is the face 
of that bright and beauteous lady. She starts ; a 
warm voluptuous lip presses her soft and idle hand. 
It is her own gazelk*. With his large and lustrous 
eyes, more eloquent than many a tongue, the fond 
attendant mutely asks the cause of all her thought- 
fulness. 

" Ah ! bright gazelle ! ah ! bright gazelle I" the 
princess cried, the princess cried; "thy lips are 
softer than the swan, thy lips are softer than the 
swan ; but his breathed passion, when they pressed, 
my bright gazelle ! my bright gazelle !" 

"Ah! bright gazelle! ah! bright gazelle!" the 
princess cried, the princess cried ; " thine eyes are 
like the stars of night ; thine eyes are like the stars 
of night ; but his glanced passion when they gazed, 
my bright gazelle ! my bright gazelle !" 

She seized her lute, she wildly threw her fingers 
o'er its thrilling chords, and gazing on the rosy 
Bky, to borrow all its poetry, thus, thus she sang ; 
thus, thus she sang. 

1. 

He rose in beauty, like ihe morn, 
Thai brightens in our Syrian skies; 
Dark passion gliuered in his eye, 
And empire sparkled in his form ! 

2. 
My soul ! thou art the dusky earth. 
On which his sunlight fell ; 
The dusky earth that, dim no longer, 
Now breathes with light, now beams with love ! 

3. 

He rose in beauty, like the morn, 
That brightens on the Syrian skies ; 
Dark passion glittered in his eye. 
And empire sparkled in his form ! 

" Once more, once more ! Ah ! sing that strain 
once more !" 

The princess started and looked around. Before 
her stood Alroy. She rose, she would have re- 
tired ; but, advancing, the conqueror stole her hand. 

" Fair princess," said Alroy, " let it not be said 
my presence at once banished beauty and music." 

" Sire, I doubt not, Honain awaits you. Let 
me summon him." 

" Lady, it is not with Honain that I would 
speak." 

He seated himself by her side. His countenance 
was pale, his heart trembled. 

" This garden," at length he observed in a low 
voice ; " this garden — a brief, brief space has 
glided away since first I wandered within its beau- 
teous limits, and yet those days seem like the dis- 
tant memory of another life." 

" It is another life," said the princess. " Our- 
selves, the world, all forms and usages, all feelings 
and all habits, verily, they have changed as if we 
had breathed within another sphere." 

" 'Tis a great change." 

" Since first you visited my bright kiosk. Pretty 
bauble ! I pray it may be spared." 

" It is sacred like yourself" 

" You are a courteous conqueror 1" 

" I am no conqueror, fair iScbirene, but a slave 
more lowly than when I first bowed humbly in 
your presence." 

" And bore away a token not forgotten. Your 
rosary is here." 

" Let me claim it. It has been my consolation 
in much peril, beauteous lady. On the eve of bat- 
tle I wound it round my heart." 
63 



She held forth the rosary, and turned away her 
head. Her hand remained in his : he pressed it 
to his lips. His right arm retained her hand, he 
wound the other round her waist, as he fell upon 
his knee. 

" ! beautiful, O ! more than beautiful ! for thou 
to me art like a dream unbroken," exclaimed the 
young leader of Israel, " let me, let me breathe my 
adoration. I offer thee not empire ; I offer thee 
not wealth ; I offer thee not all the boundless gra- 
tification of magnificent fancy — these may be thine, 
but all these thou hast proved ; but if the passionate 
affections of a spirit, which ne'er has yielded to 
the power of woman, or the might of man — if the 
deep devotion of the soul of Alroy be deemed an 
offering meet for the shrine of thy surpassing love- 
liness, I worship thee, Schirene, I worship thee, I 
worship thee! 

" Since I first gazed upon thee, since thy beauty 
first rose upon my presence like a star bright with 
my destiny, in the still sanctuary of my secret 
love, thy idol has ever rested. Then, then I was 
a thing whose very touch thy creed might count a 
contumely. I have avenged the insults of long 
centuries in the best blood of Asia ; I have returned, 
in glory and in pride, to claim my ancient sceptre, 
but sweeter far than vengeance, sweeter far than 
the quick gatheiing of my sacred tribes, the rush of 
triumph and the blaze of empire, is this brief mo- 
ment of adoring love, wherein I pour the passion 
of my life! 

" ! my soul, my life, my very being ! thou art 
silent, but thy silence is sweeter than others' speech. 
Yield, yield thee, dear Schirene, yield to thy sup- 
pliant ! Thy faith, thy father's faith, thy native 
customs, these, these shall be respected, beauteous 
lady ! Pharaoh's daughter yielded her dusky 
beauty to my great ancestor. Thy face is like the 
bright mspiringday ! Let it not be said the daugh- 
ter of the Nile shared Israel's crown — the daughter 
of the Tigris spurned our sceptre. I am not Solo- 
mon, but I am one that, were Schirene the partner 
of my tlirone, would make his glowing annals read 
like a wearisome and misty tale to our surpassing 
lustre!" 

He ceased, the princess turned her hitherto hid- 
den countenance, and bowed it on his heart. " ! 
Alroy," she exclaimed, " I have no creed, no coun- 
try, no life, but thee !" 



V. 



" The king is late to-day." 

" Is it true, Asriel, there is an express from 
Hamadan ]" 

" Of no moment, Ithamar. I had private letters 
from Abner. All is quiet." 

" 'Tis much past the hour. When do you de> 
part, Scherirah V 

" The troops are ready. I wait orders. This 
morning's council will perchance decide." 

" This morning's council is devoted to the settle- 
ment of the civil affairs of the capital," remarked 
Jabaster. 

" Indeed I" said Asriel. " Is your report pre- 
pared, Jabaster ?" 

" 'Tis here," replied the high priest. " The 
Hebrew legislator requires but little musing to 
shape his order. He lias a model which time can- 
not destroy, nor thought improve." 

Ithamar and Asriel exchanged significant glances, 

2Ta 



498 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Pcherirah looked solemn. There was a pause, 
which was broken by Asriel. 

" 'Tis a noble city, this Bagdad. I have not yet 
visited your quarters, Jabaster. You are well 
placed." 

" As it may be. I hope we shall not tarry here 
long. The great point is still not achieved." 

'•How far is it to the holy city?" inquired 
Scherirah. 

" A month's march," replied Jabaster. 

"And when you get there]" inquired Ithamar. 

" You may fight with the Franks," replied Asriel. 

"Jabaster, how large is Jerusalem]" inquired 
Ithamar. " Is it true, as I have sometimes heard, 
that it is not bigger than the serail here, gardens 
and all]" 

" Its glory hath departed," replied the high 
priest ; " die bricks have fallen, but we will rebuild 
with marble ; and Sion, that is now without the 
Christian walls, shall yet sparkle, as in the olden 
time, with palaces and pavilions." 

A flourish of trumpets, the portals flew open, 
and Alroy entered, leaning on the arm of the envoy 
of Bagdad. 

" Valiant leaders," said Alroy to the astonished 
chieftains, " in this noble stranger you see one 
like yourselves, intrusted with my unbounded con- 
fidence. Jabaster, behold thy brother !" 

" Honain ! Art Ihoit, Honain ]" exclaimed the 
pontiff, starting from his seat. " I have a thousand 
messengers after thee." With a countenance al- 
ternately pallid with surprise and burning with 
affection, Jabaster embraced his brother, and, over- 
powered with emotion, hid his face on his shoulder. 

" Sire," at length exclaimed the high priest in a 
low and tremulous voice, " I must pray your par- 
don that for an instant in this character I have in- 
dulged in any other thoughts but those that may 
concern your welfare. 'Tis past ; and you, who 
know all, will forgive me." 

" All that respects Jabaster must concern my 
welfare. He is the pillar of my empire ;" and 
holding forth his hand Alroy placed the high priest 
on his right. '• Scherirah, you depart this eve." 

The rough captain bowed in silence. 

" What is this ]" continued Alroy, as Jabaster 
offered him a scroll. " Ah ! your report. ' Order 
of the Tribes' — ' Service of the Levites' — ' Princes 
of the People' — ' Elders of Israel!' The day may 
come wheu this may he effected. At present, Ja- 
baster, we must be moderate, and content ourselves 
with arrangements that may insure that order may 
be maintained, property respected, and justice ad- 
ministered. Is it true a gang has rifled a mosque ]" 

" Sire ! of that I would speak. They are no 
plunderers, but men, perhaps too zealous, who have 
read and who have remembered that 'ye shall 
utterly destroy all the places, wherein the nations 
which ye shall possess, served their gods upon the 
liigh mountains, and upon the hill, and under every 
green tree. And ye shall overthrow their altars, 
and' " 

" Jabaster, is tliis a synagogue ] Come I to a 
council of valiant statesmen, or dreaming rabbis ] 
For a thousand centuries we have been quoting the 
laws we dare not practise ! Is it with such aid 
we captured Nishabar, and crossed the Tigris ] 
Valiant, wise Jabaster, thou art worthy of better 
things, and capable of all. I entreat thee urge 
such matters for the last time. Are these fellows 
in custody!" 



" They were in custody. I have freed them." 

" Freed them ! Hang them ! Hang them on 
the most public grove. Is this the way to make 
the Moslcniin a duteous subject ] Jabaster, Israel 
honours thee ; and I, its chief, know that one more 
true, more valiant, or more learned, crowds not 
around our standard ; but I see, the cfwerns of Cau- 
casus are not a school for empire." 

" Sue, I had humbly deemed the school for em- 
pire was the law of Moses." 

" Ay ! adapted for tliese times." 

" Can aught divine be changed?" 

"Am I as tall as Adam] If man, the crown, 
the rose of all this fair creation, the most divine of 
all divine inventions, if time have altered even this 
choicest of all godlike works, why shall it spare a 
law made but to rule his conduct ] Good Jabaster, 
we must establish the throne of Israel — that is my 
mission, and for the means, no matter how — or 
where. Asriel, what news of Mcdad ]" 

" All is quiet between the Tigris and Euphrates, 
It would be better to recall his division, which has 
been harassed. 1 thought of relieving hira by 
Abidan." 

" I think so, too. We may as well keep Abidan 
out of the city. If the truth were known, I'll 
wager some of his company plundered the mosque. 
We must issue a proclamation on that subject. My 
good Jal)aster, we'll talk over these matters alone. 
At present I will leave you with your brother. 
Scherirah, sup with me to-night, before you quit 
us. Asriel, come with me to my cabinet." 

VI. 

" I MUST see the king !" 

" Holy priest, his highness has retired. It is 
impossible." 

" I must see the king. Worthy Pharez, I take 
all peril on myself." 

".Indeed his highness's orders are imperative. 
You cannot see him." 

" Knowest thou who I am ]" 

" One whom all pious Hebrews reverence." 

" I say I must see the king." 

" Indeed, indeed, holy Jabaster, it cannot be." 

" Shall Israel perish for a menial's place ] Go 
to ; I'll see him." 

" Nay ! if you will. I'll struggle for my duty." 

" Touch not the Lord's anointed. Dog, you 
shall suffer for this !" 

So saying, Jabaster threw aside Pharez, and, 
with the attendant clinging to his robes, rushed into 
the royal chamber. 

" What is all this ]" exclaimed Alroy, starting 
from the divan. " Jabaster ! Pharez, witlidraw I 
How now, is Bagdad in insurrection ]" 

" Worse, much worse, Israel soon will be." 

" Ay !" 

" My fatal brother has told me all, nor would I 
sleep until I lifted up my voice to save thee." 

" Am I in danger]" 

" In the wilderness, when the broad desert qui- 
vered beneath thy trembling feet, and the dark 
heavens poured down their burning torrents, thou 
wert less so. In that hour of death, one guarded 
thee, who ne'er forgets his fond and faithful off- 
spring, and now, when he has brought thee out of 
the house Qf bondage ; now, when thy fortunes, 
like a noble cedar, swell in the air, and shadow all 
the land thou the very leader of his people, his 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY 



499 



chosen one, for whom lie hath worked such marvels 
— thy heart is turned from thy father's God, and 
hankers after strange abominations." 

Through the broad arch that led into the gardens 
of the serail, the moonlight fell upon the tall figure 
and the upraised arm of the priest ; Alroy stood 
with folded arms at some distance, watching Jabas- 
ter as he spoke, with a calm but searching glance. 
Suddenly he advanced with a quick step, and, 
placing his hand upon Jabastcr's arm, said in a low, 
inquiring tone, " You are speaking of this mar- 
riage 1" 

" Of that which ruined Solomon." 

" Listen to me, Jabaster," said Alroy, interrupt- 
ing him, in a calm, but peremptory tone. " I can- 
not forget that I am speaking to my master, as well 
as to my friend. The Lord, who knowcth all 
things, hath deemed me worthy of his mission. 
My fitness for this high and holy office was not ad- 
mitted without proof. A lineage, which none else 
could offer, mystic studies, shared by few, a mind 
that dared encounter all things, and a frame that 
could endure most, — these were my claims ; — but 
no more of this. I have passed the great ordeal, 
the Lord of Hosts hath found me not unworthy of 
his charge ; I have established his people, his altars 
blaze with sacrifices, his priests are honoured — bear 
witness thou, Jabaster — his omnipotent unity is 
declared. What wouldst thou more 1 " 

"All!" 

"Then Moses knew ye well. It is a stiff-necked 
people." 

" Sire, bear with me. If I speak in heat, I speak 
in zeal. You ask me what I wish : my answer is, 
a national existence, which we have not. You ask 
me what I wish : my answer is, the Land of Pro- 
mise. You ask me what I wish : my answer is, 
Jerusalem. You ask me what I wish : my answer 
is, the temple — all we have forfeited, all we have 
yearned after, all for which we have fought — our 
beauteous country, our holy creed, our simple 
manners, and our ancient customs." 

"Manners change with time and circumstances; 
customs may be observed everywhere. The ephod 
on thy breast proves our faith ; and for a country, 
is the Tigris less than Siloah, or the Euphrates in- 
ferior to the Jordan 1" 

" Alas ! alas ! there was a glorious prime when 
Israel stood aloof from other nations, a fair and holy 
thing that God had hallowed. We were then a 
chosen family, a most peculiar people, set apart for 
God's entire enjoyment. All about us was solemn, 
deep, and holy. We shunned the stranger as an 
unclean thing that must defile our solitary sanctity, 
and keeping to ourselves, and to our God, our fives 
flowed on in one great solemn tide of deep religion, 
making the meanest of our multitude feel greater 
than the kings of other lands. It was a glorious 
time ; I thought it had returned — but I awake from 
this, as other dreams." 

" We must leave off dreaming, good Jabaster, — 
we must act. Were I, by any chance, to fall into 
one of those reveries, with which I have often lost 
the golden hours at Hamadan, or in our old cave, I 
should hear, some fine morning, his sultanship of 
Roum rattling at my gates." Alroy smiled as he 
spoke : he would willingly have introduced a lighter 
tone into the dialogue, but the solemn countenance 
of the priest was not sympathetic with his levity. 

" My heart is full, and yet I cannot speak; the 



memory of the past o'erpowers my thought. I had 
vainly deemed my voice, inspired by the soul of 
truth, might yet preserve him ; and now I stand 
here in his presence, silent and trembling, like a 
guilty thing. O, my prince ! my pupil !" said the 
priest, advancing, falling on his knee, and seizing 
the robe of Alroy, " by thy sacred lineage, by the 
sweet memory of thy ardent youth, and our united 
studies — by all thy zealous thoughts, and solemn 
musings, and glorious aspirations after fame — by 
all thy sufferings, and by all thy triumph, and chiefly 
by the name of that great God, who hath elected 
thee his favoured child — by all the marvels of thy 
mighty mission, — I do adjure thee ! Arise, Alroy, 
arise and rouse thyself. The lure that snared thy 
fathers may trap thee-^this Delilah may shear thy 
mystic lock. Spirits like thee act not by halves. 
Once fall out from the straight course before thee, 
and though thou deemest 'tis but to saunter 'mid 
the summer trees, soon thou wilt find thyself in the 
dark depths of some Infernal forest, where none may 
rescue thee !" 

" What if I do inherit the eager blood of my great 
ancestor, at least I hold his sceptre. Shall aught 
of earthly power prevail against the supernatural 
sway of heaven and hades !" 

" Sire, sire, the legend that came from Sinai is 
full of high instruction. But shape thy conduct by 
its oracles, and all were well. It says our people 
can only be established by him who rules them 
with the verge of Solomon. Sire, when the Lord 
offered his pleasure to that mighty king, thou 
knowest his deep discretion. Riches, and length 
of days, empire and vengeance — these were not the 
choice of one to whom all accidents were proffered. 
The legend bears an inward spirit, as well as out- 
ward meaning. The capture of the prize was a 
wise test of thy imperial fitness. Thou hast his 
sceptre, but without his wisdom — 'tis but a staff of 
cedar." 

" Hah ! Art thou there 1 I am glad to see 
Jabaster politic. Hear me, my friend. What my 
feelings be unto this royal lady, but little matters. 
Let them pass, and let us view this question by the 
light wherein you have placed it, the flame of policy 
and not of passion. I am no traitor to the God of 
Israel, in whose name I have conquered, and in 
whose name I shall rule ; but thou art a learned 
doctor, thou canst inform us. I have heard no 
mandate to yield my glorious empire for my mean- 
est province. I am lord of Asia, so would I have 
my long posterity. Our people are but a remnant, 
a feeble fraction of the teeming millions that own 
my sway. What I hold I can defend ; but my 
children may not inherit the spirit of their sire. The 
Moslemin will recognise their rule with readier 
hearts, when they remember a daughter of their 
caliphs gave them life. You see I too am politic, 
my good Jabaster !" 

" The policy of the son of Kareah* — 'twas fatal. 
He preferred Egypt to Judah, and he suffered. 
Sire, the Lord hath blessed Judah : it is his land. 
He would have it filled by his peculiar people, so 
that his worship might ever flourish. For this he 
has, by many curious rites and customs, marked us 
out from all other nations, so that we cannot, at the 
same time, mingle with them, and yet be true to 
him. We must exist alone. To preserve that 



Vid. Jeremiah, cap. 4^ 



500 



D'lSRAELI^S NOVELS. 



loneliness, is the great end and essence of our law. 
■\V'hat have we to do with Bagdad, or its people, 
where every instant we must witness some violation 
of our statutes 1 Can we pray with them 1 Can 
we eat with them 1 In the highest duties, and the 
lowest occupations of existence, alike we cannot 
mingle. From the altar of our God, to our own 
domestic boards, we are alike separated from them. 
Sire, you may be King of Bagdad, but you cannot, 
at the same time, be a Jew." 

" I am what I am. I worship the Lord of Hosts. 
Perhaps, in his mercy, he will accept the days of 
Nishabur and the Tigris, as a Compensation for 
some slight relaxation in the ritual of the baker and 
the bath." 

" And mark my words : it was by the ritual of 
the baker and the bath, that Ahoy rose, and without 
it he will fall. The genius of the people raised him, 
which he shared, and that genius has been formed 
by the law of Moses. Based on that law, he 
might indeed have handed down an empire to his 
long posterity ; and now, though the tree of his 
fortunes seems springing up by the waterside, fed 
by a thousand springs, and its branches covered 
with dew, there is a gangrene in the sap, and to- 
morrow he may sink Ukc a shrivelled gourd. Alas! 
alas ! for Israel ! We have long fed on mallows ; 
but to lose the vuitage in the very day of fruition, 
'tis very bitter. Ah ! when I raised thy exhausted 
form in the cavern of Genthesma, and the star of 
David beamed brightly in the glowing heavens 
upon thy high fulfilment, who could have dreamed 
of a night like this 1 Farewell, sire." 

" Stop, Jabaster ! earliest, dearest friend, pr'ythee, 
pr'ythee stop !" 

The priest slowly turned, the prince hesitated. 

" Part not in anger, good Jabaster." 

"In sorrow, sire, only in sorrow ; but deep and 
terrible." 

"Israel is lord of Asia, my Jabaster. Why 
should we fearl" 

" Solomon built Tadmor in the wilderness, and 
his fleet brought gold from Ophir ; and yet Alroy 
was born a slave." 

" But did not die one. The sultans of the world 
have fallen before me. I have no fear. Nay, do 
not go. At least you'll place some credence in the 
stars, my learned cabalist. See, my planet shines 
as brightly as my fortunes." Alroy withdrew the 
curtain, himself and Jabaster stepped on to the 
teij-ace. A beautiful star glittered on high. As 
they gazed, its colour changed, and a blood-red me- 
teor burst from its circle, and fell into space. The 
conqueror and the priest looked at each other at tlie 
same time. Their countenances were pale, inquir- 
ing and agitated. 

" Sire," said Jabaster, " march to Judah." 

" It portends war," replied Alroy, endeavouring 
to recover himself. " Perchance some troubles in 
Persia." 

" Troubles at home, no other. The danger is 
nigh. Look to thyself." 

A wild scream was heard in the gardens. It 
sounded thrice. 

" What is all this V exclaimed Alroy, really agi- 
tated. "Rouse the guard, Jabaster, search the 
gardens." 

" 'Tis useless, and may do harm. It was a spirit 
ihat shrieked." 
"What said it 1" 
"Mene, Mene, Tekel, Uphabsin !" 



vn. 



" The old story, the priest against the king," said 
Honain to Alroy, when, at his morrow's interview, 
he had listened to the events of the preceding night. 
" My pious brother wishes to lead you back to the 
theocracy, and is fearful that if he pray at Bagdad, 
instead of Sion, he may chance to become only the 
head of an inferior sect, instead of revelling in the 
universal tithes of a whole nation. As for the me- 
teor, Scherirah must have crossed the river about 
the same time, and the Sultan of Koum may explain 
the bloody portent. For the shriek, as I really have 
no acquaintance with spirits, I must leave the mira- 
culous communication to the favoured cars and 
initiated intelligences of your highness and my bro- 
ther. It seems, it diflered from ' the Daughter of 
the Voice' in more respects than one, since it was 
not only extremely noisy, but, as it would appear, 
quite unintelligible, except to the individual who 
had an interest in the interpretation — an ingenious 
one, I confess. W^hen I enter upon my functions 
as your highness's chamberlain, I will at least 
guaranty that your slumbers shall not be disturbed 
either by spirits or more unwelcome visiters." 

" Enter upon them at once, good Honain. How 
fares my Persian rose to-day, my sweet Schirene 1" 

" Feeding on your image m your absence. She 
spares no word to me, I do assure your highness." 

" Nay, nay, we know you are a general favourite 
with the sex, Honain. I' faith I'm jealous." 

" I wouhl your highness had cause," said Ho- 
nain, very demurely. 

vni. 

The approaching marriage between the King of 
the Hebrews and the Princess of Bagdad was pub- 
lished throughout Asia. Preparations were made 
on the plain of the Tigris for the great rejoicing. 
Whole forests were felled to provide materials for 
the building and fuel for the banqueting. All the 
governors of provinces and cities, all the chief offi- 
cers and nobility of both nations, were specially in- 
vited, and daily arrived in state at Bagdad. Among 
them the viceroy of the Medes and Persians, and 
his recent bride, the Princess Miriam, were conspi- 
cuous, followed by a train of nearly ten thousand 
persons. 

A throne, ascended by one hundred steps, co- 
vered with crimson cloth, and crowned by a golden 
canopy, was raised in the middle of \he plain : on 
each side two thrones less elevated, but equally 
gorgeous. In the front of these thrones an im- 
mense circus was described, formed by one hundred 
chartaks or amphitheatres, ample room for the ad- 
mittance of the multitude being left between the 
buildings. These chartaks were covered with 
bright brocades and showy carpets — on each was 
hoisted a bright and brilliant banner. In some of 
them were bands of choice musicians, in others 
companies of jugglers, bufibons, and storiers. Five 
chartaks on each side of the thrones were allotted 
for the convenience of the court, the rest were filled 
by the different trades of the city. In one, the fruit- 
erers had formed a beautiful garden, glowing with 
pomegranates, and gourds, and watermelons, 
oranges, almonds, and pistachio nuts ; in another, 
the butchers exhibited their meats carved in the 
most fanciful shapes, and the skins of animals 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



501 



dressed up in very ludicrous figures. Here assem- 
bled the furriers, all dressed in masquerade, like 
leopards, lions, tigers, and foxes ; and in another 
booth mustered the upholsterers, proud of a camel 
made of wood, and reeds, and cord, and painted 
linen, a camel which walked about as if alive, 
though ever and anon the interior man drawing 
aside a curtain, discovered to the marvelling multi- 
tude the workman in his own piece. Further on 
might be perceived the cotton manufacturers, whose 
chartak was full of birds of all shapes and ])lumage, 
yet nevertheless formed of their curious plant ; and 
of the same material, with the help of reeds, al- 
though ever)' one imagined it to be built with 
bricks and mortar, rose in the centre a lofty mina- 
ret. It was covered with embroidered work, and 
on the top was placed a stork so cunningly devised, 
that the children pelted it with pistacliio nuts. The 
saddlers showed their skill in two litters, open at 
top, each carried on a dromedary, and in each a 
beautiful woman, who diverted the sjiectators with 
light balls of gilt leather, throwing them up both 
with their hands and feet. Nor were the mat- 
makers backward in the proof of their dexterity, 
since, instead of a common banner, they exhibited 
a large standard of reeds worked with two lines 
of writing in Kufic, proclaiming the happy names 
of Alroy and Schirene. But, indeed, in every char- 
tak might be witnessed some wondrous specimens 
of the wealth of Bagdad, and of the ingenuity of its 
unrivalled artisans. 

Around this mighty circus, on every side, for the 
space of many miles, the plain was studded with 
innumerable pavilions. At measured intervals 
were tables furnished with every species of provi- 
sion, and attended by appointed servants, flagons 
of wine and jars of sherbets mingled with infinite 
baskets of delicious fruits and trays of refi-eshing 
confectionary. Although open to all comers, so 
great and rapid was the supply, that these ban- 
queting tables seemed ever laden ; and that the 
joys of the people might be complete, they were 
allowed to pursue whatever pleasures they thought 
fit without any restraint, by proclamation, in these 
terms. 

"This is the time of feasting, pleasure, arid 
rejoicing. Let no person reprimand or complain 
of another : let not the rich insult the poor, or the 
strong the weak ,• let no one ask another, ' Why 
have you done this ?'" 

Millions of people were collected in this para- 
dise. They rejoiced, they feasted, they frolicked, 
they danced, they sang. They listened to the 
tales of the Arabian storier, at once enchanted and 
enchanting, or melted to the strain of the Persian 
poet, as he painted the moonlit forehead of his 
heroine, and the wasting and shadowy form of his 
lovesick hero : they beheld with amazement the 
feats of the juggler of the Ganges, or giggled at the 
practised wit and the practical buffoonery of the 
Syrian mime. And the most delighted could still 
spare a fascinated glance to the inviting gestures 
and the voluptuous grace of the dancing girls of 
Egypt.* Everyvi'here were melody and merri- 
ment, rarity and beauty. For once mankind for- 
got their cares, and delivered themselves up to in- 
finite enjoyment. 

" I grow courteous," said Kisloch the Kourd, 
assisting a party into one of the shows. 

• A sculptor might find studies in the Egyptian Alwyn. 



" And I humane," said Calidas the Indian. 
" Fellow, how dure you violate the proclamation, 
by thrashing that child 1" He turned to one of the 
stewards of the tables, who was belabouring the 
unfortunate driver of a camel which had stumbled, 
and, in its fall, had shivered its burden, two pan- 
niers of porcelain. 

" Mind your own business, fellow," replied the 
steward, " and be thankful that for once in your 
life you can dine." 

" Is this the way to speak to an oflScer 1" said 
Calidas the Indian ; " I have half a mind to cut 
your tongue out." 

" Never mind, little fellow," said the Guebre, 
" here is a dirhem for you. Run away and be 
merry." 

" A miracle," grinned the Negro, " he giveth 
alms." 

" And you are witty," rejoined the Guebre. 
" 'Tis a wondrous day." 

" What shall we do V' said Kisloch. 

" Let us dine," proposed the Negro, 

"Ay! under this plane tree," said Calidas. 
" 'Tis pleasant to be alone. I hate everybody but 
ourselves." 

" Here, stop, you rascal," said the Guebre. 
" What's your name 1" 

" I anr a hadgee," said our old friend Abdallah, 
the servant of the charitable merchant Ali, and 
who was this day one of the officiating stewards. 

"Are you a Jew, you scoundreH" said the 
Guebre : " that is the only thing worth being 
Bring some wine, you accursed Giaour !" 

" Instantly," said Kisloch, " and a pilau." 

" And a gazelle stufled with almonds," said Ca- 
lidas. 

" And some sugarplums," said the Negro. 

"Quick, you infernal Gentile, or I'll send this 
javelin in your back," hallooed the Guebre. 

The servile Abdallah hastened away, and soon 
bustled back, carrying two flagons of wine, and 
followed by four servants, each with a tray covered 
with dainties. 

" Where are you going ? you accursed scoun- 
drels," grumbled Kisloch : " wait upon the true 
believers." 

" We shall be more free alone," whispered Ca- 
lidas. 

" Away, then, dogs," growled Kisloch. 

Abdallah and his attendants hurried off, but were 
soon summoned back. 

" Why did not you bring Schiras winel" asked 
Calidas, with an eye of fire. 

" The pilau is overdone," thundered Kisloch. 

" You have brought a lamb stuffed with pistachio 
nuts, instead of a gazelle with almonds," said the 
Guebre. 

" Not half sugarplums enough," said the Negro. 

" Every thing is wrong," said Kisloch. " Go, 
and get us a kabob."* 

In time, however, even this unmanageable crew 
were satisfied, and seated under their planetree, 
and stuffing themselves with all the dainties of the 
East, they became more amiable as their appetites 
decreased. 

" A bumper, Calidas, and a song," said Kisloch. 



* A most capital thing. Square lumps of meat run upon 
a skewer, and belween~each piece of meal, a most delicate 
slice of onion, and quickly Isroiled. A very favourite dish 
with the Turks. A kabob shop is like an English chop- 
house. 



502 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" 'Tis rare stuff," saitl the Guebre : " Come, 
CdUy, it should inspire you." 

■ Here goes, then — mind the chorus." 

THE SONG OFCALIDAS. 

Prink, drink, deeply drink, 

Never feel, and never think. 

Wlial's love ? what's fame t a sigh, a smile, 

Friendship but a hollow wile. 

If you've any thought or wo, 

Drown them in the goblet's flow. 
Yes ! dash them in this brimming cup, 
Dash them in, and drink them up. 

Drink, drink, deeply drink. 

Never feel, and never think. 

" Hark, the trumpets ! The king and queen ! 
The procession is coming. Let's away." 

" Again ! they must be near. Hurry, hurry, 
for good places." 

"Break all the cups and dishes. Come along!" 

The multitude from all quarters hurried to the 
great circus amid the clash of ti>n thousand cym- 
bals, and the blast of innumerable trumpets. In 
the distance, issuing from the gates of Bagdad, 
might be detected a brilliant crowd, the advance 
company of the bridal procession. 

There came five hundred maidens crowned with 
flowers, and beauteous as the buds that girt their 
hair. Their flowing robes were whiter than the 
swan, and each within her hand a palm branch 
held. 

Followed these a band of bright musicians, 
clothed in golden robes, and sounding silver trum- 
pets. 

Then five hundred youths, brilliant as stars, 
clad in jackets of white fox-skin, and alternately 
bearing baskets of fruit or flowers. 

Followed these a band of bright musicians, 
clothed in silver robes, and sounding golden 
trumpets. 

Six choice steeds, sumptuously caparisoned, 
each led by an Arab groom.* 

The household of Medad, in robes of crimson, 
lined with sable. 

The standard of Medad. 

Medad, on a coal-black Arab, followed by three 
hundred officers of his division, all mounted on 
steeds of a pure race. 

Slaves, bearing the bridal present of Medad, six 
Damascus sabres of unrivalled temper.-j- 

Twelve choice steeds, sumptuously caparisoned, 
each led by an Anatolian groom. 

The household of Ithamar, in robes of violet, 
ined with ermine. 

The standard of Ithamar. 

Ithamar, on a snow-white Anatolian charger,i: 
followed by six hundred officers of his division, all 
mounted on steeds of a pure race. 

Slaves bearing the marriage present of Ithamar. 
A golden vase of rubies, borne on a violet throne. 

One hundred negroes, their noses bored, and 



* Led horses always precede the advent of a great man. 
I think there were usually twelve before the sultan when 
he went to mosque, whicli he did in public every Friday. 

t But sabres are not to be found at Damascus, any more 
than cheese at Stilton, or oranges at Malta. The art of 
watering the blade is, however, practised, I believe, in 
Persia. A fine Damascus blade will fetch a long figure, 
fifty, or even one hundred guineas English. 

i The finest horses in the world are the Anatolian or 
Asiatic Turkish, from which all our best breeds have sprung, 
and not from the AraLiian, which I believe to be little worth. 
It is against reason that the race should be so preeminent 
in a land without pasture. See an excellent letter on this 
subject signed " Stud," in a recent number of that capital 
per ludical, the Sporting Magazine. 



hung with rings of brilliants, playing upon wind 
instruments and kettle-drums. 

The standard of the city of Bagdad. 

The deputation from the citizens of Bagdad. 

Two hundred mules with caparisons of satin, 
embroidered with gold, and adorned with small 
golden bells. These bore the sumptuous wardrobe, 
presented by the city to their princess. Each mule 
was attended by a girl, dressed like a peri, with 
starry wings, and a man, masked as a hideous 
Dive. 

The standard of Egypt. 

The deputation from the Hebrews of Egypt, 
mounted on dromedaries, with silver furniture. 

Fifty slaves, bearing their present to the princess, 
with golden cords, a mighty bath of jasper, beauti- 
fully carved, the sarcophagus of some ancient ten* 
pie, and purchased for an immense sum. 

The standard of Syria. 

The deputation from the Hebrews of the Holj 
Land, headed by Rabbi Zimri himself, each carry- 
ing in his hand his olfering to the nuptial pair, a 
precious vase, containing earth from the mount of 
Sion. 

The standard of Hamadan. 

The deputation from the citizens of Hamadan, 
headed by the venerable Bostenay himself, whose 
sumptuous charger was led by Caleb. 

The present of the city of Hamadan to David 
Alroy, offered at his own suggestion — the cup in 
which the prince of the captivity carried his tribute 
now borne full of sand. 

Fifty choice steeds, sumptuously caparisoned, 
each led by a Median or Persian groom. 

The household of Abner and Miriam, in number 
twelve hundred, clad in chain armour of ivory and 
gold. 

The standard of the Modes and Persians. 

Two white elephants, with golden litters, bearing 
the viceroy and his princess. 

The offering of Abner to Alroy. Twelve ele- 
phants of state, with furniture embroidered with 
jewels, each tended by an Indian clad in chain 
armour of ivory and gold. 

The offering of Miriam to Schirene. Fifty plants 
of roses from Rocnabad,* a white shawl of Cash- 
mere, fifty feet in length, which folded into the 
handle of a fan ; fifty screens, each made of a 
feather of the roc ;■[- and fifty vases of crystal, full 
of exquisite perfumes, and each sealed with a talis- 
man of precious stones. 

After these followed the eunuch guard. 

Then came the band of the Serail, consisting of 
three hundred dwarfs, hideous indeed to behold, 
but the most complete musicians in the world. 

The steeds of Solomon, in number one hundred, 
each with a natural star upon its front, uncapari- 
soned, and led only by a bridle of diamonds. 

The household of Alroy and Schirene. Fore- 
most, the Lord Honain riding upon a chestnut 
charger shod with silver ; the dress of the rider 
pink with silver stars. From his rosy turban de- 
pended a tremulous aigrette of brilliants,^: blazing 
with a thousand .shifting tints. 

Two hundred j)ages followed him; and then 



* A river in Persia famous for its bowery banks of roses. 

+ The screens and fans in the East, made of the plumaga 
of rare birds, with jewelled handles, are very ggrgeous. 

t Worn only by personages of the highe.si ranlr. The 
sultan presented Lord Nelson after the lialile of the Nile 
with au aigrette uf diamonds. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



503 



servants of both sexes gorgeously habited, amount- 
ing to nearly two thousand, carrying rich vases, 
magnificent caskets, and costly robes. The trea- 
surer, and two hundred of his underlings, came 
after, showering golden dirhems on all sides. 

The sceptre of Solomon, born by Asriel himself. 

'A magnificent and lofty car, formed of blue ena- 
mel, with golden wheels, and axletrces of turquoises 
and brilliants, and drawn by twelve snow-white 
and sacred horses, four abreast — in the car, Alroy 
and Schirene. 

Five thousand of the sacred guard closed the 
procession. 

Amid the exclamations of the people, this gor- 
geous procession crossed the plain, and moved 
around the mighty circus. The conqueror and his 
bride ascended their throne — its steps were covered 
by the youths and maidens. On the throne, upon 
their right, sat the venerable Bostenay ; on the 
left, the gallant viceroy and his princess. The 
chartaks on each side were crowded with the 
court. 

The deputations made their offerings, the chiefs 
and captains paid their homage, the trades of the 
city moved before the throne in order, and exhi- 
bited their various ingenuity. Thrice was the pro- 
clamation made, amid the sound of trumpets, and 
then began the games. 

A thousand horsemen dashed into the arena and 
threw the jcrreed. They galloped at full speed, 
they arrested their fiery chargers in mid course, 
and flung their long javelins at the minute but 
sparkling target, the imitative form of a rare and 
brilliant bird. The conquerors received their prizes 
from the hand of the princess herself — bright 
shawls, and jewelled daggers, and rosaries of gems. 
Sometimes the trumpets announced a prize from 
the vice-queen, sometimes from the venerable Bos- 
tenay, sometimes from the victorious generals, or 
the loyal deputations, sometimes from the united 
trades, sometimes from the city of Bagdad, some- 
times from the city of Hamadan. The hours flew 
away in gorgeous and ceaseless variety. 

" I would we were all alone, my own Schirene," 
said Alroy to his bride. 

" I would so, too ; and yet I love to see all Asia 
prostrate at the feet of Alroy." 

" Will the sun ne'er set 1 Give me thy hand to 
play with." 

" Hush ! See, Miriam smiles." 

"Lcrvest thou my sister, my own Schirene 1" 

" None dearer but thyself." 

"Talk not of my sister, but ourselves. Tliinkest 
thou the sun is nearer setting, love V 

" I cannot see — thine eyes, they dazzle me — they 
are so brilHant, sweet I" 

" O ! my soul, I could pour out my passion on 
thy breast." 

" Thou art very serious," 

" Love is ever so." 

" Nay, sweet ! It makes me wild and fanciful. 
Now I could do such things — but what I know 
not. I would we had wings, and then we would 
fly away." 

" See, I nmst salute this victor in the games. 
Must I unloose thy hand 1 Dear hand, farewell ! 
Think of me while I speak, my precious life. 'Tis 
done. Give back thy hand, or else methinks I'll 
die. What's this!" 

A horseman, in no holiday dress, but covered 
with dust, rushed into tho circus, bearing in his 



hand a tall lance, on which was fixed a scroll. 
The marshals of the games endeavoured to pre- 
vent his advance, but he would not be stayed. His 
message was to the king alone. A rumour of news 
from the army circulated throughout the crowd. 
And news from the army it was. Another vic- 
tory ! Scherirah had defeated the Sultan of Roum, 
who was now a suppliant for peace and aUiance. 
Sooth to say, the intelligence had arrived at dawn 
of day ; but the courtly Honain had contrived that 
it should be communicated at a later and a more 
effective moment. 

There scarcely needed this additional excite- 
ment to this glorious day. But the people cheered, 
the golden dirhems were scattered with renewed 
profusion, and the intelligence was received by all 
parties as a solemn ratification by Jehovah, or by 
Allah, of the morning ceremony. 

The sun set, the court arose, and returned in the 
same pomp to the serail. The twilight died away, 
a beacon fired on a distant eminence announced 
the entrance of Alroy and Schirene into the nup- 
tial chamber; and suddenly, as by magic, the 
mighty city, every mosque, and minaret, and tower, 
and terrace, and the universal plain, and the num- 
berless pavilions, and the immense circus, and the 
vast and winding river, blazed with light. From 
every spot a lamp, a torch, a lantern, tinted with 
every hue, burst forth ; enormous cressets of silver 
radiancy beamed on the top of each chartak ; and 
huge bonfires of ruddy flame started up along the 
whole horizon. 

For seven days and seven nights, this unparal- 
leled scene of rejoicing, though ever various, never 
ceased. Long, long was remembered the bridal 
feast of the Hebrew prince and the caliph's daugh- 
ter ; long, long did the peasantry on the plains of 
Tigris sit down by the side of that starry river, and 
tell the wondrous tale to their marvelling posterity. 

Now what a glorious man was David Alroy, 
lord of the mightiest empire in the world, and 
wedded to the most beautiful princess, surrounded 
by a prosperous and obedient people, guarded by 
invincible armie?, one on whom earth showered 
all its fortune, and heaven all its favour — and all 
by the power of his own genius ! 



PART IX. 



I. 



'TwAS midnight, and the storm still raged : 'mid 
the roar of the thunder and the shrieks of the wind, 
the floods of forky lightning each instant revealed 
the broad and billowy breast of the trouliled Tigris. 

Jabaster stood gazing upon the wild scene from 
the gallery of his palace. His countenance was 
solemn, but disquieted. 

" I would that he were here !" exclaimed the 
high priest. " Yet why should I desire his pre- 
sence, who heralds only gloom ] Yet, in his ab- 
sence am I gay ? I am nothing. This Bagdad 
weighs upon me like a cloak of lead — my spirit is 
dull and broken. 

" They say Alroy gives a grand banquet in the 
serail to-night, and toasts his harlot 'mid the thun- 
derbolts. Is there no hand to write upon the wall 1 
He is found wanting — he is weighed, and is indeed 
found wanting. The parting of his kingdom soon 



504 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Tvill como, and then 1 could weep, ! I could 

weep, and down these stern and seldom yielding 
cheeks, pour the wild anguish of my desperate wo. 
So young, so great, so favoured ! But one more 
step, a god — and now, a ''juI Belshazzar!" 

" Was it for this his gentle youth was past in 
musing solitude and mystic studies 1 Was it for 
this the holy messenger summoned his most re- 
ligious spirit? Was it for this he crossed the fiery 
desert and communed with his fathers in their 
tombs ] Is this the end of all his victories, and all 
his vast achievement '! To banquet with a wanton ! 

" A year ago this very night, it was the eve of 
battle, I stood within his tent to wait his final word. 
He mused awhile, and then he said, ' Good night, 
Jabaster !' I believed myself the nearest to his 
heart, as he has ever been nearest to mine, but that's 
all over. He never says, ' Good night, Jabaster,' 
now . Why, what's all this ] Methinks I am a 
child. 

" The Lord's anointed is a prisoner now in the 
light grating of a bright kiosk, and never gazes on 
the world he conquered. Egypt and Syria, even 
farthest Ind, send forth their messengers to greet 
Alroy, the great, the proud, the invincible. And 
where is he? In a soft paradise of girls and 
eunuchii crowned with flowers, listening to melting 
lays, and the wild thrilling of the amorous lute. He 
spares no hours to council, all is left to his prime 
favourites, of whom the leader is that juggling fiend 
I sometmie called my brother. 

" Why rest I here 1 Where should I fly ? Me- 
thinks my presence is still a link to decency. Should 
I tear off the cphod, I scarcely fancy 'twould blaze 
upon another's breast. He goes not to the sacri- 
fice ; they say he keeps no fast, observes no ritual, 
and that their festive fantasies will not be balked, 
eve/i l)y the Sabbath. I have not seen him thrice 
since the marriage. Honain has told her I did 
oppose it, and she bears to me a hatred that only 
women feel. Our strong passions break into a 
thousand purposes : women have one. Their love 
is dangerous, but their hate is fatal. 

" See! a boat bounding on the waters. On such 
a night, — but one would dare to venture." 

Now visible, now in darkness, a single lantern 
at the prow, Jabaster watched with some anxiety 
the slight bark bufleting the waves. A tremen- 
dous flash of lightning illuminated the whole river, 
and tipped with a spectral light even the distant 
piles of building. The boat, and the toiling figure 
of the single rower, were distinctly perceptible. 
Kow all again was darkness, the wind suddenly 
subsided, in a few minutes the plash of the oars was 
audilile, and the boat apparently stopped beneath 
tiie palace. 

There was a knocking at the private portal. 

" Who knocks'!" inquired Jabaster. 

" A friend to Israel." 

" Abidan, by his voice. Art thou alone 1" 

" The prophetess is with me ; only she." 

" A moment. I'll open the gate. Draw the boat 
within the arch." 

Jabaster descended from the gallery, and in a few 
moments returned with two visiters : the youthful 
prophetess Esther, and her companion, a man short 
in stature, but with a veiy powerful and well-knit 
frame. His countenance was very melancholy, and 
with much harshness in the lower part, not without 
a degree of pensive beauty in the broad clear brow, 
and sunken eyes, unusual in oriental visages. 



" A rough night," said Jabaster. 

" To those who fear it," replied Abidan. " The 
sun has brought so little joy to me, I care not for 
the storm." 

"What news 1" 

" Wo ! wo ! wo !" 

" Thy usual note, my sister. Will the day ne'er 
come when we may change itl" 

" Wo ! wo ! wo ! unutterable wo !" 

" Abidan, how fares iti" 

" Verj' well." 
■ " Indeed !" 

" As it may turn out." 

" You are brief." 

" Bitter." 

" Have you been to court, that you have learned 
to be so wary in your words, my friend 1" 

" I know not what may happen. In time we 
may become all courtiers, though I fear, Jabaster, 
we have done too much to be rewarded. I gave 
him my blood, and you something more, and now 
we are at Bagdad. 'Tis a fine city. I wish to 
heaven the shower of Sodom would rain upon its 
terraces." • 

" I know thou hast something terrible to tell. I 
know it by that gloomy brow of thine, that lowers 
like the tempest. Speak out, man. I can bear the 
worst, for which I am prepared." 

" Take it, then. Alroy has proclaimed himself 
caliph, Abner is made Sultan of Persia. Asriel, 
Ithamar, Medad, and the chief captains, viziers ; 
Honain, their chief. Four Moslemin nobles are 
sworn into the council. The princess goes to 
mosque in state next Friday; 'tis said thy pupil 
doth accompany her." 

"I'll not believe it! . By the God of Sinai, I'll 
not believe it ! Were my own eye the accursed 
witness of the deed, I'd not believe it. Go to 
mosque ! They play with thee, my good Abidan, 
they play with thee," 

" As it may be. 'Tis a rumour, but rumours 
herald deeds. The rest of my intelligence is true. 
I had it from my kinsman, stout Zalmunna. He 
left the banquet." 

" Shall I go to him ? Methinks one single word 
— to mosque ! only a rumour and a false one. I'll 
never believe it ; no, no, no, never, never ! Is he 
not the Lord's anointed ] The ineffable curse upon 
this daughter of the Moabite ! No marvel tliat it 
thunders ! By heavens, I'll go and beard him in 
his orgies!" 

" You know your power better than Abidan. 
You bearded him before his marriage, yet " 

" He married. 'Tis true. Honain, their chief. 
And I kept his ring ! Honain is my brother 
Have I ne'er a dagger to cut the bond of brother- 
hood V 

" We have all daggers, Jabaster, if we know but 
how to use them," 

" 'Tis strange — we met after twenty j'cars of 
severance. You were not in the chamber, Abidan. 
'Twas at council. We met after twenty years of 
severance. He is my brother. 'Tis strange, I say ; 
I felt that man shrink from my embrace." 

" Honain is a philosopher, and believes in sym- 
pathy. 'Twould appear there was none between 
you. His system, then, absolves you from all 
ties." 

" You are sure the rest of the intelligence ia 
true 1 I'll not believe the mosque — the rest is baj 
enough." 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



505 



" Zalmuniia left the banquet. Hassan Subah's i 
brother sat above him." 

■ " Subah's brother ! 'Tis all over, then. Is he 
of the council V 
" Ay, and others." 
" Where now is Israeli" 
" She should be in her tents." 
"Wo! wo! wo! unutterable wo!" exclaimed 
the prophetess, who, standing motionless in the 
back of the chamber, seemed inattentive to their 
conversation. * 

Jabaster paced the gallery with agitated steps. 
Suddenly he stopped, and, walking up. to Abidan, 
seized his arm, and looked him sternly in the face. 
" I know thy thought, Abidan," exclaimed the 
priest; "but it cannot be. I have dismissed, — 
henceforth and forever I have dismissed all feeling 
from my mind ; now I have no brother, no friend, 
no pupil, and, I fear, no saviour. Israel is all and 
all to me. I have no other life — 'tis not compunc- 
tion, then, that stays my arm. My heart's as hai-d 
as thine." 

" Why ftays it, then 1" 

" Because with him we fall. He is the last of all 
his sacred line. There is no other hand to grasp 
our sceptre." 

" Our sceptre ! — what sceptre ]" 
" The sceptre of our kings." 
« Kings !" 

'* Ay, why dost thou look so dark 1" 
" How looked the prophet when the stiifnecked 
populace forsooth must have a king 1 Did he smile ? 
Did he shout, and clap his hands, and cry, God 
save his majesty ! O, Jabaster ! honoured, rare 
Jabaster ! thou second Samuel of our light-headed 
people ! there was a time when Israel had no king 
except their God. Were we viler then ? Did kings 
conquer Canaan 1 Who was Moses, who was 
Aaron, who was mighty Joshua 1 Was the sword 
of Gideon a kingly sword 7 Did the locks of 
Samson shade royal temples ] Would a king 
have kept his awful covenant like solemn Jephtha 1 
Royal words are light as air, when, to maintain 
them, you injure any other than a subject ! 

" Kings ! why what's a king 1 Why should one 
man break the equal sanctity of our chosen race ] 
Is their blood purer than our own 1 We are all 
the seed of Abraham. Who was Saul, and who was 
David 1 I never heard they were a diti'erent bi'eed 
unto our fathers. Grant them devout, which they 
were not; and brave and wise, which other men 
were ; have their posterity a patent for all virtues 1 
No, Jabaster ! thou ne'er didst err, but when thou 
placed a crown upon this haughty stripling. What 
he did a thousand might have done. 'Twas thy 
mind inspired the deed. And now he is a king ; 
and now, Jabaster, the veiy soul of Israel, who 
should be our judge and leader — Jabaster trembles 
in disgrace, while our unhallowed sanhedrim is 
filled with Ammonites !" 

" 0, Abidan ! thou hast touched me to the quick : 
thou hast stirred up thoughts that ever and anon, 
like strong and fatal vapours, have risen from the 
dark abyss of thought, and I have quelled them." 

" Let them rise, I say — let them drown the beams 
of that all-scorching sun we suffer under, that drinks 
all vegetation up, and makes us languish with a 
dull exhaustion." 

" Joy ! joy ! unutterable joy !" 
" Hark ! the prophetess has changed her note ; 
and ««t she hears us not. The spirit of the Lord 
64 



is truly with her. Come, Jabaster, see thy heart 
is opening to thy people's sufferings : thy»people, 
my Jabaster, for art not thou our judge] at least, 
thou shalt be." 

" Can we call back the theocracy 1 — Is't possi- 
ble 1" 

" But say the word, and it is done, Jabaster. 
Nay, stare not. Dost thou think there are no true 
ears in Israel ! Dost thou suppose thy children 
have beheld, without a thought, the foul insults 
poured on thee — thee, their priest, their adored high 
priest, one who recalls the best days of the past — 
the days of their great judges. But one word, one 

single movement of that mitred head, and But 

I speak unto a mind that feels more than I can ex- 
press. Be silent, tongue, thou art a babbling 
counsellor. Jabaster's patriot soul needs not the 
idle schooling of a child. If he be silent, 'tis that 
his wisdom deems the hour's not ripe : but when 
her leader speaks, Israel will not be slack." 

"The Moslemin in council! We know what 
must come next. Our national existence is in its 
last agony. Methinks the time is very ripe, 
Abidan." 

" Why, so we think, great sir ; and say the word, 
and twenty thousand spears will guard the ark. 
I'll answer for my men. Stout Scherirah looks 
grimly on the Moabites. A word from thee, and 
the whole Syrian army will join our banner — the 
lion of Judah, that shall be our flag. The tyrant 
and his satraps, let them die, and then the rest must 
join us. We'll proclaim the covenant, and, leav- 
ing Babylon to a bloody fate, march on to Sion !" 

" Sion, his youthful dream, Sion !" 

" You muse 1" 

" King or no king, he is the Lord's anointed. 
Shall this hand, that poured the oil on his hallowed 
head, wash out the balmy signet with his blood 1 
Must I slay him 1 Shall this kid be seethed even 
in its mother's milk V 

" His voice is low, and yet his face is troubled. 
How now, sir V 

" What art thou ? Ah ! Abidan, trusty, stanch 
Abidan ! You see, Abidan, I was thinking, my 
good Abidan, all this may be the frenzy of a reveL 
To-morrow's dawn may summon cooler councils. 
The tattle of the table, it is sacred. Let us forget 
it; let us pass it over. The Lord may turn his 
heart. Who knows, who knows, Abidan V 

" Noble sir, a moment since your mind was like 
your f^ith, firm and resolved, and now " 

" School me not, school me not, good Abidan. 
There is that within my mind you cannot fathom ; 
some secret sorrows which arc all my own. Leave 
me, good friend, leave me a while. When Israel 
calls me I shall not be wanting. Be sure of that, 
Abidan, be sure of that. Nay, do not go ; the 
night is very rough, and the fair prophetess should 
r,ot stem again the swelling river. I'll to my closet, 
and will soon return." 

Jabaster quitted the gallery, and entered a small 
apartment. Several large volumes, unclasped and 
open, were lying on various parts of the divan. 
Before them stood his brazen cabalistic table. He 
closed the chamber with a cautious air. He ad- 
vanced into the centre of the apartment. He lifted 
up his hands to heaven, and clasped them with an 
expression almost of agony, 

" Is it come to this?" he muttered in a tone of 
deep oppression. " Is it come to this ] What is' 
I have heard 1 what done 1 Down, tempting devil 
3U 



506 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



dawn . O ! life, O ! glory, O ! my country, my 
chosen,people, and my sacreel creed ! — why do we 
live, why act, why have we feeling for aught that's 
famous, or for aught that's holy ! Let me die, let 
— let me die. The torture of existence is too 
great." 

He flung himself upon the couch, he buried his 
awful countenance in his robes. His mighty heart 
was convulsed with passion. There did he lie, 
that great and solemn man, prostrate and wo-be- 
gone. 



II. 



*' The noisy banquet lingers in my ear ; I love 
to be alone." 
" With meV 

" Thou art myself; I have no other life. 
" Sweet bird ! It is now a caliph." 
" I am what thou wiliest, soul of my sweet ex- 
istence ! Pomp and dominion, fame and victory, 
seem now but flawed and dimly-shaded gems com- 
pared with thy bright smile I" 

"My plaintive nightingale, shall we hunt to- 
day 1" 

" Alas ! my rose, I'd sooner lie upon this lazy 
couch, and gaze upon thy beauty !" 

" Or sail upon the cool and azure lake, in some 
bright hark, like to a sea-nymph's shell, and fol- 
lowed by the swans'!" 

" There is no lake so blue as thy deep eye ; there 
is no swan so white as thy round arm !" 

" Or shall we lance our falcons in the air, and 
bring the golden pheasant to our feetl" 

"I am the golden pheasant at thy feet, why 
wouldst thou richer prey ]" 

" Rememberest thou thy earliest visit to this dear 
kiosk, my gentle mute 1 There thou stoodest with 
folded arms, and looks demure as day, and ever and 
anoH, with those dark eyes, stealing a glance which 
made my cheek quite pale. Methinks I see thee 
even yet, shy bird. Dost know, I was so foolish 
when it quitted me, dost know I cried ]" 
" Ah, no ! thou didst not cry 1" 
" Indeed, I think I did." 

" Tell me again, my own Schirene, indeed didst 
cry]" 

" Indeed I did, my soul !" 

" I would those tears were in some crystal vase, 
I'd give a province for the costly urn." 

She threw her arms around iiis neck, and cover- 
ed his face with kisses. 

Sunset sounded from the minarets. They arose 
and wandered together in the surrounding paradise. 
The sky was tinted with a pale violet flush, a sin- 
gle star floating by the side of the white moon, 
that beamed with a dim lustre, soft and shapely as 
a pearl. 

" Beautiful !" exclaimed the pensive Schirene, 
a-s she gazed upon the star. " ! my Alroy, 
why cannot wc ever live alone, and ever in a para- 
dise ]" 

" I am wearied of empire," replied Alroy with a 
smile, " let us fly !" 

" Is there no island with all that can make life 
charming, and yet impervious to man 1 How littler 
do we require ! Ah ! if these gardens, instead of 
being surroinided by hateful Bagdad, were only en- 
compassed by some beautiful ocean !" 

" My heart, we live in a paradise, and are seldom 
disturbed, thanks to Honain !" 



" But the very consciousness that there are any 
other persons existing but ourselves is to mc pain- 
ful. Every one who even thinks of you seems to 
rob me ^f a part of your being. Besides, I am 
weary of pomp and palaces. I should like to live 
in a sparry grot, and sleep upon a couch of sweet 
leaves !" 

This interesting discussion was disturbed by a 
dwarf, who, in addition to being very small, and 
very ugly, was dumb. He bowed bclbre the 
princess, and then had recourse to a great deal of 
pantomimic action, by which she at length dis- 
covered that it was dinner time. No other person 
could have ventured to disturb the royal pair, but 
this little being was a privileged favourite. 

So Alroy and Schirene entered the serail. An 
immense cresset-lamp, fed with perfumed oil, threw 
a soft light round the sumptuous chaml)er. At the 
end stood a row of eunuchs in scarlet dresses, and 
each holding a tall silver staff. The caliph and 
the sultana threw themselves upon a couch covered 
with a hundred cushions ; on one side stood a 
group consisting of the captain of the guard and 
other officers of the household, on the other, of 
beautiful female slaves magnificently attired. 

The line of domestics at the end of the apart- 
ment opened, and a body of slaves advanced, car- 
rying trays of ivor}% and gold, and ebony, and 
silver, covered with the choicest dainties, most 
curiously prepared. These were in turn oflered to 
the caliph and the sultana by their surrounding at- 
tendants. The princess accepted a spoon made 
of a single pearl, the long, thin golden handle of 
which was studded with rubies, and condescended 
to partake of some salTron soup, of which she was 
very fond. Afterwards she regaled herself with 
the breast of a cygnet stuflTed with almonds, and 
stewed with violets and cream. Having now a 
little satisfied her appetite, and wishing to show a 
mark of her favour to a particular individual, she 
ordered the captain of the guard instantly to send 
him the whole of the next course* with her com- 
pliments. Her attention was then engaged with a 
dish of those delicate ortolans that feed upon the 
vine-leaves of Schiraz, and with which the gover- 
nor of Nishabur took especial care that she should 
be well provided. Tearing their delicate forms to 
pieces with her still more delicate fingers, she in- 
sisted upon feeding Alroy, who of course yielded 
to her solicitations. In the mean time they re- 
freshed themselves with their favourite sherbet of 
pomegranates, and the golden wine of mount Le- 
banon.-}- The caliph, who could eat no more orto- 
lans, although fed by such delicate fingers, was at 
length obliged to call for " rice," which was sy- 
nonymous to commanding the banquet to disap- 
pear. The attendants now brcjght to each, basins 
of gold, and ewers of rock crystal filled with rose- 
water, with towels of that rare Egyptian linen, 
which can only be made of the cotton that grows 
upon the banks of the Nile. While they amused 
themselves with eating sugarplums, and drinking 
coflee flavoured with cinnamon, the I'cmale slaves 



* These compliments from the tables of the great are not 
uncomiimu in llie East. Wlien at tlie liead-quariers of the 
gr.uul vizier at Vanina, liis liighness spin lo myself and my 
travc^tling companions, a course fi'om hij tabic, singers and 
(lancing airls. 

+ A most (ielicious wine, from its colour, brilliancy, and 

rare llavour, justly meriting this title, is made on Lebanon; 

but it will not. unforninately, liear exportation, and even 

materially sutlers in the voyage from the coast lo Alexaa 

I dria. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



507 



danced before them in the most graceful attitudes to 
the melody of invisible musicians. 

" My enchanting Schirene," said the caliph, " I 
have dined, thanks to your attention, very well. 
These slaves of yours dance admirably, and are 
exceedingly beautiful. Your music, too, is beyond 
all praise ; but, for my own part, I would sooner be 
quite alone, and listening to one of your songs." 

" I have written a new one to-day. You shall 
hear it." So saying, she clapped her little white 
hands, and the whole of the retinue immediately 
withdrew. 

III. 

"The stars are stealing forth, and so will I. 
Sorry sight! to view .Tabaster, with a stealthy step, 
skulk like a thing dishonoured ! O ! may the 
purpose consecrate the deed — the die is cast." 

So saying, the high priest, muffled up in his 
robe, emerged from his palace into the busy streets. 
It is at night that the vitality of oriental life is most 
impressive. The narrow winding streets, crowded 
with population breathing the now sufl'erable air, 
the illuminated coffee-houses, the groups of gay, 
yet sober revellers, the music and the dancing, and 
the animated recitals of the poet and the storier, all 
combine to invest the starry hours with a beguil- 
ing, and even fascinating, character of enjoyment 
and adventure. 

It was the Jiight after the visit of Abidan and the 
prophetess. Jabaster had agreed to meet Abidan 
in the square of the great mosque two hours after 
sunset, and thither he now repaired. 

" I am somewhat before my time," he said, as he 
entered the great square, over which the rising 
moon threw a full flood of light. A few dark sha- 
dows of human beings alone moved in the dis- 
tance. The world was in the streets and coffee- 
houses. " I am somewhat before my time," said 
Jabaster. " Conspirators are watchful. I am 
anxious for the meeting, and yet I dread it. Since 
he broke this business I have never slept. My 
mind is a chaos. I'll not think. If 'tis to be done, 
let it be done at once. I am more tempted to 
sheathe this dagger in Jabaster's breast than in 
Alroy's. If life or empire were the paltry stake, 
I'd end a life that now can bring no joy, and yield 
authority that hath rip charm ; but Israel, Israel, 
thou for whom I have endured so much — let me 
forget Jabaster had a mother. 

"But for this thought that links me with my 
God, and leads ray temper to a higher state, how 
vain and savl, how wearisome and void, were this 
said world they think of! But for this thought I 
could sit down and die. Yea ! my great heart could 
crack, worn out, worn out : my mighty passions, 
with their tierce but flickering flame, sink down 
and die, and the strong brain that e'er hath urged 
my course, and pricked me onward with perpetual 
thought, desert the rudder it so long hath held, like 
some baffled pilot in blank discomfiture, in the far 
centre of an unknown sea. 

" Study and toil, anxiety and sorrow, mighty 
action, perchance time and disappointment, which 
is worse than all, have done their work, and not in 
vain. I am no longer the same Jabaster that gazed 
upon the stars of Caucasus. Methinks even they 
look dimmer than of yore. The glory of my life 
is fading. My leaves are sear, tinged, but not 
tainted. I am still the same in one respect — I have 



not left my God, in deed or thought. Ah ! whc 
art thou V 

" A friend to Israel." 

" I am glad that Israel hath a friend. Noble 
Abidan, I have well considered all that hath passed 
between us. Sooth to say, you touched upon a 
string I've played before, but kept it for my loneli- 
ness ; a jarring tune, indeed a jarring tune, but so 
it is, and being so, let me at once unto your friends, 
Abidan." 

" Noble Jabaster, thou art what I deemed thee." 

" Abidan, they say the consciousness of doing 
justly is the best basis of a happy mind." 

" Even so." 

" And thou believest it 1" 

" Without doubt." 

" We are doing very justly 1" 

" 'Tis a weak word for such a holy purpose." 

" I am most wretched I" 

IV. 

The high priest and his companion entered the 
house of Abidan. Jabaster addressed the already 
assembled guests. 

" Brave Scherirah, it joys me to find thee here. 
In Israel's cause when was Scherirah wanting "? 
Stout Zalmunna, we have not seen enough of each 
other ; the blame is mine. Gentle prophetess, thy 
blessing ! 

" Good friends, why we meet here is known to 
all. Little did we dream of such a meeting when 
we crossed the Tigris. But that is nothing. We 
come to act and not to argue. Our great minds, 
they are resolved ; our solemn purpose requires no 
demonstration. If there be one among us who 
would have Israel a slave to Ishmael, who would 
lose all we have prayed for, all we have fought for, 
all which we have won, and all for which we are pre- 
pared to die — if there be one among us who would 
have the ark polluted, and Jehovah's altar stained 
with a Gentile sacrifice — if there be one among us 
who does not sigh for Sion, who would not yield 
his breath to build the temple and gain the heritage 
his fathers lost, why, let him go ! There is none 
such among us; then stay and free your country !" 

" We ai'e prepared, great Jabaster ; we are pre- 
pared, all, all !" 

" I know it ; you are like myself. Necessity 
hath taught decision. Now for our plans. Speak, 
Zalmunna." 

" Noble Jabaster, I see much difficulty. Alroy no 
longer quits his palace. Our entrance unwatched 
is, you well know, impossible. What say you, 
Scherirah 1" 

" I doubt not of my men, but war against Alroy 
is, to say naught of danger, a doubtful issue." 

" I am prepared to die, but not to fail," said Abi- 
dan. " We must be certain. Open war I fear. 
The mass of the army will side with their leaders, 
and they are with the tyrant. Let us do the deed, 
and they must join us." 

" Is it impossible to gain his presence to some sa- 
crifice in honour of some bygone victory — what 
think ye!" 

" I doubt much, Jabaster. At this moment he 
little wishes to sanction our national ceremonies 
with his royal person. The woman assuredly will 
stay him. And even if he come, success is difficult, 
and therefore doubtful." 

" Noble warriors, list to a woman's voice," ex- 
claimed the prophetess, coming forward. "'Tis 



508 



D'lSRAELPS NOVELS. 



weak, but with such instruments, even the as- 
pirations of a child, the Lord will commune with 
his chosen people: There is a secret way by which 
I can gain the gardens of the palace. To-morrow 
night, just as the moon is in her midnight bower, 
behold the accursed pile shall blaze. Let Abidan's 
troop be all prepared, and at the moment the flames 
first mount, march to the seraglio gate as if with 
aid. The alhighted guard will olTer no opposition. 
While the troops secure the portals, you your- 
selves, Zalmunna, Abidan,and .labaster, rush to the 
royal chamber and do the deed. In the mean time, 
let brave Scherirah, with his whole division, sur- 
round the palace, as if unconscious of the mighty 
work. Then como you forward, show, if it need, 
with tears, the fated body to the soldiery, and an- 
nounce the theocracy." 

" It is the Lord who speaks," said Abidan, who 
was doubtless prepared for the proposition ; " he has 
delivered them into our hands.'' 

" A bold plan," said Jaliaster, musing, " and yet 
I like it. "Tis quick, and that is something. I 
think 'tis sure." 

"It cannot fail," exclaimed Zalmunna, " for if 
the flame ascend not, still we are but where we 
Were." 

" I am for it," said Scherirah. 

" Well, then," said Jabaster, " so let it be. To- 
morrow's eve will see us here again, prepared. Good 
night." 

" Good night, holy priest. How seem the stars, 
Jabaster !" 

" Very troubled ; so have they been some days. 
What they portend I know not." 

" Health to Israel." 

"Let us hope so. Good night, sweet friends." 

" Good night, holy Jabaster. Thou art our 
comer-stone." 

" Israel hath no other hope but in Jabaster." 

" My lord," said Abidan, " remain, I pray, one 
moment." 

" What is't 1 I fain would go." 

" Alroy must die, my lord, but dost thou think a 
single death will seal the covenant ?" 

" The woman V 

" Ay ! the woman ! I was not thinking of the 
woman. Asriel, Ilhamar, Medad 1" 

" Valiant soldiers ! doubt not we shall find them 
useful instruments. I do not fear such loose com- 
panions. They follow their leaders, like other beings 
born to obey. Having no head themselves, they 
must follow us who have." 

" I think so too. There is no other man who 
might be dangerous ?" 

Zalmunna and Scherirah cast their eyes upon the 
ground. There was a dead silence, broken by the 
prophetess. 

" A judgment hath gone forth against Honain !" 

"Nay ! he is Lord Jabastcr's brother," said Abi- 
dan. " It is enough to save a more inveterate foe 
to Israel, if such there be." 

" I have no brother, sir. The man you speak of 
I will not slay, since there are others who may do 
that deed. And so again, good night." 



It was the dead of night, a single lamp burned in 
the chamber, which opened into an arched gallery, 
that descended by a flight of steps into the gardens 
of tlie serail. 



A female figure ascended the flight with slow 
and cautious steps. She paused on the gallery, 
she looked around, one foot was in the chamber. 
, She entered. She entered a chamber of small 
dimensions, but richly adorned. In the farthest 
corner was a couch of ivory, hung with a gaiizy 
curtain of silver tissue, which, without impeding 
respiration, protected the slumberer from the fell 
insects of an oriental night. Leaning against an 
ottoman was a large brazen shield of ancient 
fashion, and near it some helmets and curious 
weapons. 

"An irresistible impulse hath carried me into 
this chamber !'' exclaimed the prophetess. " The 
light haunted me like a spectre ; and wheresoe'er I 
moved, it seemed to summon me. 

" A couch and a slumbei'er !" 

She approached the object, she softly withdrew 
the curtain. Pale and panting she rushed back, 
yet with a light step. She beheld Alroy ! 

For a moment she leaned against the wall, over- 
powered by her emotions. Again shs advanced, and 
gazed on her unconscious victim. 

" Can the guilty sleep like the innocent ] Who 
would deem this gentle slumberer had betrayed the 
highest trust that ever heaven vouchsafed to favoured 
man ] He looks not like a tyrant and a traitor ; 
calm his brow, and mild his placid breath I His 
long dark hair, dark as the raven's wing, hath 
broken from its fillet, and courses, like a wild and 
stormy night, over his pale and moonlit brow. His 
cheek is delicate, and yet repose hath brought a 
flush ; and on his lip there seems some word of 
love, that will not quit it. It is the same Alroy 
that blessed our vision, when, like the fresh and 
glittering star of morn, he rose up in the desert, 
and, bringing joy to others, brought to me only — 

" O ! hush, my heart, and let thy secret lie hid in 
the charnel-house of crushed aflections. Hard is 
the lot of woman ; to love and to conceal is our 
sharp doom !- O, bitter life ! O, most unnatural lot ! 
Man made society, and made us slaves. And so we 
droop and die, or else take refuge in idle fantasies, 
to which we bring the fervour that is meant for 
nobler ends. 

" Beauteous hero ! whether I bear thee most ha- 
tred or most love, I cannot tell. Die you must; 
yet I feel I should die with thee. O ! that to-night 
could lead at the same time unto our marriage bed 
and funeral pyre. Must that white bosom bleed ? 
and must those delicate limbs be hacked and 
handled by these bloody butchers 1 Is that justice ? 
They lie, the traitors, when they call thee false to 
our God. Thou art thyself a god, and I could 
worship thee ! See those beauteous lips — they 
move. Hark to the music I" 

" Schirene, Schirene!" 

"There wanted but that word to summon back 
my senses. O ! fool, fool ! where is thy fancy 
wandering? I'll not wait for tardy justice. I'll do 
the deed myself. Shall I not kill my Sisera V She 
seized a dagger from the ottoman, a rare and high- 
ly-tempered blade. Up she raised it in the air, and 
dashed it to his heart, with superhuman force. It 
struck against the talisman which Jabaster had 
given Alroy, and which, from a lingering supersti- 
tion, he still wore ; it struck, and shivered into a 
thousand pieces. The caliph sprang from his 
couch, his eyes met the prophetess, standing over 
him in blank despair, with the hilt of the dagger in 
her hand. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY, 



509 



« What is all this 1 Schirene ! Who art thou 1 
Esther !" He jumped from the couch, called 
to Pharez, and seized her by both hands. " Speak I" 
he continued. "Art thou Esther? What dost 
thou here !" 

She broke into a wild laugh ; she wrestled with 
his grasp, and pulled him towards the gallery. He 
beheld the chief tower of the serail in flames. Join- 
ing her hands together, grasping them both in one 
of his, and dragging her towards the ottoman, he 
seized a helmet, and flung it upon the mighty 
shield. It sounded like a gong. Pharez started 
from his slumbers, and rushed into the chamber. 

" Pharez I Treason ! treason ! Send instant 
orders that the palace gates are open on no pretence 
whatever. Go, fly ! Sec the captain himself. 
Summon the household. Order all to arms. Speed 
for our lives !" 

The whole palace was now roused. Alroy de- 
livered Esther, exhausted and apparently senseless, 
to a guard of eunuchs. Slaves and attendants 
poured in from all directions. Soon arrived Schi- 
rene, with dishevelled hair and hurried robes, at- 
tended by a hundred maidens, each bearing a torch. 

" My soul, what ails thee ?" 
Nothing, sweetest ; all will soon be well," re- 
plied Alro)', picking up, and examining the frag- 
ments of the shivered dagger, which he had just 
discovered. 

" My life has been attempted ; the palace is in 
flames ; I suspect the city is in insurrection. Look 
to your mistress, maidens!" Schirene fell into 
their arms. "I'll soon be back." So saying, he 
rushed to the grand court. 

Several thousand persons, for the population of 
the serail and its liberties was very considerable, 
were assembled in the grand court ; eunuchs, wo- 
men, pages, slaves and servants, and a few soldiers. 
All m confusion and alarm, fire raging within, and 
mysterious and terrible outcries without. A cry of 
"the caliph! the caliph!" announced the arrival 
of Alroy, and produced a degree of comparative 
silence. 

" Where's the captain of the guard 1" he ex- 
claimed. "That's well. Open the gates to none. 
Who will leap the wall, and bear a message to 
Asriel ] You 1 That's well too. To-morrow you 
shall yourself command. Where's Mesrour 1 Take 
the eunuch guard and the company of gardeners,* 
and suppress the flames at all cost. Pull down the 
intervening buildings. Abidan's troop arrived with 
succour, eh 1 I doubt it not. I expected them. 
Open to none. They force an entrance — eh 1 I 
thought so. So that javeUn has killed a traitor. 
Feed me with arms. I'll keep the gate. Send 
again to Asriel. Where's Pharez 1" 

" By your side, my lord." 

" Run to the queen, my faithful Pharez, and tell 
her that -all's well. I wish it were ! Didst ever 
hear a din so awful 1 Methinks all the tambours 
and the cymbals of the city are in full chorus. Foul 
play, I guess. O ! for Asriel ! Has Pharez re- 
turned "?" 

" I am by your side, my lord." 

" How's the queen ■?" 

" She would gladly join your side." 

" No, no ! Keep the gates there. Who says 
they are making fires before theml 'Tis true. 



• These gardeners of the serail form a very efBcienl body 
of police. 



We must sally, if the worst come to the worst, and 
die at least like soldiers. O Asriel ! Asriel !" 

" May it please your highness, the troops are 
pouring in from all quarters." 

" 'Tis Asriel." 

" No ! your highness, 'tis not the guard. Me- 
thinks they are Scherirah's men." 

" Hum I What it all is, I know not ; but very 
foul play, I do not doubt. Where's Honain 1" 

" With the queen, sire." 

" 'Tis well. What is that shouf?" 

" Here's the messenger from Asriel. Make way ! 
way !" < 

" Well ! how is't, sir 1" 

" Please your highness, I could not reach the 
guard." 

" Could not reach the guard ! God of my fa- 
thers ! who should let thee V 

" Sire, I was taken prisoner." 

" Prisoner ! By the thunder of Sinai, are we at 
war ■? Who made thee prisoner 1" 

" Sire, they have proclaimed thy death." 

"Who!" 

" The council of the elders. So I heard. Abidan, 
Zalmunna — " 

" Rebels and dogs ! Who else V 

" The high priest !" 

" Hah ! Is it there 1 Pharez, fetch me some 
drink. Is it true Scherirah has joined them V 

" His force surrounds the serail. No aid can reach 
us without cutting through his ranks." 

" O ! that I were there with my good guard ! 
Are we to die here like rats, fairly murdered 1 
Cowardly knaves ! Hold out, hold out, my men ! 
'Tis sharp work, but some of us will smile at this 
hereafter. Who stands by Alroy to-night bravely 
and truly, shall have his heart's content to-morrow. 
Fear not, fear not : I was not born to die in a civic 
broil. I bear a charmed life. So to it." 

VI. 

" Go to the caliph, good Honain, I pray thee go. 
I can support myself, he needs thy counsel. Bid 
him not expose his precious life. The wicked 
men ! Asriel must soon be here. What sayestthou 1" 

" There is no fear. Their plans are ill-devised. 
I have long expected this stormy night, and feel 
even now more anxious than alarmed." 

" 'Tis I they aim at — it is I they hate. The 
high priest, too ! Ay, ay ! Thy proud brother, 
good Honain, I have ever felt he would not rest 
until he drove me from this throne, my right; or 
washed my hated name from out our annals in my 
life's blood. Wicked, wicked Jabaster ! He frowned 
upon me from the first, Honain. Is he indeed thy 
brother 1" 

" I care not to remember. He aims at some- 
thing further than thy life ; but time will teach us 
more than all our thoughts." 

II. 

The fortifications of the serail resisted all the ef- 
forts of the rebels. Scherirah remained in his 
quarters with his troops under arms, and recalled 
the small force that he had originally sent out as 
much to watch the course of events as to assist 
Abidan. Asriel and Ithamar poured down their 
columns in the rear of that chieftain, and by dawn 
a division of the guard had crossed the river, 
the care of which had been intrusted to Sch»« 
2u2 



510 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



rirah, and had thrown themselves into the palace. 
Alroy sallied forth at the head of these fresh troops. 
His presence decided a result which was perhaps 
never doubtful. The division of Abidan fought 
with the desperation tliat became their fortunes. 
The carnage was dreadful, but their discomfiture 
complete. They no longer acted in masses, orw"h 
any general system. They thought only of self- 
preservation, or of selling their lives at the dearest 
cost. Some dispersed, some escaped. Others in- 
trenched themselves in houses, others fortified the 
bazaar. All the horrors of war in the streets were 
now experienced. The houses were in flames, the 
thoroughfares flowed with blood. 

At the head of a band of fiiithful followers Abidan 
proved himself by his courage and resources worthy 
of success. At length, he was alone, or only sur- 
rounded by his enemies. With his back against a 
building in a narrow street, where the number of 
his opponents only embarrassed them, the three 
foremost of his foes fell before his irresistible cime- 
ter. The barricadoed door yielded to the pressure 
of the multitude. Abidan rushed up the narrow 
stairs, and gaining a landing-place, turned .suddenly 
round, and cleaved the skull of his nearest pursuer. 
He hurled the mighty body at his followers, and re- 
tarding their advance, himself dashed onward, and 
gained the terrace of the mansion. Three soldiers 
of the guard followed him as he bounded from ter- 
race to terrace. One armed with a dart, hurled the 
javelin at the chieftain. The weapon slightly 
wounded Abidan, who, drawing it from his arm, 
sent it back to the heart of its owner. The two 
other soldiers, armed only with swords, gained upon 
him. He arrived at the last terrace in the cluster 
of buildings. He stood at bay on the brink of the 
precipice. He regained his breath. They ap- 
proached him. He dodged them in their course. 
Suddenly, with admirable skill, he flung his cimeter 
edgewise at the legs of the f irthest foe, who stopped 
short, roaring with pain. The chieftain sprang at 
the foremost, and hurled him down into the street 
below, where he was dashed into atoms. A trap- 
door offered itself to the despairing eye of the rebel. 
He descended and found himself in a room filled 
with women. They screamed, he rushed through 
tliem, and descending a staircase, entered a cham- 
ber tenanted by a bed-ridden old man. The an- 
cient mvalid inquired the cause of the uproar, and 
died of fright before he could 'receive an answer, at 
the sight of the awful being before him, covered 
with streaming blood. Abidan secured the door, 
washed his blood-stained face, and disguising him- 
self in the dusty robes of the deceased Armenian, 
sallied forth to watch the fray. The obscure street 
was silent. The chieftain proceeded unmolested. 
At the corner he found a soldier holding a charger 
for his captain. Abidan, unarmed, seized a poniard 
from the soldier's belt, and stabbed him to the heart, 
and vaulting on the steed galloped towards the river. 
No boat was to be found ; he breasted the stream 
upon the stout courser. He reached the opposite 
bank. A company of camels were reposing by the 
Bide of a fountain. Alarm had dispersed their dri- 
vers. He mounted the fleetest in appearance ; he 
dashed to the nearest gate of the city. Tiie guard 
at the gate refused him a passage. He concealed 
his agitation. A marriage procession arrived re- 
turning from the country. He rushed into their 
centre, and overset the bride in her gilded wagon. 
In the midst of the confusion, the shrieks, the oaths, 



and the scuflfle, he forced his way through the gate, 
scoured over the country, and never stopped until 
he gained the desert. 



vni. 

Thf, uproar died away. The shouts of warriors, 
the shrieks of women, the wild clang of warfare, 
all were silent. The flames were extinguished, the 
carnage ceased. The insurrection was suppressed, 
and order restored. The city, all the houses of 
which were closed, was patroled by the conquer- 
ing troops, and by sunset the conqueror himself, in 
his hall of state, received the reports and the con- 
gratulations of his chieftains. The escape of Abi- 
dan seemed counterbalanced by the capture of 
Jabaster. After performing prodigies of valour, 
the high priest had been overpowered, and was 
now a prisoner in the serail. The conduct of 
Scherirah was not too curiously criticised ; a com- 
mission was appointed to inquire into the myste- 
rious affair, and Alroy retired to the bath* to refiresh 
himself after the fritigues of the first victory which 
he could not consider a triumph. 

As he reposed upon his couch, melancholy and 
exhausted, Schirene was announced. The princess 
threw herself upon his neck, and covered him with 
embraces. His heart yielded to her fondness, his 
spirit became fighter, his depression melted away. 

" My ruby !" said Schirene, and she spoke in a 
low smothered voice, her face hidden and nestled 
in his breast. " My ruby ! dost thou love me 1" 

He smiled in fondness as he pressed her to his 
heart. 

" My ruby, thy peari is so frightened, it dare not 
look upon thee. Wicked men! 'tis I they hate, 
'tis I they would destroy !" 

"There is no danger, sweet. 'Tis over now. 
Speak not — nay, do not think of it." 

" Ah ! wicked men ! There is no joy on earth 
while such things five. Slay Alroy, their mighty 
master, who, from vile slaves, hath made them 
princes ! Ungrateful churls ! I am so alarmed — 
I ne'er shall sleep again. What! slay my innocent 
bird, my pretty bird, my very heart ! I'll not 
believe it. It is I they hate. I am sure they'll 
kill me. You shall never leave me, no, no, no, 
no ! You shall not leave me, love ; never, never ! 
Didst hear a noise 1 Methinks they are ever 
here, ready to plunge their daggers in our hearts — 
our soft, soft hearts ! I think you love me, child : 
indeed, I think you do !" 

"Take courage, heart! There is no fear, my 
soul; I cannot love thee more, or else I would." 

" All joy is gone ! I ne'er shall sleep again. O 
my soul! art thou indeed alive 1 Do I indeed 
embrace my own Alroy, or is it all a wild and 
troubled dream, and are not my arms clasi<;ed round 
a shadowy ghost, myself a spectre in a sepulchre ! 
Wicked, wicked men ! Can it indeed be true 1 
What, slay Alroy ! my joy, my only life ! Ah ! 
wo is me ; our bright felicity hath fled forever !" 

" Not so, sweet child ; we are but as we were. 
A few quick hours, and all will be as bright, as if 
no storm had crossed our sunny days." 

"Hast seen Asriel? He says such fearftil 
things !" 



♦ The bath is a principal scone of oriental life. Here 
the Asiatics pass a great uurtion of iheir day. The tiali* 
consists of a long suite ot chambers of various tempera, 
lures, in which ihe various processes of Ibe elalxraie 
ceremony are performed. 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



511 



"How now?" 

" Ah me ! I am desolate, I have no friend." 
" Schirene !" 

" They'll have my blood ; I know they'll have 
my blood." 

■" Indeed, an idle fancy." 

" Idle ! ask Asriel, question Ithamar. Idle ! 'tis 
written in their tablets, their bloody scroll of rapine 
and of murder. Thy death led only to mine, and 
had they hoped my bird would but have yielded 
his gentle mate, they would have spared him. Ay ! 
ay ! 'lis I they hate, 'tis I they would destroy. This 
form, I fear it has lost its lustre, but still 'tis thine, 
and once tliou saidst thou lovedst it; this form was 
to have been hacked and mangled, this ivorj' bosom 
was to have been ripped up and tortured, and this 
warm blood, that flows alone for thee, that fell 
Jabaster was to pour its tide upon the altar of his 
ancient vengeance. He ever hated me !" 

" Jabaster ! Schirene ! Where are we, and 
what are wel Life, life, they lie, that call thee 
nature! Nature never sent these gusts of agony. 
O ! my hoart will break. I drove him from my 
thought, arii^ now she calls him up, and now must 
I remember he is my — prisoner ! God of heaven, 
God of my fathers, is it come to this 1 Why did 
he not escape 1 '';hy must Abidan, a common cut- 
throat, save his gt iceless life, and this great soul, 
this stern and mighty being — ah me! I have 
lived long enough. Would they had not failed, 
would—" 

" Stop, stop, Alroy ! I pray thee, love, be calm. 
I came to soothe thee, not to raise thy passions. I 
did not say Jabaster willed thy death, though As- 
riel says so ; 'tis I he wars against : and if indeed 
Jabaster be a man so near thy heart — if he indeed 
be one so necessary to thy prosperity, and cannot 
live in decent order with thy slave that's here, I 
know my duty, sir. I would not have thy fortunes 
marred to save my single heart, although I think 
'twill break. I'll go, I'll die, and deem the hardest 
accident of life but sheer prosperity if it profit 
tfaee." 

" 0, Schirene ! what wouldst thou ? This — this 
is torture." 

" To see thee safe and happy ; nothing more." 
" I am both if thou art." 
" Care not for me, I am nothing," 
" Thou art all — to me," 

" Calm thyself, my soul. It grieves me much 
that when I c^me to soothe I only galled thee 
All's well, all's well. Say that Jabaster lives. 
What then ] He lives, and may he prove more 
duteous than before : that's all." 

" He lives, he is my prisoner, he awaits his 
doom. It must be given." 
" Yes, yes !" 
" Shall we pardon ?" 

" My lord will do that which it pleases him." 
" Nay, nay, Schirene, I pray thee be more kind. 
I am most wretched. Speak, what wouldst thou 1" 
" If I must speak, I say at once — ^his life," 
" Ah me !" 

" If our past loves have any charm, \f the hope 
of future joy, not less supreme, be that which 
binds thee to this shadowy world, as it does me, 
and does alone, I say his life, his very carnal hfe. 
He stands between us and our loves, Alroy, and 
ever has. There is no happiness if Jabaster 
breathe ; nor can I be the same Schirene to thee as 



I have been, if this proud rebel live to spj' my con- 
duct." 

" Banish him, banish him !" 

" To herd with rebels. Is this thy pohcy ?" 

" O, Schirene ! I love not this man, although 
methinks I should ; yet didst thou know but all !" 

" I know too much, Alroy. From the first he 
has been to me a hateful thought. Come, come, 
sweet bird, a boon, a boon unto thy own Schirene, 
who was so frightened by these wicked men ! 1 
fear it has done more mischief than thou deemest. 
Ay ! robbed us of our hopes. It may be so. A 
boon, a boon ! it is not much I ask — a traitor's 
head. Come, give me thy signet ring. It will 
not ; nay, then, I'll take it. What, resist ! I know 
a kiss, thou hast often told me, sir, could vanquish 
all denial. There it is. Is't sweet 1 Shalt have 
another, and another too. I've got the ring ! Fare- 
well, my lovely bird, I'll soon return to pillow in 
thy nest." 

IX. 

" She has got the ring ! What's this ? what's 
thisl Schirene! art gone? Nay, surely not. 
She jests, Jabaster ! A traitor's head 1 What 
ho ! there, Pharez, Pharez !" 

" My lord." 

" Passed the queen that way 1" 

" She did, my lord." 

" In tears'!" 

" Nay, very joyful." 

" Call Honain — quick as my thought. Honain ! 
Honain ! He waits without. I have seen the best 
of life, that's very sure. My heart is cracking. 
She surely jests. Hah ! Honain. Pardon these 
distracted looks. Fly to the armoury ! fly ! fly !' 

" For what, my lordl" 

" Ay ! for what — for what ! My brain it wan- 
ders. Thy brother — thy great brother — the queen 
— the queen has stolen my signet ring, that is, I 
gave it her. Fly, fly ! or, in a word, Jabaster is no 
more. He is gone. Pharez, your arm — I swoon '"' 



X. 

" His highness is sorely indisposed to-day.' 

"They say he swooned this morn." 

" Ay, in the bath." 

" No, not in the bath. 'Twas when he heard 
Jabastpr's death." 

" How died he, sir 1" 

"Self-strangled. His mighty heart could not 
endure disgrace, and thus he ended all his glorious 
deeds." 

" A great man !" 

" We shall not soon see his match. The queen 
had gained his pardon, and herself flew to the 
armoury to bear the news — alas I too late." 

" These are strange times. Jabaster dead !" 

" A veiy great event." 

" Who will be high priest 1" 

" I doubt the appointment will be filled up." 

" Sup you with the Lord Ithamar to-night ]" 

" I do." 

" I also. We'll go together. The queen had 
gained his pardon. Hum ! 'tis strange." 

" Passing so. They say Abidan has escaped." 

" I hear it. Shall we meet Medad to-night ?" 

" 'Tis likely." 



512 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



PART X. 



" She comes not j'ct ! her cheerful form, not yet 
it sparkles in our mournful sky. She comes not 
yet! the shadowy stars seem sad and lustreless 
without their quren. She comes not yet!" 

" We are the watchers of the moon, and 
live in loneliness to herald light." 
" She comes not yet ! her sacred form, not yet it 
summons to our holy feast. She comes not yet ! 
our brethren far wait mute and motionless the 
saintly beam. She comes not yet !" 

" We are the watchers of the moon, and 
live in loneliness to herald light.'* 
" She comes, she comes ! her beauteous form 
sails with soft splendour in the glittering air. She 
comes, she comes ! The beacons fire, and tell the 
nation that the month begins ] She comes, she 
comes !" 

"We are the watchers of the moon,* to 
tell the nation that the month begins." 
Instantly the holy watchers fired the beacons on 
the mountain top, and anon a thousand flames 
blaze round the land. From Caucasus to Lebanon, 
on every peak a crown of light ! 

11. 

" SiiiE ! a Tatar has arrived from Hamadan, who 
will see none but thyself. I have told him your 
highness was engaged, and sent him to the Lord 
Honain ; but all denial is lost upon him. And, as 
I thought perhaps the Lady Miriam — " 

" From Hamadan 1 You did well, Pharez. Ad- 
mit him." 

The Tatar entered. 

" Well, sir, good news, I hope !' 

" Sire, pardon me, the worst. I come from the 
Lord Abner, with orders to see the caliph, and 
none else." 



* The Feast of the New Moon is one of the most impor- 
tant festivals of the Hebrews. " Our year," says the 
learned author of the ' Kites and Ceremonies,' " is divided 
into twelve lunar months, some of which consist of twenty- 
nine, others of thirty days, which difference is occasioned 
by the various appearance of the new moon, in point of 
time; for if it appeared on the 30th day, the -9th was the 
last day of the precedent month : but if it did not appear 
till the 31st, the 30th was the last day, and the 31st the first 
of the subsequent month ; and that was an intercalary 
moon, of all which take the following account. 

" Our nation heretofore, not only observing the rules of 
some fixed calculation, also celel)rated the Feast of the 
New Moon, according to the phasis, or first appearance of 
the moon, which was done in compliance with God's com- 
mand, as our received traditions inform us. 

" Hence it came to pass that the first appearance was not 
to be determined only by rules of art, but also by the testi- 
mony of such persons as deposed before the sanhedrim, or 
great senate, that they had seen the new moon. So a com- 
mittee of three were appointed from among the said san- 
hedrim to receive the deposition of the parties aforesaid, 
who, after having calculated what time the moon might 
possibly appear, despatched some persons into higli and 
mountainous places, to observe and give their evidence 
accordingly, concerning the first appearance of the mooji. 

"As soon as the new moon was either consecrated, or 
appointed to be observed, notice was given by the sanhe- 
drim to the rest of the nation, what day had been fixed for 
the new noon, or first day of the month, because that was 
to be the rule and measure according to which they were 
obliged to keep their feasts and fasts in every month respec- 
tively. 

"This notice was given to them In time of peace, by 
firuig of beacons, set up for that purpose, (which was look- 
ed upon as tlie readiest way of communication,) but in lime 
of war, when all places were full of enemies, who made 
use of beacons to amuse our nation with, it was thought fit 
to discontinue it." 



" Well, sir, you see the caliph. Your mission ? 
What of the viceroy 1" 

" Sire, he bid me tell thee, that the moment the 
beacon that announced the feast of the new moon 
was fired on Caucasus, the dreaded monarch of 
Karasme, the great Alp Arslan, entered thy king- 
dom, and now o'erruns all Persia." 

"Hah! and Abner?" 

" Is in the field and prays for aid." 

" He shall have it. This indeed is great news ! 
When left you Hamadan 1" 

" Night and day I have journeyed upon the 
swiftest dromedary. The third morn sees me at 
Bagdad." 

" You have done your duty. See this faithful 
courier be well tended, Pharez. Summon the Lord 
Honain." 

" Alp Arslan ! Hah ! a very famous warrior. 
The moment the beacon was fired. No sudden 
impulse then, but long matured. I like it not." 

" Sire," said Pharez, re-entering, " a Tatar has ar- 
rived from the frontiers of the province, who will 
see none but thyself. I have told him your high- 
ness is deeply busied, and as methinks he brings 
but the same news, I — " 

" 'Tis very likely ; yet never think, good Pharez. 
I'll see the man." 

The Tatar entered. 

" Well, sir, how now ! — from whom 1" 

" From Mozul. The governor bid me see the 
caliph atid none else, and tell your highness, that 
the moment the beacon that announced the feast of 
the new moon was fired on the mountains, the fell 
rebel Abidan raised the standard of Judah in the 
province, and proclaimed war against your ma 
jesty." 

" In any force ?" 

" The royal power keeps within their walls." 

" Sufficient answer. Part of the same movo 
ment. We shall have some trouble. Hast sum- 
moned Honain 1" 

" I have, sir." 

" Go, see this messenger be duly served, and, 

Pharez come hither; let none converse with 

them. You understand 1" 

" Your highness may assure yourself." 

" Abidan come to life I He shall net escape so 
well this time. I must see Scherirah. I much sus^ 
pect what's this 1 More news !" 

A third Tatar entered. 

" May it please your highness, tliis Tatar has ar- 
rived from the Syrian frontier." 

" Mischief in the wind, 1 doubt not. Speak out, 
knave." 

" Sire ! pardon me, I bear but sad intelli- 
gence." 

" Out with the worst !" 

" I come from the Lord Medad. 

" Well I has he rebelled 1 It seems a catching 
fever." 

" Ah ! no, dread sire. Lord Medad has no thought 
but for thy glory. Alas ! alas ! he has now to guard 
it 'gainst fearful odds. Lord Medad bid me see the 
caliph and none else, and tell your highness, that 
the moment the beacon that announced the feast 
of the new moon was fired on l/cbanon, the Sultan 
of Roum and the old Arabian caliph unfurled the 
standard of their prophet in great array, and are 
now marching towards Bagdad." 

" A clear conspiracy ! Has Honain arrived ! 
Suramon a council of the viziers instantly. The 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



513 



world is up against me. Well ! I'm sick of peace. 
They shall not find me napping !" 

III. 

" Yop see, my lords," said Alroy, ere the council 
broke up, "we must attack them singly. There 
can be no doubt of that. If they join, we must 
combat at great odds. 'Tis in detail that we must 
rout them. I will myself to Persia. Ithamar must 
throw himself between the sultan and Ahidan ; 
Medad fall back on Ithamar. Scherirah must guard 
the capital. Honain, you are regent. And so, fare- 
well. I shall set off to-night. Courage, brave 
companions. ' Tis a storm, but many a cedar sur- 
vives the thunderbolt." 

The council broke up. 

"My own Scherirah !" said the caliph, as they 
retired, " stay a while. I would speak with you 
alone. Honain," continued Alroy? following the 
grand vizier out of 'the chamber, and leaving Scheri- 
rah alone : " Honain, I have not interchanged a word 
with you in private. What think you of all this ?" 

" Sire, I am prepared for the worst, but hope for 
the best." 

"'Tis wise. If Abner could only keep that 
Karassiman in check ! I am about to speak with 
Scherirah alone. I do suspect him much." 

" I'll answer for his treason." 

" Hah ! I do suspect him. Therefore I give him 
no command. I would not have him too near his 
old companion, eh 1 We'll garrison the city with 
his rebels." 

" Sire, these are not moments to be nice. Sche- 
rirah is a valiant captain, a very valiant captain, 
but lend me thy signet ring, I pray thee, sire." 

Alroy turned pale. " No, sir, it has left me 
once, and never shall again. You have touched 
upon a string that makes me sad. There is a 
burden on my conscience — why, or what, I know 
not. I am innocent, you know I am innocent, 
Honain V 

" I'll answer for your highness. He who has 
enough of the milk of human kindness to spare a 
thing like Scherirah when he stands in his way, 
may well be credited for the nobler mercy "tliat 
spared his better." 

" Ah me ! there's madness In the thought. 
Why is he not here ! Had I but followed — tush ! 
tush ! Go see the queen and tell her all that has 
happened. I'll to Scherirah." 

The caliph returned. 

" Thy pardon, brave Scherirah ; in these mo- 
ments my friends will pardon courtesy." 

" Your highness is too considerate." 

" You see, Scherirah, how the wind blows, brave 
heart. There's much to do, no doubt. I am in sad 
want of some right trusty friend, on whose devoted 
bosom I can pillow all my necessities. I was think- 
ing of sending you against this Arslan, but perhaps 
'lis better that I should go myself. These are mo- 
ments one should not seem to shrink, and yet we 
know not how affairs may run — no, we know not. 
The capital, the surrounding province — one disas- 
ter, and these false Moslemin may rise against us. 
I should stay here, but if I leave Scherirah I leave 
myself I feel that deeply — 'tis a consolation. It 
may be that I must fall back upon the city. Be 
prepared, Scherirah. Let me fall back upon sup- 
porting friends. You have a great trust. O ! use 
it wisely ! worthily I am sure you must do." 
65 



" Your highness may rest I have no other thought 
h it for your weal and glory. Doubt not my devo- 
tion, sire. I am not one of those mealy-mouthed 
youths, fidl of their own deeds and lip-worship, 
sire, but I have a life devoted to your service, and 
'ready at all times to peril all things." 

" I know that, Scherirah, I know it, I feel it 
deeply. What think you of these movements !" 

" They are not ill combined, and yet I doubt 
not your majesty will prove your fortunes most tri- 
umphant." 

" Think you the soldiery are in good cue 1" 

" I'll answer for my own. They are rough fel- 
lows, like myself, a httle too blunt, perhaps, your 
highness. We are not holiday guards, but we 
know our duty, and we will do it." 

" That's well, that's all I want. I shall review 
the troops before I go. Let a donative be distri- 
buted among them ; and, by-the-by, I have always 
forgotten it, your legion should be called the legion 
of Syria. We owe our first province to their 
arms." 

" I shall convey to them your highness's wish. 
Were it possible, 'twould add to their devotion." 

" I do not wish it. They are my very children. 
Sup at the serail to-night, Scherirah. We shall be 
very private. Yet let us drink together ere we 
part. We are old friends, you know. Hast not 
forgotten our ruined city 1" 

IV. 

Alhot entered the apartment of Schirene. "My 
soul ! thou knowest all 1" 

She sprang forward and threw her arms around 
his neck. 

" Fear not, my life, we'll not disgrace our queen. 
'Twill be quick work. Two-thirds of them have 
been beaten before, and for the new champion, our 
laurels must not fade, and his blood shall nourish 
fresh ones." 

" Dearest, dearest Alroy, go not thyself, I pray 
thee. May not Asriel conquer 1" 

" I hope so in my company. For a time 

we part, a short one. 'Tis our first parting : may 
it be our last !" 

" ! no, no, no : O ! say not we must part." 

" The troops are under arms ; to-morrow's dawn 
will hear my trumpet." 

- "I will not quit thee, no! I will not quit thee. 
What business has Schirene without Alroy 1 Hast 
thou not often told me I am thy inspiration 1 In 
the hour of danger shall I be wanting 1 Never! I 
will not quit thee ; no, I will not quit thee." 

" Thou art ever present in my thoughts, my soul. 
In the battle I shall think of her for whom alone I 
conquer." 

"Nay, nay, I'll go, indeed I must, Alroy. I'll be 
no hinderance, trust me, sweet boy, I will not. I'll 
have no train, no, not a single maid. Credit me, I 
know how a true soldier's wife should bear herself. 
I'll watch thee sleeping, and I'll tend thee wounded, 
and when thou goest forth to combat, I'll gird thy 
sabre round thy martial side, and whisper triumph 
with victorious kisses." 

"My own Schirene, there's victory in thine eyes, 
We'll beat them, girl." 

" Abidan, doubly false Abidan ! would he were 
doubly hanged ! Ere she died the fatal prophetess 
foretold this time, and gloated on his future trea- 
chery." 



514 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



" Think not of him." 

"And the Karasmian — think you he is very 
strong 1" 

" Enough, love, for our glory. He is a potent 
warrior : I trust that Abner will not rob us of our 
intended victory." , 

" So you triumph, I care not by whose sword. 
Uost go indeed to-morrow 1" 

" At the break of dawn. I pray thee stay, my 
sweet !" 

"Never! I will not quit thee. I am quite pre- 
pared. At the break \)f dawn! 'Tis near on 
midnight now. I'll lay me down upon this couch 
a while, and travel in my litter. Art sure Alp 
Arslan is himself in the field." 

" Quite sure, my sweet." 

" Confusion on his crown ! We'll conquer. 
Goes Asriel with us f 

"Ay!" 

" That's well ; at break of dawn. I'm somewhat 
drowsy. Melhinks I'll sleep a while." 

" Do, my best heart ; I'll to my cabinet, and at 
break of dawn I'll wake thee witii a kiss." 



The caliph repaired to his cabinet, where his secre- 
taries were occupied in writing. As he paced the 
chamber, he dictated to them the necessary instruc- 
tions. 

" Who is the officer on guard 1" 

"Benaiah, sire." 

" I remember him. He saved me a broken skull 
upon the Tigris. This is for him. The queen 
accompanies us. She is his charge. These papers 
for the vizier. Let the troops be under arms by 
day break. This order of the day for the Lord As- 
riel. Send this instantly to Hamadan. Is the Tatar 
despatched to Medad ] 'Tis well. You have done 
your duty. Now to rest. Pharez !" 

" My lord !" 

" I shall not sleep to-night. Give me my drink. 
Go rest, good boy. I have no wants. Good night." 

"Good night, my gracious lord !" 

" Let me ponder ! I am alone. I am calm, and 
yet my spirit is not quick. I am not what I was. 
Four-and-twenty hours ago who would have 
dreamed of this 1 All at stake again ! Once more 
in the field, and struggling at once for empire and 
existence I I do lack the mighty spirit of my for- 
mer days. I am not what I was. I have little 
faith. All about me seems changed and dull and 
grown mechanical. Where are those flashing eyes 
and conquering visages that clustered round me on 
the battle eve, round me, the Lord's anointed ! I 
see none such. They arc changed, as I am. Why ! 
this Abidan was a host, and now he fights against 
me. She spoke of the prophetess ; I remember 
that woman was the stirring trumpet of our ranks, 
and now where is she 1 The victim of my justice ! 
And where is he, the mightier far, the friend, the 
counsellor, the constant guide, the master of my 
boyhood ; the firm, the fond, the faithful guardian 
of all my bright career, whose days and nights 
were one unbroken study to make me glorious ! 
Alas ! I feel more like a doomed and desperate 
renegade than a young hero on the eve of battle, 
flushed with the memory of unbroken triumphs ! 

" Hah ! what awful form art thou that rises from 
fae dusky earth before me 1 Thou shouldsl be one 
1 dare not name, yet will — the likeness of Jabaster, 



Away ! why frowncf l tnou upon me ? I did not 
slay thee. Do I liv ^ or dream, or what. I see 
him, ay ! I see thee, I fear thee not. I fear no- 
thing. I am Alroy. 

" Speak ! O ! speik! I do conjure thee, mighty 
spectre, speak. I3y all the memory of the past, 
although 'tis madness, I do conjure thee, let me 
hear again the accents of my boyhood." 
" Alroy, Alroy, Alroy .'" 

" I listen, as to the last trump." 

" Meet me on the plain of NehauendP 

" 'Tis gone ! As it spoke, it vanished. It was 
Jabaster ! God of my fathers, it was Jabaster ! 
Life is growing too wild. My courage is broken ! 
I could he down and die. It was Jabaster ! The 
voice sounds in my ear like distant thunder ! 
' Meet me on the plain of Nehauend.' I'll not fail 
thee, noble ghost, although I meet my doom. Ja- 
baster ! Have I seen Jabaster ! Indeed, indeed ! 
Methinks I'm mad. Hah ! what's that ]" 

An awful clap of thunder broke over the palace, 
followed by a strange clashing sound that seemed 
to come from one of the chambers. The walls of 
the serai 1 rocked. 

" An earthquake !" exclaimed Alroy. "Would 
the earth would open and swallow all. Hah ! 
Pharez, has it roused thee too ! Pharez ! Pharez ! 
we live in strange times." 

" Your highness is very pale." 

" And so art thou, lad ! Wouldst have me mer- 
ry 1 Pale ! we may well be pale, didst thou know 
all. Hah ! that awful sound again ! I cannot 
bear it, Pharez, I cannot bear it. I have borne 
many things, but this I cannot." 

" My lord, 'tis in the armoury." 

" Run, see. No, I'll not be alone, I'll not be 
alone. Where's Benaiah? Let him go. Stay 
with me, Pharez, stay with me. I pray thee stay, 
my child." 

Pharez led the caliph to a couch, on which Alroy 
lay pale and trembling. In a few minutes he en- 
quired whether Benaiah had returned. 

" Even now he comes, sire." 

" Well, how is it ?" 

" Sire ! a most awful incident. As the thunder 
broke over the palace, the sacred standard fell from 
its resting-place, and has shivered into a thousand 
pieces. Strange'to say, the sceptre of Solomon can 
neither be found nor traced." 

" Say nothing of the past as ye love me, lads. 
Let none enter the armoury. Leave me, Benaiah, 
leave me, Pharez." 

They retired. Alroy watched their departure 
with a glance of inexpressible anguish. The mo- 
ment that they had disappeared, he flew to the 
couch, and throwing himself upon his knees, and 
covering his face with his hands, burst into passion- 
ate tears, and exclaimed : — " O, my God, I have 
deserted thee, and now thou hast deserted mc !" 



VI. 



ExKArsTET) and desperate, .sleep crept over the 
senses of the caliph. He threw himself upon the 
divan, and was soon buried in profound repose. 
He might have slept an hour ; he awoke suddenly. 
From the cabinet in which he slept, you entered 
through a lofty and spacious arch, generally covered 
wjth drapery, which was now withdrawn, into an 
innnense hall. To the astonishment of Alroy, this 
presence-chamber apparently at tliis moment blazed 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



515 



with light. He rose sudtlenly from his couch, he 
advanced — he perceived, with feelings of curiosity 
and fear, that the liall was filled with beings, terrible 
indeed to behold, but to his sight more terrible than 
strange. In the colossal and mysterious forms that 
lined the walls of the mighty chamber, and each 
of which held in its extended arm a streaming torch, 
he recognised the awful Afrites. At the end of the 
hall, upon a sumptuous throne,.surrounded by priests 
and courtiers, there was seated a monarch, on whom 
Alroy had before gazed, Solomon the great ! Alroy 
beheld him in state and semblance, the same Solo- 
mon whose sceptre the prince of the captivity had 
seized in the royal tombs of Judah. 

The strange assembly seemed perfectly, uncon- 
scious of the presence of the child of earth, who, 
with a desperate courage, leaned against a column 
of the arch, and watched, with wonder, their mute 
and motionless society. Nothing was said, nothing 
done. No one moved, no one, even by gesture, 
seemed sensible of the presence of any other appa- 
rition save himself 

Suddenly there advanced from the bottom of the 
hall, near unto Alroy, a procession. Pages and 
dancing girls, with eyes of fire, and voluptHous 
gestures, warriors with mighty arms, and venerable 
forms, with ample robes and flowing beards. And 
as they passed, even with all the activity of their 
gestures, they made no sound ; neither did the mu- 
sicians, whereof there was a great band playing 
upon harps and psalteries, and timbrels and comets, 
break, in the slightest degree, the almighty silence. 

This great crowd poured on in beautiful order, 
the procession never terminating, yet passing thrice 
round the hall, bowing to him that was upon the 
throne, and ranging themselves in ranks before the 
Afrites. 

And there came in twelve forms, bearing a great 
seal. The stone green, and the engraven charac- 
ters of living flame, and the characters were those 
on the talisman of Jabaster, which Alroy still wore 
next to his heart. And the twelve forms placed 
the great seal before Solomon, and humbled them- 
selves, and the king bowed. At the same moment, 
Alroy was sensible of a pang next to his heart. He 
instantly put his hand to the suffering spot, and lo ! 
the talisman crumbled into dust. 

The procession ceased, a single form advanced. 
Recent experience alone prevented Alroy from sink- 
ing before the spectre of Jabaster. Such was the 
single form. It advanced, bearing the sceptre. It 
advanced, it knelt before the throne, it offered the 
sceptre to the crowned and solemn vision. And 
the form of Solomon extended its arm, and took 
the sceptre, and instantly the mighty assembly 
•vanished ! 

Alroy advanced immediately into the chamber, 
but all was dark and silent. A trumpet sounded. 
He recognised the note of his own soldiery. He 
groped his way to a curtain, and pulling it aside, 
beheld the first streak of dawn. 

VII. 

Jnce more upon his charger, once more sur- 
rounded by his legions, once more his senses dazzled 
and inflamed by the waving banners and the in- 
spiring trumpets, once more conscious of the power 
still at his command, and the mighty stake for which 
he was about to play, Alroy in a great degree re- 
covered his usual spirit and self-possession. His 



energy returned with his excited pulse, and the 
vastness of the impending danger seemed only to 
stimulate the fertility of his genius. 

He pushed on with forced marches towards 
Media, at the head of fifty thousand men. At the 
end of the second day's march, fresh couriers arrived 
from Abner, informing him that, unable to resist f Ue 
valiant and almost innumerable host of the King of 
Karasme he had entirely evacuated Persia, and had 
concentrated his forces in Louristan. Alroy, in 
consequence of this information, despatched orders 
to Scherirah, to join him with his division instantly, 
and leave the capital to its fate. 

They passed again the mountains of Kerrund, 
and joined Abner and the army of Media thirty 
thousand strong, on tlie river Abzah. Here Alroy 
rested one night, to refresh his men, and on the 
ensuing morn pushed on to the Persian frontier, 
unexpectedly attacked the advanced posts of 
Alp Arslan, and beat them back, with g^^eat loss, 
into the province. But the force of the King of 
Karasme was so considerable, that the caliph did 
not venture on a general engagement, and there- 
fore he fell back, and formed in battle array upon 
the neighbouring plain of Nehauend, the theatre of 
one of his earliest and most brilliant victories, 
where he awaited the hourly expected arrival of 
Scherirah. 

The King of Karasme, who was desirous of bring- 
ing alfairs to an issue, and felt confident in his su- 
perior force, instantly advanced. In twe or three 
days at farthest, it was evident that a battle must 
be fought that would decide the fate of the East. 

On the morn ensuing their arrival at Nehauend, 
while the caliph was out hunting, attended only by 
a few officers, he was suddenly attacked by an am- 
bushed band of Karasmians, Alroy and his com- 
panions defended themselves with such desperation 
that they at length succeeded in beating off their 
assailants, although triple their amount in number. 
The leader of the Karasmians, as he retreated, 
hurled a dart at the caliph, which must have been 
fatal, had not a young officer of the guard inter- 
posed his own breast, and received the deadly 
wound. The party, in confusion, returned with 
all speed to the camp, Alroy liimself bearing the 
expiring victim of desperate loyalty and military 
enthusiasm. 

The bleeding officer was borne to the royal pa- 
vilion, and placed upon the imperial couch. The 
most skilful leech was summoned ; but he examined 
the wound, and shook his head. The dying war- 
rior was himself sensible of his desperate condition. 
His agony could only be alleviated by withdrawing 
the javelin, which would occasion his immediate 
decease. He desired to be left alone with his 
sovereign. 

" Sire !" said the officer, " I must die ; and I 
die without a pang. To die in your service, I 
have ever considered the most glorious end. Des- 
tiny has awarded it to me ; and if I have not met 
my fate upon the field of battle, it is some conso- 
lation that my death has preserved the most valua- 
ble of lives. Sire ! I have a sister." 

" Waste not thy strength, dear friend, in naming 
her. Rest assured I shall ever deem thy relatives 
my own." 

." I doubt it not Would I had a thousand lives 
for such a master! I have a burden on my 
conscience, sire, nor can I die in peace unless I 
name it." 



516 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



" Speak, speak freely. If thou hast injured any 
one, and the power or wealth of Alroy can redeem 
thy oppressed spirit, he'll not spare — he'll not spare, 
be assured of that." 

" Noble, noble master, I must be brief; for 
although while this javelin rests within my body, I 
yet may live, the agony is great. Sire, the deed of 
which I speak doth concern thee." 

" Ay V 

" I was on guard the day Jabaster died." 

" Powers of heaven ! I am all ears. Speak on, 
speak on !" 

" He died self-strangled, so they say!", 

" So they ever told me." 

" Thou art innocent, thou art innocent, I thank 
my God, my king is innocent." 

'' Rest assured of that, as there is hope in Israel. 
I pray thee, tell me all." 

"The queen came with the signet ring. To 
such authority I yielded way. She entered, and 
after her, the Lord Honain. I heard high words, 
I heard Jabaster's voice. He struggled, yes ! he 
struggled ; but his mighty form, wounded and fet- 
tered, could not long resist. Foul play, foul play, 
sire ! What could I do against such adversaries I- 
They left the chamber with a stealthy step. Her 
eyes met mine. I never could forget that fell and 
glittering visage." 

" Thou ne'er hast spoken of this awful end V 

" To none but thee. And why I speak it now 
I cannot tell, save that it seems some inspiration 
urges me ; and methinks they, who did this, may 
do even feller works, if such there be." 

" Thou hast robbed me of all peace and hope of 
peace — and yet I thank thee. Now I know the 
worth of life. I have never loved to think of that 
sad day, and yet, though I ha'/e sometimes dreamed 
of villanous work, the worst were innocence to thy 
dread tale." 

" 'Tis told ; and now I pray thee secure thy se- 
cret, by drawing from my agonized frame this 
javelin." 

" Trusty heart, 'tis a sad office." 

"I shall die with joy if thou performest it!" 

" 'Tis done." 

" God save Alroy !' 

vm. 

While Alroy, plunged in thought, stood over 
the body of the officer, there arose a flourish of 
triumphant music, and a eunuch, entering the pa- 
vihon, announced the arrival of Schirene from 
Kerrund. Almost immediately afterwards the 
princess, descending from her litter, entered the 
tent ; Alroy tore off his robe, and threw it over the 
corpse. 

" My own," exclaimed the princess, as she ran 
up to the caliph, " I have heard all. Be not 
alarmed for me. I dare look upon a corpse. You 
know I am a soldier's bride. I am used to blood." 

" Alas ! alas!" 

" Why art thou so pale 1 Thou dost not kiss 
me ! Has this unhinged thee sol 'Tis a sad deed ; 
and yet to morrow's dawn may light up thousands 
to as grim a fate. Why ! thou tremblest! Alas ! 
kind soul ! The single death of this fond, faithful 
heart hath quite upset my love. Yet art thou 
used to battle. Why ! this is foolishness. Art not 
glad to see mel What, not one smile 1 And I 
have come to fight for thee ! I will be kissed !" 

She flung herself upon his neck. Alroy faintly 



returned her embrace, and bore her to a couch 
He clapped his hands, and two soldiers entered and 
bore away the corpse. 

" The pavilion, Schirene, is now fitter for thy 
presence. Rest thyself ; I shall soon return." Thus 
speaking, he quitted her. 

He quitted her, but her humbled look of sorrow- 
ful mortification pierced to his heart. He thought 
of all her love, and all her loveliness ; he called to 
mind all the marvellous story of their united fortunes. 
He felt that for her, and her alone, he cared to live ; 
that without her quick sympathy, even success 
seemed unendurable. His judgment fluctuated in 
an eddy of passion and reason. Passion conquered. 
He dismissed from his intelligence all cognizance 
of good and evil; he determined, under all circum- 
stances, to cling ever to her ; he tore from his mind 
all memory of the late disclosure. He returned to 
the pavilion with a countenance beaming with af- 
fection; he found her weeping, he folded her in 
his arms, he kissed her with a thousand kisses, 
and wliispered between each kiss his ardent love 

IX. 

'TwAS midnight. Schirene reposed in the arms 
of Alroy. The caliph, who was restless and anx- 
ious for the arrival of Scherirah, w^as scarcely slum- 
bering, when the sound of a voice perfectly aroused 
him. He looked around ; he beheld the spectre 
of Jabaster. His hair stood on end, his limbs 
seemed to loosen, a cold dew crept over his frame 
as he gazed upon the awful form within a yard of 
his couch. Unconsciously he disembarrassed hia 
arms of their fair burden, and rising on the couch, 
leaned forward. 

" Alroy, Alroy, Alroy .'" 

" I am here." 

" To-morrow Israel is avenged /" 

" Who is that V exclaimed,the princess, waken- 
ing. 

In a frenzy of fear, Alroy, quite forgetting the 
spectre, turned and pressed his hand to her sight 
When he again looked round, the apparition was 
invisible. 

" What wouldst thou, Alroy 1" 

" Nothing, sweet ! A soldier's wife must bear 
strange sights, y(St I would save you some. One 
of my men, forgetting you were here, burst into my 
tent in such a guise as scarce would suit a female 
eye. I must away, my child. I'll call thy slaves. 
One kiss ! Farewell ! but for a time." 

X 

" To-mohhow Israel will be avenged. What, in 
Karasmian blood 1 I have no faith. No matter. 
All is now beyond my influence. A rushing des- 
tiny carries me onward. I cannot stem the course, 
nor guide the vessel. How now ! Who is the 
officer on guard 1" 

" Benomi, sire, thy servant." 

" Send to the viceroy. Bid him meet me here. 
Who is this?" 

" A courier from the Lord Scherirah, sire, but 
just arrived. He passed last night the Kerrund 
mountains, sire, and will be with you by the break 
of day." 

" Good news, good news. Go fetch Abner. 
Haste ! He'll find me here anon, I'll visit the 
camp a while. Well, my brave fellows, you have 
hither come to conquer again with Alvoy. You 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



517 



ha e fought before, I warrant, on the plain of 
Nehauend. 'Tis a rich soil, and shall be richer 
with Karasmian gore." 

" God save your majesty ! Our lives are thine." 
" Please you, my little ruler," said a single sol- 
dier, addressing Alroy ; " pardon my bluntness, but 
I knew you before you were a caliph." 

" Stout heart, I like thy freedom. Pr'ythee say 
on." 

" I was saying, I hope you'll lead us in the charge 
to-morrow. Some say you will not." 
" They say falsely." 

" I thought so. I'll ever answer for my Uttle 
ruler — but then the queen ?" 

" Is a true soldier's wife, and lives in the camp." 
" That's brave ! There, I told you so, comrades ; 
you would not believe me, hut I knew our little 
ruler before you did. I lived near the gate at 
Hamadan, please your highness — old Shelomi's 
son." 

" Give me thy hand — a real friend. What is't 
ye eat here, boys ] Let me taste your mess. I' 
faith I would my cook could dress me such a pilau ! 
'Tis admirable !" 

The soldiers gathered round their chieftain with 
eyes beaming with adoration. 'Twas a fine picture 
— the hero in the centre, the various groups around, 
some conversing with him, some cooking, some 
making coffee, all offering him by word or deed 
some testimonial of their devotion, and blending 
with that devotion the most perfect frankness. 
" We shall beat them, lads !" 
" There is no fear with you, you always beat." 
" I do my best, and so do you. A good general 
without good troops, is little worth." 

" I' faith that's true. One must have good troops. 
What think you of Alp Arslani" 

" I think he may give us as much trouble as all 
our other enemies together, and that's not much." 
"Brave, brave! God save Alroy!" 
Benomi approached, and announced that the 
viceroy was in attendance. 

" I must quit you, my children," said Alroy. 
" We'll sup once more together when we have con- 
quered." 

" God save you, sire ; and we will confound your 
enemies." 

" Good night, my lads. Ere the dawn break we 
may have hot work." 

" We are ready, we are ready. God save Alroy !" 
"They are in good cue, and yet 'twas a different 
spirit that inspired our early days. That I strongly 
feel. These are men true to a leader, who has 
never failed them, and confident in a cause that 
leads to — plunder. They are but splendid mer- 
cenaries. No more. O ! where are now the fight- 
ing men of Judah ! Where are the men who, 
when they drew their cimeters, joined in a conquer- 
ing psalm of holy triumph ! Last eve of battle you 
would have thought the field a mighty synagogue. 
Priests and altars, flaming sacrifices, and smoking 
censers, groups of fiery zealots hanging with frenzy 
on prophetic lips, and sealing with their blood and 
hoUest vows, a solemn covenant to conquer Ca- 
naan All is changed, as I am. How now, Abner 1 
You are well muffled !" 

" Is it true Scherirah is at hand 1" 
" I doubt not all is right. Would that the dawn 
would break !" 

"The enemy is advancing. Some of their 
columns are in sight. My scouts have dodged 



j them. They intend doubtless to form upon tho 
I plain." 

" They are in sight, eh ! Then we will attack 
them at once, ere they are formed. Rare, rare ! 
We'll beat them yet. Courage, dear brother. 
Scherirah will be here at dawn in good time, very 
good time — very, very good time." 

" I like the thought." 

" The men are in good heart. At break of dawn 
charge with thirty thousand cavalry upon their 
forming ranks. I'll take the right, Asriel the left. 
It shall be a family alfair, dear Abner. How is 
Miriam?" 

. " I heard this mom, quite well. She sends you 
her love and prayers. The queen is here 1" 

" She came this eve. Quite well." 

" She must excuse all courtesy." 

" Say nothing. She is a soldier's wife. She loves 
thee well, dear Abner." 

" I know that ; I hope my sword may guard her 
children's throne ." 

" Well, give thy orders. Instant battle, ehl" 

" Indeed, I think so." 

" I'll send couriers to hurry Scherirah. All looks 
well. Reserve the guard." 

" Ay, ay ! Farewell, dear sire. When we meet 
again, I trust your enemies may be your slaves !' 

XL 

At the first streak of dawn the Hebrew cavalry, 
with the exception of the guard, charged the ad- 
vancing columns of the Karasmians with irresistible 
force, and cut them to pieces. Alp Arslan rallied 
his troops, and at length succeeded in forming his 
main body in good order. Alroy and Asriel led on 
their divisions, and the battle now became general. 
It raged for several hours, and was on both sides 
well maintained. The slaughter of the Karasmians 
was great, but their stern characters and superior 
numbers counterbalanced for a time all the impe- 
tuosity of the Hebrews, and all the energy of their 
leaders. This day Alroy threw into a shade all 
his fonner exploits. Twelve times he charged at 
the head of the sacred guard, and more than once 
penetrated to the pavilion of Alp Arslan. 

In vain he endeavoured singly, and hand to 
hand, to meet that famous chieftain. Both mo- 
narchs fought in their ranks, and yet fiite decided 
that their cimeters should never cross. Four hours 
before noon it was evident to Airoy, that unless 
Scherirah arrived, he could not prevail against the 
vast superiority of numbers. He was obliged early 
to call his reserve into the field, and although the 
number of the slain on the side of Arslan exceeded 
any in the former victories of the Hebrews, still the 
Karasmians maintained an immense front, which 
was constantly supplied by fresh troops. Confident 
m his numbers, and aware of the weakness of his 
antagonists, Arslan contented himself with acting 
on the defensive, and wearying his assailants by re- 
sisting their terrible and repeated charge. 

For a moment, Alroy at the head of the sacred 
guard had withdrawn from the combat. Abner and 
Asriel still maintained the fight, and the caliph was 
at the same time preparing for new efforts, and 
watching with anxiety the arrival of Scherirah. In 
the fifth hour, from an eminence he marked with 
exultation the advancing banners of his expected 
succours. Confident now that the day was won, he 
announced the exhilarating intelhgence to his sol- 
2X 



518 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



diers; and while they were excited by the animat- 
ing intelligence, led them once more to the charge. 
It was irresistible; Scherirah seemed to have arrived 
only for the pursuit, only in time to complete the 
victory. What then was the horror, the consterna- 
tion of Alroy, when Benaiah, dashing up to him, 
informed him that the long-expected succours con- 
sisted of the united forces of Scherirah and Abidan, 
and had attacked him in the rear. Human genius 
could afiord no resource. The exhausted Hebrews, 
whose energies had been racked to the utmost, 
were surrounded. The Karasmians made a general 
and simultaneous advance. In a few minutes the 
Hebrew army was disorganized. The stoutest war- 
riors threw away their swords in despair. Every 
one thought only of self-preservation. Even Abner 
fled towards Hamadan. Asriel was slain. Alroy, 
finding that it was all over, rushed to his pavilion 
at the head of about three hundred of the guards, 
seized the fainting Schirene, and threw her before 
him on his saddle, and cutting his way through all 
obstacles, dashed into the desert. 

For eight-and-foity hours they never stopped. 
Their band was soon reduced one-third. On the 
morning of the third day they dismounted and re- 
freshed themselves at a well. Half only regained 
their saddles. Schirene never spoke. On they 
rushed again, each hour losing some exhausted co- 
mate. At length, on the fifth day, about eighty 
strong, they arrived at a grove of palm trees. Here 
they dismounted. And Alroy took Schirene in his 
arms, and the shade seemed to revive her. She 
opened her eyes, and pressed his hand and smiled. 
He gathered her some dates, and she drank some 
water. 

" Our toils will soon be over, sweetest," he 
whispered to her; "I have lost every thing but 
thee." 

Again they mounted, and proceeded at a less 
rapid pace, they arrived towards evening at the 
ruined city, whither Alroy all this time had been 
directing his course. Dashing down the great street, 
they at length entered the old amphitheatre. They 
dismounted. Alroy made a couch with their united 
cloaks for Schirene. Some collected fuel, great 
stores of which was found, and lit large fires. 

Others, while it was yet light, chased the gazelles, 
and were sufficiently fortunate to provide their 
banquet, or fetched water from the well known to 
their leader. In an hour's time, clustering round 
their fires in groups, and sharing their rude fare, 
you might have deemed them, instead of the dis- 
comfited and luxurious guards of a mighty mo- 
narch, the accustomed tenants of this wild abode. 

" Come, my lads," said Alroy, as he rubbed his 
hands over the ascending flame, " at any rate this 
is better than the desert!" 



XII. 

After all his exertions, Alroy fell into a profound 
and dreamless sleep. When he awoke, the sun 
had been long up — Schirene was still slumbering. 
He kissed her, and she opened her eyes and 
smiled. 

" You are now a bandit's bride," he said, with a 
smile. " How like you our new life !" 

" Well ! with thee." 

" Rest here, my sweetest ; I must rouse our men, 
and see how fortune speeds." So saying, and 



tripping hghtly over many a sleeping form, he 
touched Benaiah. 

" So ! my brave captain of the guard, still nap- 
ping 1 Come ! stir, stir." 

Benaiah jumped up with a cheerful face. " I am 
ever ready, sire." 

" I know it ; but remember I am no more a king, 
only a comate. Away with me, and let us form 
some order." 

The companions quitted the amphitheatre, and 
reconnoitred the adjoining buildings. They found 
many stores, the remains of old days — mats, tents, 
and fuel, drinking bowls, and other homely furni- 
ture. They fixed upon a building for their stable, 
and others for the accommodation of their band. 
They summoned their companions to the open 
place, the scene of Hassan Subah's fate, where Al- 
roy addressed them, and developed to them his 
plans. They were divided into companies — each 
man had his allotted duty. Some were placed on 
guard at different parts ; some v^'ere sent out to the 
chase, or to collect dates from the oasis ; others le-d 
the horses to the contiguous pasture, or remained 
to complete their interior arrangements. The am- 
phitheatre was cleared out. A rude but convenient 
pavilion was formed for Schirene. They covered 
its ground with mats, and each emulated the other 
in his endeavours to study her accommodation. 
Her kind words and inspiring smiles animated at 
the same time their zeal and their invention. 

They soon became accustomed to their rough 
but adventurous life. Its novelty pleased them, 
and the perpetual excitement of urgent necessity 
left them no time to mourn over their terrible vicis- 
situdes. While Alroy lived, hope indeed never 
deserted their sanguine bosoms. And such was 
the influence of his genius, that the most despond- 
ing felt that to be discomfited with him was prefer- 
able to conquest with another. They were a faith- 
ful and devoted band, and merry faces were not 
wanting when at night thej' assembled in the am- 
phitheatre for their common meal. 

No sooner \\ad Alroy completed his arrange- 
ments, than he sent forth spies in all directions, to 
procure intelligence, and especially to communi- 
cate, if possible, with Ilhamar and Medad, provided 
they still survived and maintained themselves m 
any force. 

A fortnight passed away without the approach 
of any stranger ; at the end of which there arrived 
four personages at their haunt, not very welcome 
to their chief, who, however, concealed his chagrin 
at their appearance. These were Kisloch the 
Kourd, and Calidas the Indian, and their insepara- 
ble companions, the Guebre and the Negro, 

XIII. 

"Noble captain," said Kisloch, "we trust that 
you will permit us to cnlisf in the band. This is 
not the first time we have served under your orders 
in this spot. Old comates, i'faith, who have seen 
the best and the worst. We suspected where you 
might be found, although, thanks to the ever feli- 
citous invention of man, it is generally received 
that you died in battle. I hope your majesty is 
well," added Kisloch, bowing to Schirene. 

"You are very welcome, friends," replied Alroy 
— "I know your worth. You have seen, as you 
say, the best and the worst, and will, I trust, see 
better. Died in battle, eh ! that's good." 



'/HE WONDROUS TALE OF A L R O Y. 



519 



**'Tis so receireJ," said Calidas. 

'* And what nev/6 yi our friends'!" 

"Not over goo J, bul stranpie," 

"How «'• 

■* Ifamadan is taker." 

"I am prepared — tell me all." 

" Old Bostenay a.id the Lady Miriam are borne 
jjfisoners to Bagdad." 

" Prisoners I" 

" But so — all will be well with them, I trow. 
The Lord Honain is in high favour with the con- 
queror, and will doubtless protect them." 

" Honain in favour 1" 

"Even so. He made terms for the city, and 
right good ones." 

" Hah ! he was ever dexterous. Well ! if he 
save my sister, I care not for his favour." 

" There is no doubt. All may yet be well, sir." 

" Let us act and hope. Where's Abner ]" 

" Dead." 

"Howl" 

' In battle." 

"Art surel" 

" I saw him fall, and fought beside him." 

" A s-jldier's death is all our fortune now. I am 
glad he was not captured. Where's Medad, Itha- 
marl" 

"Flefl into Egypt." 

"We have no force whatever, then!" 

" None but your guards here." 

" They are strong enough to plunder a caravan, 
Honain, you say, in favour?" 

'* Very high. He'll make good terms for us." 

" This is strange news." 

" Very, but true." 

" Well ! you are welcome. Share our fare. 
*Tis rough, and somewhat scanty; but we have 
feasted, and may feast again. Fled into Egypt, 
eh?" 

"Ay! sir." 

" Schirene, shouldst like to see the Nile ?" 

"I have heard of crocodiles." 

XIV. 

If the presence of Kisloch and his companions 
were not very pleasing to Alroy, with the rest of 
the band they soon became great favourites. Their 
local knowledge, and their experience of desert 
life, made them valuable allies, and their boisterous 
jocularity, and unceasing merriment, were not un- 
welcome in the present monotonous existence of 
the fugitives. As for Alroy himself, he meditated 
an escape to Egypt. He determined to seize the 
first opportunity of procuring some camels, and 
then dispersing his band, with the exception of Be- 
naiah and a few faithful retainers, he trusted that, 
disguised as merchants, they might succeed in 
crossing Syria, and entering Africa by Palestine. 
With these plans and prospects, he became each 
day more cheerful, and more sanguine as to the 
future. He had in his possession some very va- 
luable jewels, which he anticipated parting willi at 
Cairo for a sum sufficient for all his purposes ; and 
having exhausted all the passions of life while yet 
a youth, he looked forward to the tranquil termina- 
tion of hi 5 existence in some poetic solitude with 
his beautiful companion. 

One evening, as they returned from the oasis, 
Alroy guiding the camel that bore Schirene, and 
ever and anon looking up in her iiispiring face, her 



sanguine spirit would have indulged in a delightful 
future. 

" Thus shall we pass the desert, sweet," said 
Schirene. " Can this be toil I" 

" There is no toil with love," replied Alroy. 

" And we were made for love, and not for em- 
pire," rejoined Schirene. 

" The past is a dream," said Alroy. " So sages 
teach us ; but until we act their wisdom is but 
wind. I feel it now. Have we ever lived in aught 
but deserts, and fed on aught but dates 1 Methinks 
'tis vei-y natural. But that I am tempted by the 
security of distant lands, I could remain here a free 
and happy outlaw. Time, custom, and necessity, 
form our natures. When I first met Scherirah in 
these ruins, I shrank with horror from degraded 
man ; and now I sigh to be his heir. We must 
not think !" 

" No, love, we'll only hope," replied Schirene — 
and they passed through the gates. 

The night was beautiful, the air was still 
warm and sweet. Schirene gazed upon the lu- 
minous heavens. " We thought not of these skies 
when we were at Bagdad," she exclaimed ; " and 
yet, my life, what was the brightness of our palaces 
compared to these 1 All is left to us that man 
should covet — freedom, beauty, and youth. I do 
believe, ere long, Alroy, we shall look back upon 
the wondrous past, as another and a lower world. 
Would this were Egypt ! 'Tis my only wish." 

" And it shall soon be gratified. All will soon be 
arranged. A few brief days, and then Schirene 
will mount her camel for a longer ride than just to 
gather dates. You'll make a sorry traveller, I 
fear !" 

" Not I— I'll tire ye all." 

They reached the circus and seated themselves 
round the blazing fire. Seldom had Alroy, since 
his fall, appeared more cheerful. Schirene sang 
an Arab air to the band, who joined in joyous 
chorus. It was late ere they sought repose ; and 
they retired to their rest sanguine and contented. 

A few hours after, at the break of dawn, Alroy 
was roused from his slumbers by a rude pressure 
on his breast. He started — a ferocious soldier was 
kneeling over him. He would have spurned him 
— he found his hands manacled. He would have 
risen — his feet were bound. He looked round for 
Schirene, and called her name — he was answered 
only by a shriek. The amphitheatre was filled 
with Karasmian troops. His own men were sur- 
prised and overpowered. Kisloch and the Guehre 
had been on guard. He was raised from the 
ground, and flung upon a camel, which was in- 
stantly trotted out of the circus. On every side he 
beheld a wild scene of disorder and dismay. He 
was speechless from passion and despair. The 
camel was dragged into the desert. A body of ca- 
valry instantly surrounded it, and they set ofl it a 
rapid pace. The whole seemed the work o. an 
instant. 

How many days had passed Alroy knew not. 
He had taken no count of time. Night and day 
were to him the same. He was in a stupor. But 
the sweetness of the air, and the greenness of the 
earth, at length partially roused his attention. He 
was just conscious that they had quitted the desert. 
Before him was a noble river — he beheld the Eu- 
phrates from the very spot he had first viewed it in 
his pilgrimage. The strong association of ideas 
called back his memory. A tear stole down his 



520 



D'ISRAELI S JJOVELS. 



cheek — the bitter drop stole to his parched lips — 
he askeu tne nearest horseman for wateV. The 
guard gave him a wetted sponge, with which with 
dithculty he contrived to wipe his lips, and then he 
let it fall to the ground. The Karasmian struck 
him. 

They arrived at the river. The prisoner was 
taken from the camel and placed in a covered boat. 
After some hours, they stopped and disembarked 
at a small village. Alroy was placed upon a donkey 
with his back to its head. His clothes were soiled 
and tattered. The children pelted him with mud. 
An old woman, with a I'anatic curse, placed a crown 
of paper on his brow. With difficulty his brutal 
guards prevented their victim from being torn to 
pieces. And in such fashion, tovs'ards noon of the 
fourteenth day, David Alroy again entered Bagdad. 

XV. 

The intelligence of the capture of Alroy spread 
through the agitated city. The moolahs bustled 
about as if they had received a fresh demonstration 
of the authenticity of the prophetic mission. All 
the dervishes began begging. The men discussed 
affairs in the coffee-houses, and the women chatted 
at the fountains.* 

" They may say what they like, but I wish him 
well," said a fair Arab, as she arranged her veil. 
" He may be an impostor, but he was a very hand- 
some one." 

" All the women are for him, that's the truth," 
responded a companion ; " but then we can do him 
no good." 

" We can tear their eyes out," said a third. 

" And what do you tliink of Alp Arslan, truly V 
inquired a fourth. 

" I wish he were a pitcher, and then I could 
break his neck," said a fifth. 

" Only think of the princess," said a sixth. 

" Well ! she has had a glorious time of it," said 
a seventh. 

" Nothing was too good for her," said an eighth. 

" I like true love," said a ninth. 

" Well ! I hope he will be too much for them 
all yet," said a tenth. 

" I should not wonder," said an eleventh. 

" He can't," said a twelfth, " he has lost his 
sceptre." 

'' You don't say so," said a thirteenth. 

•' It is too true," said a fourteenth. 

"Do you think he was a wizard 1" said a 
fifteenth, " I vow if there be not a fellow looking at 
us behind those trees." 

" Impudent scoundrel !" said a sixteenth. " I 
wish it were Alroy. Let us all scream, and put 
down our veils." 

And the group ran away. 

XVI. 

I'wo stout soldiers were playing chess-j- in a 
coffee-house 



* The balh and Ihe fountain are the favourite scenes of 
feminine conversation. 

tOu llie walls of the palace of Anienoph the Second, 
called MedeenelAbuh, at Kgyplian Thebes, the king is re- 
presented playing chess with the queen. This monarch 
feigned long Ijefore the Trojau war. 



" May I slay my mother," said one, " but I can 
not make a move. I fought under him at Nehau- 
end ; and though I took the amnesty, I have half a 
mind now to seize my sword and stab the first 
Turk that enters." 

" 'Twcre but sheer justice," said his companion 
" By my father's blessing, he was the man for a 
charge. They may say what they like, but com- 
pared with him. Alp Arslu.^'. is a white-livered 
Giaour." 

" Here is confusion to him and to thy last move. 
There's the dirhem, I can play no more. May I 
slay my mother, though, but I did not think he 
would have let himself be taken." 

" By the blessing of my father, nor I ; but then 
he was asleep." 

" That makes a difference. He was betrayed." 

" All brave men are. They say Kisloch and 
liis set pocket their fifty thousand by the job." 

" May each dirhem prove a plague spot !" 

" Amen ! Dost remember Abner ?" 

'' May I slay my mother if I ever forget him." 

" He spoke to his men like so many lambs. 
What's become of the Lady Miriam]" 

" She is here." 

" That will cut Alroy." 

" He was ever fond of her. Dost remember she 
gained Adoram's life'?" 

" O ! she could do any thing — next to the 
queen." 

" Before her, I say before her. He has refused 
the queen, he never refused the Lady Miriam." 

" Because she asked less." 

" Dost know it seemed to me that things never 
went on so well after .labasters death 1" 

"So say I. There was a something, ehl" 

" A sort of a peculiar, as it were, kind of some-- 
thing, eh 1" 

" You have well described it. Every man felt 
the same. I have often mentioned it to my comrades. 
Say what you like, said I, but slay my mother, if 
ever since the old gentlemen strangled himself 
things don't seem, as it were, in their natural pro- 
pinquity. 'Tvvas the phrase I used." 

" A very choice one. Unless there's a natural 
propinquity, the best arranged matters will fall out. 
However, the ass sees farther than his rider, and 
so it was with Alroy, the best commander I ever 
served under, all the same." 

" Let's go forth and see how affairs run." 

" Ay, do. If we hear any one abuse Alroy, 
we'll cleave his skull." 

" That will we. There are a good many of our 
stout fellows about ; we might do something yet." 

"Who knows 1" 



XVIL 

A subtetihanf.a'v dungeon of the citadel of Bag- 
dad held in its gloomy limits the late lord of Asia. 
The captive did not sigh, or weep, or wail. He 
did not speak. He did not even think. For 
several days he remained in a state of stupor. On 
the morning of the fourth day, he almost uncon- 
sciously partook of the wretched provision which 
his jailers brought him. Their torches, round 
which the bats whirled and flapped their wings, 
and twinkled their small eyes, threw a ghastly glare 
over the nearer walls of the dungeon, the extremity 
of which defied the vision of '.he piisoner; and 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



521 



tvhen the jailers retired, Alroy was in complete 
darkness. 

The image of the past came back to him. He 
tried in vain to penetrate the surrounding gloom. 
His hands were manacled, his legs also were loaded 
with chains. The notion that his life might per- 
haps have been cruelly spared in order that it 
might linger on in this horrible state of conscious 
annihilation, filled him with frenzy. He would 
have dashed his fetters against his brow, but the 
chain restrained him. He flung himself upon the 
damp and rigid ground. His fall disturbed a 
thousand obscene things. He heard the quick 
glide of a serpent, the creeping retreat of the clus- 
tering scorpions, and the swift escape of the dash- 
ing rats. His mighty calamities seemed sliglit, 
when compared with these petty miseries. His 
great soul could not support him under these 
noisome and degrading incidents. He sprang, in 
disgust, upon his feet, and stood fearful of moving 
lest every step should introduce him to some new 
abomination. At length, exhausted nature was 
unable any longer to sustain him. He groped his 
way to the rude seat, cut in the rocky wall, which 
was his only accommodation. He put forth his 
hand. It touched the slimy fur of some wild 
animal, that instantly sprang away, its fiery eyes 
sparkling in the dark. Alroy recoiled with a sen- 
sation of wo-begone dismay. His shaken nerves 
could not sustain him under this base danger, and 
these foul and novel trials. He could not refrain 
from an exclamation of despair ; and when he re- 
membered that he was far beyond the reach of all 
human solace and sympathy, even all human aid, 
for a moment his mind seemed to desert him ; and 
he wrung his hands in forlorn and almost idiotic 
wo. 

An awful thing it is — the failing energies of a 
master-mind. He who placed implicit confidence 
in his genius, will find himself some day utterly 
defeated and deserted, 'Tis bitter! Every paltry 
hind seems but to breathe to mock you. Slow, 
indeed, is such a mind to credit that the never- 
failing resource can at last be wanting. But so it 
is. Like a dried-up fountain, the perennial flow 
and bright fertility have ceased, and ceased for- 
ever. Then comes the madness of retrospection. 

Draw a curtain ! draw a curtain ! and fling it 
.)ver this agonizing anatomy — I can no more. 

The days of childhood, his sweet sister's voice 
and smiling love, their innocent pastimes, and the 
kind solicitude of faithful servants, all the soft de- 
lail of mild domestic life, — these were the sights 
and memories that flitted in wild play before the 
burning vision of Alroy, and rose upon his tortured 
mind. Empire and glory, his sacred nation, his 
iimperial bride, — these, these were nothing. Their 
worth had vanished with the creative soul that 
called them into action. The pure sympathies of 
nature alone remained, and all his thought and 
grief, all his intelligence, all his emotion, were 
eentred in his sister. 

It was the seventh morning. A guard entered 
at an accustomed hour, and, sticking a torch 
into a niche in the wall, announced that a person 
was without who had permission to speak to the 
prisoner. They were the first human accents that 
had met the ear of Alroy during his captivity, 
which seemed to him an age, a long dark period, 
that cancelled all things. He shuddered at the 
narsh tones. He tried to answer, but his un- 
66 



accustomed lips refused their office. He raised his 
heavy arras, and endeavoured to signify his con- 
sciousness of what had been uttered. Yet, indeed, 
he had not listened to the message without emotion. 
He looked forward to the grate with strange 
curiosity ; and as he looked, he trembled. The 
visiter entered, muffled in a dark caftan. The 
guard disappeared ; and the caftan falling to the 
ground, revealed Honain. 

"My beloved Alroy," said the brother of Jabas- 
ter ; and he advanced, and pressed him to his 
bosom. Had it been Miriam, Alroy might have 
at once expired ; but the presence of this worldly 
man called back his worldliness. The revulsion of 
his feelings was wonderful. Pride, perhaps even 
hope, came to his aid ; all the associations seemed 
to counsel exertion ; for a moment he seemed the 
same Alroy. 

" I rejoice to find at least thee safe, Honain." 

" I also, if iny security may lead to thine." 

" Still whispering hope !" 

" Despair is the conclusion of fools." 

" O, Honain ! 'tis a great trial. I can play my 
part, and yet methinks 'twere better we had not 
again met. How is Schirene ?" 

" Thinking of thee." 

" 'Tis something that she can think. My mind 
has gone. Where's Miriam 1" 

" Free." 

"That's something. Thou hast done that. 
Good, good Honain, be kind to that sweet child, 
if only for my sake. Thou art all she has left." 

" She hath thee." 

" Her desolation." 

" Live, and be her refuge." 

" How's that 1 These walls — escape ? No, no ; 
it is impossible." 

" I do not deem it so." 

"Indeed! I'll do any thing. Speak! speak! 
Can we bribe ] can we cleave their skulls ] can 
we—" 

" Calm thyself, my friend. There is no need of 
bribes, no need of bloodshed. We must make 
terms." 

" Terms ! We might have made those upon 
the plains of Nehauend. Terms ! Terms with a 
captive victim ?" 

" Why victim?" 

" Is Arslan then so generous ?" 

" He is a beast, more savage than the boar that 
grinds its tusks within his country's forests." 

" Why speakest thou then of hope !" 

" I spoke of certainty. I did not mention hope." 

" Dear Honain, my brain is weak ; but I can 
bear strange things, or else I'd not be here. I feel 
thy thoughtful friendship ; but indeed there needs 
no winding words to tell my fate. Pr'ythee, speak 
out." 

" In a word, thy life is safe." 

" What, spared !" 

" If it please thee." 

" Please me ! Life is sweet. I feel its sweet- 
ness. I want but little. Freedom and solitude are 
all I ask. My life spared ! I'll not believe it. 
Thou hast done this deed, thou mighty man, that 
masterest all souls. Thou hast not forgotten me, 
thou hast not forgotten the days gone by, thou hast 
not forgotten thine own Alroy ! Who calls thee 
worldly is a slanderer. O, Honain ! thou art too 
faithful !" 

" I have no thought but for thy service, prince." 
2x2 



522 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Call me not prince, call me thine own Alroy. 
My life spared ! 'Tis v^'onderful ! When may I 
go 1 Let no one see me. Manage that, Honain. 
Thou canst manage all tilings. I'm for Egypt. 
Thou hast hcen to Egypt, hast thou not, Honain T' 

" A very wondrous land, 'twill please thee much." 

"When may I go 1 Tell me when may I go. 
When may I quit this dark and noisome cell 1 
'Tis worse than all their tortures, dear Honain. 
Air and light, and I really think my spirit never 
would break, but this horrible dungeon — I scarce 
can look upon thy face, sweet friend. 'Tis serious." 

" Wouldst thou have me gay V 

*' Yes ! if we arc free." 

" Alroy, thou art a great spirit, the gi-eatest that 
e'er I knew, or ever I have read of. I never knew 
thy like, and never shall." 

" Tush, tush, sweet friend, I am a broken reed, 
but still I am free. This is no time for courtly 
phrases. Let's go, and go at once." 

"A moment, dear Alroy. I am no flatterer. 
What I said came from my heart, and doth concern 
us much and instantly. I was saying thou hast 
no common mind, Alroy — indeed thou hast a mind 
unlike ail others. Listen, my prince. Thou hast 
read mankind deeply and truly. Few have seen 
more than thyself, and none have so rare a spring 
of that intuitive knovvdedge of thy race, which is a 
gem to which experience is but a jeweller, and 
without which no action can befriend us." 

'•Well, well!" 

" A moment's calmness. Thou hast entered 
Bagdad in triumph, and thou hast entered the 
same city with every contumely the base spirit of 
our race could cast upon its victim. 'Twas a great 
lesson." 

" I feel it so." 

"And teaches us how vile and valueless is the 
opinion of our fellow-men." 

" Alas ! 'tis true." 

" I am glad to see thee in this wholesome temper. 
'Tis full of wisdom." 

" The miserable are often wise." 

" But to believe is nothing unless we act. Spe- 
culation should only sharpen practice. The time 
has come to prove thy lusty faith in this philosophy. 
I told thee we could make terms. I have made 
them. To-morrow it was doomed Alroy should 
die, and what a death ! A death of infinite tor- 
ture ! Hast ever seen a man impaled ?''* 
• "Hah!" 

" To view it is alone a doom." 

"God of heaven !" 

" It is so horrible, that 'tis ever marked, that 
when this direful ceiemony occurs, the average 
deaths in cities greatly increase. 'Tis from the 
turning of the blood in the spectators, who yet 
from some ungovernable madness can ne'er refrain 
from hurrying to the scene. I speak with some 
authority — I speak as a physician." 

" Speak no more. I cannot endure it." 

" To-morrow this doom awaited thee. As for 
Schirene — " 

" Not fo! her, O ! surely not for her !" 

" No, they were merciful. She is a caliph's 



* A friend of mine witnessed lliis horrible punislinient 
111 Unjipr Kt;ypl. The victim was :i man who had secretly 
iiiiirJcrpd lime persons. He held an ofTu-ial post, and 
iivitiHl iravfUers and pilsriins to liis luuisp, whom he 
remdarly disposed of and pluiiderod. I regret that I have 
mislaid his MS. account of the ceremony. 



daughter. 'I'is not forgotten. The axe would 
close her life. Her fair neck would give slight 
trouble to the headsman's art. But for thy sister, 
but for Miriam — she is a witch, a Jewish witch I 
They would have burnt her aUve." 

" I'll not believe it, no, no, I'll not believe it : 
damnable, bloody demons ! When I had power I 
spared all — all but — ah me! ah me! why did I 
live !" 

" Thou dost forget thyself; I speak of that 
which was to have been, not of that which is to 
be. I have stepped in and communed with the 
conqueror. I have made terms." 

" What are they — what can they be V 

"Easy. To a philosopher like Alroy an idle 
ceremon)'." 

"Be brief, be brief." 

" Thou seest thy career is a great scandal to the 
Moslemin. I marked their weakness, and I have 
worked upon it. Thy mere defeat or death will 
not blot out the stain upon their standard and their 
faith. The public mind is wild with fantasies 
since Alroy rose. Men's opinions flit to and fro 
with that fearful change that bodes no stable settle- 
ment of states. None know what to cling to, oi 
where to place their trust. Creeds are doubted — 
authority disputed, yhcy would gladly account 
for thy success by other than human means, yet 
must deny thy mission. There also is the fame 
of a fair and mighty princess, a daughter of their 
caliphs, which they would gladly clear. I mark 
ail this, observe, and work upon it. So, could we 
devise some means by which thy lingering fol- 
lowers could be forever silenced, this great scandal 
fairly erased, and the public frame brought to a 
sounder and more tranquil pulse, why, they would 
concede much, much, very much." 

" Thy meaning, not thy means, are evident." 

" They are in thy power." 

" In mine ? 'Tis a deep riddle. Pr'ythee solve 
it." 

" Thou wilt be summoned at to-morrow's noon 
before this Arslan. There, in the presence of the 
assembled people, who are now with him as much 
as they were with thee, thou wilt be accused of 
magic, and of intercourse with the infernal powers. 
Plead guilty." 

" Well ! is there more 1" 

" Some trifle. They will then examine thee 
about the princess. It is not difficult to confess 
that Alroy won the caliph's daughter by an irre- 
sistible spell — and now 'tis broken." 

" So, so. Is that all ?" 

" The chief. Thou canst then address some 
phrases to the Hebrew prisoners, denying thy divine 
mission, and so forth — to settle the public mind, 
observe, upon this point forever." 

" Ay, ay, and then !" 

■ " No more, except for form, (upon the comple- 
tion of the conditions, mind, you will be conveyed 
to what land you please, with such amount of 
treasure as you. choose,) there is no more, except, 
I say, for form, I would, if I were you, ('twill be 
expected,) I would just publicly affect to renounce 
our faith, and bow before their prophet." 

"Hah ! Art thou there] Is this thy freedom"? 
Get thee behind me, tem))tcr ! 

" Never, never, never ! not a jot, not a jot : I'll 
not yield a jot. Were my doom one everlasting 
torture, I'd spurn thy terms ! Is this thy high 
contempt of our poor kind — to outrage my God ! 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



523 



to prove myself the vilest of the vile, and baser 
than the basest ! Rare philosophy ! 0, Honain ! 
would we had never met !" 

" Or never parted. True. Had my word been 
taken, Alroy would ne'er have been betrayed." 

" No more, no more ; I pray thee, sir, no more. 
Leave me." 

" Were this a palace, I would. Harsh words 
are softened by a friendly ear, when spoken in af- 
fliction." 

" Say what they will, I am the Lord's anointed. 
As such I should have lived, as such at least I'll 
die." 

" And Miriam 1" 

" The Lord will not desert her : she ne'er de- 
serted him." 

" Schirenel" 

" Schirene ! why ! for her sake alone I'll die a 
hero ! Shall it be said she loved a craven slave, a 
base impostor, a vile renegade, a villanous dealer in 
drugs and charms 1 O ! no, no, no ! if only for 
her sake, her sweet, sweet sake, my end shall be 
like my great life. As the sun I rose, like him I 
set. Still the world is warm with my bright f\ime, 
and my last hour shall not disgrace my noon, stormy 
indeed but glorious !" 

Honain took the torch from the niche, and ad- 
vanced to the grate. It was not fastened : he drew 
it gently open, and led forward a veiled and female 
figure. The veiled and female figure threw herrelf 
at the feet of Alroy, who seemed lost to what was 
passing. A soft lip pressed his hand. He started, 
his chains clanked. 

" Alroy !" softly murmured the kneeling female. 

"What voice is thaf?" wildly exclaimed the 
prince of the captivity. " It falls upon my ear like 
long forgotten music. I'll not believe it. No ! 
I'll not believe it. Art thou Schirene ?" 

" I am that wretched thing they called thy bride." 

" ! this indeed is torture ! What impalement 
can equal this sharp moment 1 Look not on me, 
let not our eyes meet ! They have met before, 
like to the confluence of two shining rivers blend- 
iuj; in one great stream of rushing light. Bear off 
mat torch, sir. Let impenetrable darkness cover 
our darker fortunes." 

" Alroy !" 

" She speaks again. Is she mad, as I am, that 
thus she plays with agony 1" 

" Sire," said Honain, advancing, and laying his 
hand gently on the arm of the captive, "I pray 
thee moderate this passion. Thou hast some faith- 
ful friends here, who would fain commune in calm- 
ness for thy lasting welfare." 

" Welfare ! He mocks mc." 

" I beseech thee, sire, be calm. If, indeed, I 
speak unto that great Alroy that all men feared, 
and still may fear, I pray remember, 'tis not in 
palaces, or in the battle field alone, the heroic soul 
tan conquer and command. Scenes like these are 
the great proof of a superior soul. While we live, 
our body is a temple where our genius pours forth 
its godlike inspiration, and while the altar is not 
overthrown, the deity may still work marvels. 
I'hen rouse thyself, great sire ; bethink thee, a 
caUph or a captive, there is no man within this 
breathing world like to Alroy. Shall such a being 
fall without a struggle, like some poor felon, who 
has naught to trust to but the dull shufiling acci- 
dents of chance ? I too ara a prophet, and I feel 
Ihou still wilt nquer." 



" Give me my sceptre then, give me the sceptre ! 
I speak to the wrong brother. It was not thou — 
it was not thou that gave it me." 

" Gain it once more. The Lord deserted David 
for a time, yet still he pardoned him, and still he 
died a king." 

" A woman worked his fall." 

" But thee a woman raises. This great princess, 
has she not suffered too I Yet her spirit is still un- 
broken. List to her counsel : it is deep and fond." 

" So was our love." 

" And is, my Alroy !" exclaimed the princess. 
" Be calm, be calm, I pray thee ! For my sake ; I 
am calm for thine. Thou hast listened to all Ho- 
nain has told thee ; that wise man, my Alroy, that 
never erred. 'Tis but a word he counsels, an 
empty word, a most unmeaning foiTn. But speak 
it, and thou art free, and Alroy and Schirene may 
blend again their glorious careers, and lives of sweet 
fruition. Dost thou not remember when walking 
in the garden of our joy, and palled with empire, 
how often hast thou sighed for some sweet isle un- 
known to man, where thou mightest pass the days 
with no companion but my foitliful self, and no ad- 
ventures but our constant loves 1 ! my beloved, 
that life may still be thine ! And dost thou falter 1 
Dost call thyself forlorn with such fidelity, and 
deem thyself a wretch, when paradise with all its 
beauteous gates but woo t!iy entrance 1 O ! no, 
no, no ! thou hast forgot Schirene : I fear me much, 
thy over-fond Schirene, who dotes upon thy image 
in thy chains more than she did when those sweet 
hands of thine were bound with gems, and played 
with her bright locks !" 

" She spealis of another world. I do remember 
something. Who has sent this music to a dun- 
geon 1 My spirit softens with' her melting words. 
My eyes are moist. I weep ! 'Tis pleasant. Sor- 
row is joy compared with my despair. I never 
thought to shed a tear again. My brain methinks 
is cooler." 

" Weep, weep, I pray thee weep ; but let me 
kiss away thy tears, my soul ! Didst think thy 
Schirene had deserted thee ? Ah ! that was it that 
made my bird so sad. It shall be free, and fly in a 
sweet sky, and feed on flowers with its faithful 
mate. Ah me ! I am once more happy with my 
boy. There was no misery but thy absence, 
sweet ! Methinks this dungeon is our bright kiosk ! 
Is that • the sunbeam, or thy smile, my love, that 
makes tlie walls so joyful !" 

" Did I smile ? — I'll not believe it." 

" Indeed you did. Ah ! see, he smiles again. 
Why, this is freedom ! There is no such thing as 
sorrow. 'Tis a lie to frighten fools !" 

" Why, Honain, what's this ! 'Twould seem 
I am really joyful. There's inspiration in her very 
breath. I am another being. Nay ! waste not 
kisses on those ugly fetters." 

" Methinks they are gold." 

They were silent. Schirene drew Alroy to his 
rough seat, and gently placing herself on his knees, 
threw her arms round his neck, and buried her 
face in his breast. After a few minutes she raised 
her head, and whispered in his ear in irresistible 
accents of sweet exultation, " We shall be free to- 
morrow !'' 

"To-morrow! is the trial so near?" exclaimed 
the captive with an agitated voice and changing 
countenance. "To-morrow!" He threw Schirene 
aside somewhat hastily, and sprang from his seat. 



524 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" To-morrow ! would it were ovei ! To-morrow ! 
Methinks there is within that single word the fate 
of ages ! Shall it be said to-morrow Alroy — 

" Hah ! what art thou that risest now before me 1 
Dread, mighty spirit, thou hast come in time to 
save my last perdition. Take me to thy bosom, 
'tis not stabbed. They did not stab thee. Thou 
seest me here communing with thy murderers. 
What then 1 I am innocent. Ask them, dread 
ghost, and call upon their fiendish souls to say I am 
pure. They would make me dark as themselves, 
but shall not." 

" Honain, Honain !" exclaimed the princess in 
a terrible whisper, as she flew to the physician. 
" He is wild again, he is wild. Calm him, calm 
him. Mark ! how he stands with his extended 
arms, and fixed and vacant eyes, muttering most 
awful words ! My spirit fails me. It is too fear- 
ful." 

The physician advanced and stood by the side 
of Alroy, but in vain attempted to catch his atten- 
tion. He ventured to touch his arm. The prince 
started, turned round, and recognising him, ex- 
claimed in a shrieking voice, " Oft", fratricide !" 

Honain recoiled, pale and quivering. Schirene 
sprang to his arm. " What said he, Honain 1 
Thou dost not speak. I never saw thee pale before. 
Art thou, too, mad '!" 

" Would I were !" 

" All men are growing wild. I am sure he said 
something. I pray thee tell me. What was itl" 

" Ask him." 

" I dare not. Tell me — tell me, Honain !" 

"That I dare not." 

"Was it a word"!" 

" Ay ! a word to wake the dead. Let us be- 
gone." 

"Without our end? Coward! I'll speak to 
him. My own Alroy," sweetly whispered the 
princess, as she advanced before him. 

" What, has the fox left the tigress ! Is't so, eh, 
eh 1 Are there no judgments 1 Are the innocent 
only haunted 1 I am innocent ; I did not strangle 
thee ! He said rightly. Beware, beware ! they 
who did this, may do even fouler deeds. And here 
they are quick at their damned work. Thy body 
suffered, great Jabaster, but me they would strangle 
body and soul !" 

The princess shrieked, and fell into the arms of 
the advancing Honain, who bore her out of the 
dungeon. 

xvin. 

Afteu the fall of Hamadan, Bostenay and Mi- 
riam had been carried prisoners to Bagdad. Through 
the interference of Honain, their imprisonment had 
been exempted from the usual hardships ; but they 
were still confined to their chambers in the citadel. 
Hitherto all the endeavours of Miriam to visit her 
brother had been fruitless. Honain was the only 
person to whom she coidd apply for assistance, and 
he, in answer to her inqjortunities, only regretted 
his want of power to aid her. In vain had she at- 
tempted, by the olfer of some remaining jewels, to 
secure the co-operation of her guards, with whom 
her loveliness and the softness of her manners had 
already ingratiated her. 8he had not succeeded 
even in communicating with Alroy. But after the 
unsuccessful mission of Honain to the dungeon, 
the late vizier visited the sister of the captive, and 



breaking to her with delicate skill, the intelligence 
of the impending catastrophe, he announced that 
he had at length succeeded in obtaining for her the 
desired permission to visit her brother, and while 
she shuddered at the proximity of an event for 
which she had long attempted to prepare herself, 
Honain, with some modifications, whispered the 
means by which he flattered himself it might yet 
be averted. Miriam listened to him in silence, nor 
could he with all his consummate art succeed in 
extracting from her the slightest indication of her 
own opinion as to their expediency. They parted, 
Honain as sanguine as the wicked ever are. 

As Miriam dreaded, both for herself and for 
Alroy, the shock of an unexpected meeting, she 
availed herself of the influence of Honain to send 
Caleb to her brother, to prepare him for her pre- 
sence, and to consult him as to the desirable mo- 
ment. Caleb found his late master lying exhausted 
on the floor of his dungeon. At first he would 
not speak, or even raise his head, nor did he for a 
long time apparently recognise the faithful retainer 
of his uncle. But at length he grew milder, and 
when he fully comprehended who the messenger 
was, and the object of the mission, he at first 
seemed altogether disinclined to see his sister, but 
in the end, postponed their meeting for the present, 
and, pleading great exhaustion, fixed for that sad 
union, the first hour of dawn. 

The venerable Bostenay had scarcely ever spoken 
since the fill of his nephew : indeed it was but too 
evident that his faculties, even if they had not en- 
tirely deserted him, were at least greatly impaired. 
He never quitted his couch, he took no notice of 
what occurred. He evinced no curiosity, scarcely 
any feeling. If indeed he occasionally did mutter 
an observation, it was generally of an initable cha- 
racter, nor truly did he appear satisfied if any one 
approached him, save Miriam, from vi'hom alone he 
would accept the scanty victuals which he ever ap- 
peared disinclined to touch. But his devoted niece, 
amid all her harrowing affliction, could ever spare 
to the j)rotector of her youth a placid countenance, 
a watchful eye, a gentle voice, and a ready hand. 
Her religion and her virtue, the strength of her 
faith, and the inspiration of her innocence, suf)- 
ported this pure and hapless lady amid all her un- 
deserved and unparalleled sorrows. 

It was long past midnight, the young widow of 
Abner repo'sed upon a couch in a soft slumber. 
The amiable Beruiia, and the beautiful Bathsheba, 
the blinds withdrawn, watched the progress of the 
night. "Shall I wake her!" said the beautiful 
Bathsheba. " Methinks the stars arc paler ! She 
bid me rouse her long before the dawn." 

" Her sleep is too beautiful ! Let us not wake her," 
replied the amiable Beruna. " We rouse her only 
to sorrow." 

" May her dreams at least be happy," rejoined 
the beautiful Bathsheba. " She sleeps tranquilly 
as a flower." 

"The veil has fillen from her head." said the 
amiable Beruna. " I will replace it lightly on hei 
brow. Is that well, my Bathsheba]" 

" It is vv'cll, sweet Beruna. Her face shrouded 
by the shawl is like a pearl in its shell. See ! she 
moves !" 

" Bathsheba 1" 

" I am here, sweet lady." 

" Is it near dawn V 

" Not yet, sweet lady ; it is yet night. It ^ 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



525 



long past the noon of night, sweet lady : raethinks 
I scent the rising breath of morn ; but still 'tis 
night, and the young moon shines like a sickle in 
the heavenly field, amid the starry harvest." 

" Beruna, gentle girl, give me thy arm. I'll 
rise." 

The maidens advanced, and gently raising their 
mistress, supported her to the window. 

" Since our calamities," said Miriam, " I have 
never proved such tranquil slumber. My dreams 
were slight but soothing., I saw him, but he smiled. 
Have I slept long, sweet girls 1 Give me a kiss. 
Ye are very watchful." 

* " Dear lady, let me bring thy shawl. The air is 
fresh — " 

" But sweet : I thank thee, no. My brow is 
not so cool it needs a covering. 'Tis a fair night !" 

Miriam gazed upon the wide prospect of the 
moonlit capital. The eminent position of the 
citadel afforded an extensive view of the mighty 
groups of buildings, each in itself a city, broken 
only by some vast and hooded cupola, the tall, thin, 
white minarets of the mosques, or the black and 
sfiral form of some lonely cypress, and through 
which the rushing Tigris, flooded with light, sent 
forth its broad and brilliant torrent. All was silent ; 
not a single boat floated on the fleet river, not a 
solitary voice broke the stillness of slumbering 
millions. She gazed, and she gazed, she could not 
refrain from contrasting the present scene, which 
seemed the sepulchre of all the passions of our race, 
with the unrivalled excitement of that stirring 
spectacle which Bagdad afforded on the celebration 
of the marriage of Alroy. How diflerent then, too, 
was her position to her present, and how happy ! 
The only sister of a devoted brother, the lord and 
conqueror of Asia, the bride of his most victorious 
captain, one worthy of all her virtues, and whose 
youthful valour had encircled her brow with a dia- 
dem. For Miriam, exalted station had brought 
neither cares nor crimes. It had, as it were, only 
rendered her charity universal, and her benevolence 
omnipotent. She could not accuse herself — this 
blessed woman — she could not accuse herself, even 
in this searching hour of self-knowledge — she 
could not accuse herself, with all her meekness, and 
modesty, and humility, of having for a moment for- 
gotten her dependence on her God, or her duty to 
her neighbour. 

But when her thoughts recurred to that being, 
from whom they were indeed scarcely ever absent ; 
and when she remembered him, and all his life and 
all the thousand incidents of his youth, mysteries 
to the world, and known only to her, but which 
were indeed the prescience of his fame, and thought 
of all his surpassing qualities, and all his sweet 
aflfeetion, his unrivalled glory, and his impending 
fate, the tears, in silent agony, forced their way 
down her pale and pensive cheek. She bowed her 
head upon Bathsheba's shoulder, and sweet Beruna 
pressed her quivering hand. 

The* moon set, the stars grew white and ghastly, 
and, one by one, vanished away. Over the distant 
plain of the Tigris, the scene of the marriage pomp, 
the dark purple horizon, shivered into a rich streak 
of white and orange. The solemn strain of the 
muezzin sounded from the minarets. Some one 
knocked at the door. It was Caleb. 

" I am ready," said Miriam ; and for a moment 
she covered her face with her right hand. " Think 
of me, sweet maideas ; pray for me I" 



XIX. 

Leaning on Caleb, and lighted by a jailer 
bearing torches, Miriam descended the damp and 
broken stairs that led to the dungeon. She faltered 
as she arrived at the gate. She stopped, and leaned 
against the cold and gloomy wall. The jailer and 
Caleb preceded her. She heard the voice of Al 
roy. It was firm and sweet. Its accents reas 
sured her, Cabel came forth with a torch, and 
held it to her feet; and as he bent down, he said, 
" My lord bids me beg you to be of good heart, for 
he is." 

The jailer having stuck his torch in the niche, 
withdrew. Miriam desired Caleb to stay without. 
Then, summoning up all her energies, she entered 
the dreadful abode. Alroy was standing to receive 
her. The fight fell upon his countenance. It 
smiled. Miriam could no longer restrain herself. 
She ran forward, and pressed him to her heart. 

" O, my best, my long beloved," whispered Al- 
roy : " such a meeting indeed leads captivity 
captive !" 

But the sister could not speak. She leaned her 
head upon his shoulder, and closed her eyes, that 
she might not weep. 

" Courage, dear heart : courage, courage!" whis- 
pered the captive. " Indeed I am very happy !" 

" My brother, my brother !" 

" Had we met yesterday, you would have found 
me perhaps a little vexed. But to-day I am myself* 
again. Since I crossed the Tigris, I know not that 
I have felt such self-content. I have had sweet 
dreams, dear Miriam, full of solace, and more 
than dreams. The Lord hath pardoned me, I truly 
think," 

" 0, my brother ! your words are full of comfort ; 
for, indeed, I too have dreamed, and dreamed of 
consolation. My spirit since our fall has never been 
more tranquil." 

" Indeed I am very happy." 

" Say so again, my David ; let me hear again 
these words of solace 1" 

" Indeed, 'tis very true, my faithful friend. It is 
not spoken in kind mockery to make you joyous. 
For know, last eve, whether the Lord repented 
of his wrath, or whether some dreadful trials, of 
which we will not speak, and wish not to remember, 
had made atonement for my manifold sins — but so 
it was, that about the time my angel Miriam sent 
her soothing message, a feeling of repose came 
over me, such as I long have coveted. Anon, I fell 
into a slumber, deep and sweet, and, for those wild 
and whirling images that of late have darted from 
my brain when it should rest, — glimpses of empire 
and conspiracy, snatches of fierce wars and mock- 
ing loves, — I stood beside our nati^e fountain's 
brink and gathered flowers with my earliest friend. 
As I placed the fragrant captives in your flowing 
locks and kissed you when you smiled, there came 
Jabaster, that great, injured man, no longer stem 
and awful, but with benignant looks, and full of 
love. And he said, ' David, the Lord hath marked 
thy faithfulness, despite the darkness of thy dun- 
geon.' So he vanished. He spoke, my sister, of 
some strange temptations by heavenly aid withstood. 
No more of that. I awoke. And lo ! I heard my 
name still called. Full of my morning dream, I 
thought it was you, and I answered, ' Dear sister 
art thou here ]' But no one answered ; and then 



536 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



reflecting, my memory recognised those thrilling 
tones that summoned Alioy in Jabaster's cave." 

" The Daughter of the Voice 1" 

" Even that sacred messenger, I am full of 
faith. Tlie Lord liath pardoned me. Be sure of 
that." 

" I cannot doubt it, David. You have done 
great things for Israel ; no one in these latter days 
has risen like you. It you have fallen, you were 
young, and strangely tempted." 

" Yet Israel, Israel ! Did I not feel a worthier 
leader awaits my country yet, my heart would 
crack. I have betrayed my country !" 

" O no, no, no ! You have shown what we can 
do, and shall. Your memory alone is inspiration. 
A great career, although balked of its end, is still a 
landmark of human energy. Failure, wlien sublime, 
is not without its purpose. Great deeds are great 
legacies, and work with wondrous usury. By what 
man has done, we learn what man can do ; and 
gauge the power and prospects of our race." 

" Alas ! there is no one to guard my name. 
Twill be reviled ; or worse, 'twill be forgotten !" 

" Never, never ! the memory of great actions 
never dies. The sun of glory, though a while ob- 
scured, will shine at last. And so, sweet brother, 
perchance some poet, in some distant age, within 
wliose veins our sacred blood may flow, his fancy 
fired with the national theme, may strike his harp 
to Alroy's wild career, and consecrate a name too 
long forgotten !" 

" May love make thee a prophetess !" exclaimed 
Alroy, as he bent down his head and embraced 
her. " Sweetest," he whispered, " do not tarry. 
'Tis better we should part in this firm mood." 

She sprang from him, she clasped her hands. 

" We will not part," she exclaimed, with energy : 
« I will die vi'ith thee." 

" Blessed girl, be calm, he calm ! Do not unman 
me." 

" I am calm. See ! I do not weep. Not a tear, 
not a tear. They are all in my heart." 

" Go, go, my Miriam, angel of light and loveli- 
ness ! Tarry no longer ; 1 pray thee go. I would 
not think of the past. Let all my mind be centred 
in the present. Thy presence calls back our by- 
gone days and softens me too much. My duty to 
my uncle. Go, dearest, go !" 

" And leave thee, leave thee to ! my David,, 

ihou hast seen, thou hast heard Honain !" 

" No more, no more ; let not that accursed name 
profane those holy lips. Raise not the demon in 
me." 

" I am silent, I am silent. Yet, yet 'tis madness, 
'tis madness ! ! my brother, thou hast a fearful 
trial." 

" The God of Israel is my refuge. He saved 
our fathers in the fiery furnace. He will save 
me." 

" I am full of faith. I pray thee let me stay." 

"I would be silent, I would be alone. I cannot 
speak, Miriam. I ask one favour, the last and 
dearest from her who has never had a thought but 
for my wishes — blessed being, leave me." 

" I go. O ! Alroy, farewell ! Let me kiss you. 
Again, once more ! Let me kneel and bless you. 
Brother, beloved brother, great and glorious brother, 
I am worthy of you : I will not weep. I am prouder 
this dread moment of your love, than all your foes 
can be of their hard triumph !" 



XX. 

Beruna and Bathsheba received their misircss 
when she returned to the chamber. They marked 
her desolate air. She was silent, pale, and cold. 
They bore her to her couch, whereon she sat with 
a most listless and unmeaning look, her quivering 
lips parted, her eyes fixed upon the ground in va- 
cant abstraction, and her arms languidly folded be- 
fore her. Beruna stole behind her, and supported 
her back with pillows, an'd Bathsheba, unnoticed, 
wiped the slight foam from her mouth. Thus 
Miriam remained for several hours, her faithful 
maidens in vain watching for any indication of her 
self-consciousness. 

Suddenly a trumpet sounded. 

" What is that!" exclaimed Miriam, in a shrill 
voice, and looking up with a distracted glance. 

Neither of them answered, since they were 
aware it betokened the going forth of Alroy to his 
trial. 

Miriam remained in the same posture, and with 
the same expression of wild inquiry. Another 
trumpet sounded, and after that a shout of the peo- 
ple. Then she raised up her arms to heaven, and 
bowed her head — and died. 



XXL 

" Has the second trumpet sounded 1" 

" To be sure ; run, run for a good place. W^here 
is Abdallah 1" 

" Selling sherbet in the square. We shall find 
him. Has Alroj' come forth"!" 

" Yes ! he goes the other way. We shall be too 
late. Only think of Abdallah selling sherbet !" 

" Father, let me go 1" 

" You will be in the way ; you are too young ; 
you will see nothing. Little boys should stay at 
home." 

" No, they should not. I will go. You can put 
me on your shoulders." 

"Where is Ibrahim 1 Where is Ali? We 
must all keep together. We shall have to fight for 
it. I wish Abdallah were here. Only think of his 
selling sherbet !" 

" Keep straight forward. That is right It is no 
lise going that way. The bazaar is shut. There 
is Fakreddin, there is Osman Eflendi. He has got 
a new page." 

"So he has, I declare; and a very pretty boy 
too." 

" Father, will they impale Alroy alive ?" 

" I am sure I do not know. Never asl< questions, 
my dear, Little boys never should." 

" Yes, they should. O my ! I hope they will 
impale him alive. I shall be so disappointed if 
they do not." 

'• Keep to the loft. Dash through the butcher's 
bazaar : that is open. All right, all righT. Did 
you push me, sir?" 

"Suppose I did push you — what then, sir?" 

" Come along, don't quarrel. That is a Karas- 
mian. They think they are to do what they hkc. 
We are five to one to be sure, but still there is no- 
thing like peace and quiet. I wish Abdallah were 
here with his stout shoulders. Only think of hi* 
selling sherbet !" 



THE WOAdROUS tale OF ALROf. 



XXII. 

The square of the gnu. ^ mosque, the same spot 
where Jabaster met Abidan by appointment, was 
the intended scene of the pretended trial of Alroy. 
Thither by break of day the sin^ht-ioving thousands 
of the capital had repaired. In the centre of the 
square a large circle was described by a crimson 
cord, and guarded by Karasmian soldiers ; around 
this the swelling multitude pressed like the gather- 
ing waves of ocean, but whenever the tide set in 
with too great an impulse, the savage Karasmians 
appeased the ungovernable element by raising their 
brutal battle-axes, and breaking the crowns and be- 
labouring the shoulders of their nearest victims. As 
the morning advanced, the terraces of the surround- 
ing houses, covered with awnings, were crowded 
with spectators. All Bagdad was about. Since 
the marriage of Alroy, there had never been such a 
merry morn as the day of his impalement. 

At one end of the circle was erected a magnifi- 
cent throne. Halfway between the throne and the 
other end of the circle, but farther back, stood a 
company of Negro enunchs, hideous to behold, 
who, clothed in white and armed with various in- 
struments of torture, surrounded the enormous 
stakes, tail, thin, and sharp, that were prepared for 
the final ceremony. 

The flourish of trumpets, the clash of cymbals, 
and the wild eat oi the tambour, announced the 
arrival of Alp Arslan from the serail. An avenue 
to the circle had been preserved through the multi- 
tude. The royal procession might be traced as it 
wound through the populace by the sparkling and 
undulating line of plumes of honour, and the daz- 
zling forms of the waving streamers, on which were 
inscribed the names of Allah and the prophet. 
Suddenly, amidst the bursts of music and the shouts 
of the spectators, many of whom on the terraces 
humbled themselves on their knees. Alp Arslan 
mounted the throne, around which ranged them- 
selves his chief captains, and a deputation of the 
moolahs, and imams, and cadis, and other principal 
personages of the city. 

The King of Karasme was very tall in stature, 
and somewhat meager in form. He was fair, or 
rather sandy-coloured, with a red beard, and blue 
eyes and a flat nose. The moment he was seated 
a trumpet was heard in the distance from the oppo- 
site quarter, and it was soon understood throughout 
the assembly that the great captive was about to 
appear. 

A band of Karasmian guards first entered the 
circle and ranged themselves round the cord with 
their backs to the spectators. After them came 
fifty of the principal Hebrew prisoners, with their 
hands bound behind them, but evidently more for 
form than security. To these succeeded a small 
covered wagon drawn b)' mules, and surrounded 
by guards, from which was led forth, his legs re- 
lieved from their manacles, but his hands still in 
heavy chains, David Alroy ! 

A universal buzz of blended sympathy, and won- 
der, and fear, and triumph, arose throughout the 
whole assembly. Each man involuntarily stirred. 
The va.^t populace moved to and fro in agitation. 
His garments soiled and tattered, his head bare, and 
his long locks drawn off his forehead, pale, and very 
thin, but still unsubdued, the late conqueror and 
Caliph of Bagdad threw tyound a calm and imperial 
glanee upon those who were but recently his slaves. 



527 

The trumpets again sounded, order was called, 
and a crier announced that his highness Alp 
Arslan, the mighty sovereign of Karasme, their 
lord, protector and king., and avenger of x-Mlah and 
the prophet, against all rebellious and evil-minded 
Jews and Giaours, was about to speak. 'I'here was 
a deep and universal silence, and then sounded a 
voice high as 'che eagle's in a storm. 

" Ddvid Alroy !" said his conqueror. " You are 
brought here this day neither for trial nor for judg. 
ment. Captured in arms against your rightful 
sovereign, you are of course prepared, like other 
rebels, for your doom. Such a crime alone deserves 
the most avenging punishments. What then do 
you merit, who are loaded with a thousand infa- 
mies, who have blasphemed Allah and the prophet, 
and by the practice of magic arts, and the aid of the 
infernal powers, have broken the peace of king- 
doms, occasioned infinite bloodshed, outraged all 
law, religion, and decency, misled the minds of your 
deluded votaries, and especially, by a direct com 
pact with Eblis, by the most horrible spells and in- 
famous incantations, captivated the senses of an 
illustrious princess, heretofore famous for the prac- 
tice of every virtue, and a descendant of the pro- 
phet himself. 

"Behold those stakes of palm wood sharper than 
a lance ! The most terrible retribution that human 
ingenuity has devised for the guiltA' aits yju. 
But your crimes haffie all Lw-man vengeance. Look 
forward for your satisfactory reward to those infer- 
nal powers by whose dark co-operation you have 
occasioned such disasters. Your punishment is 
public, that all men may know that the guilty never 
escape, and that, if your heart be visited by the 
slightest degree of compunction for your numerous 
victims, you may this day, by the frank confession 
of the irresistible means by which you seduced 
them, exonerate your victims from the painful ami 
ignominious end with which, through your influ- 
ence, they are now threatened. Mark, O assem- 
bled people, the intinite mercy of the vicegerent of 
Allah ! He allows the wretched man to confess 
his infamy, and to save, by his confession, his un- 
fortunate victims. I have said it. Glory to Allah !" 
And the people shouted, " He has said it ! He 
has said it I Glory to Allah! He is great, he is 
great! and Mohammed is his prophet !" 

"Am I to speak"!'' inquired Alroy, when the 
tumult had subsided. The melody of his powerful 
voice commanded universal attention. 

Alp Arslan nodded his head in approbation. 
" King of Karasme ! I stand here accused of 
many crimes. Now hear my answers. 'Tis said 
I am a rebel. My answer is, I am a prince, as thou 
art, of a sacred race, and far more ancii^nt. I owe 
fealty to no one but to my God, and if I have bro- 
ken that, I am yet to learn Alp Arslan is the avenger 
of his power. As for thy God and prophet, I know 
not them, though they acknowledge mine. 'Tis 
well understood in every polity, my people stand 
apart from other nations, and ever will, despite of 
suffering. So much for blasphemy ; I am true to a 
deep faith of ancient days, which even the sacred 
writings of thy race still reverence. For the arts 
magical I practised, and the communion with in- 
fernal powers 'tis said I he\d, know, king, I raised 
the standard of my faith, by the direct command- 
ment of my God, tlie great Creator of the universe. 
What need of magic, theni what need paltcruig 
with petty fiends, when backed by his omnipotence 1 



528 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



My magic was his inspiration. Need I prove why, 
with such aid, my people crowded around mel 
The time will come from out our ancient seed, a 
worthier chief shall rise, not to be quelled, even by 
thee, sir. 

"For that unhappy princess of whom something 
was said, with no great mercy as it seemed to me, 
that lady is my wife, my willing wife, the daughter 
of a caliph — still my wife, although your stakes 
may make her soon a widow. I stand not here to 
account for female fancies. Believe me, sire, she 
gave her beauty to my raptured arms with no per- 
suasions but .such as became a soldier and a king. 
It may seem strange to thee upon thy throne, the 
flower of Asia should be plucked by one so vile as 
I am, sir. Eemember, the accidents of fortune are 
most strange. I was not always what I am. We 
have met before. There was a day, and that too 
not long since, when, but for the treachery of some 
knaves I mark there, fortune seemed half inclined 
to reverse our fates. Had I conquered, I trust I 
should have shown more mercy." 

The King of Karasme was the most passionate 
of men. He had made a speech according to the 
advice and instructions of his counsellors, who had 
assured him, that the tone he adopted would induce 
Alroy to confess all that he required, and especially 
to vindicate the reputation of the Princess Schirene, 
who had already contrived to persuade Alp Arslan 
that she was the most injured of her sex. The 
King of Karasme stamped thrice on the platform 
of his throne, and exclaimed, with great fire, " By 
my beard ye have deceived me ; the dog has con- 
fessed nothing !" 

All the counsellors, and chief captains, and the 
moolahs, and the imams, and the cadis, and the 
principal personages of the city, were in great con- 
sternation. They immediately consulted together, 
and after much disputation, agreed that before they 
proceeded to extremities it was expedient to prove 
what the prisoner would not confess. A most 
venerable sheikh, clothed in flowing robes of green, 
with a long white beard, and a turban like the tower 
of Babel, then rose. His sacred reputation procured 
silence while he himself delivered a long prayer, 
supplicating Allah and the prophet to confound all 
blaspheming Jews and Giaours, and to pour forth 
words of truth from the mouths of religious men. 
And then the venerable sheikh summoned all wit- 
nesses against David Alroy. Immediately advanced 
Kisloch the Kourd, who being placed in an emi- 
nent position, the Cadi of Bagdad drew forth a 
scroll from his velvet bag, and read to him a depo- 
sition wherein the worthy Kisloch stated, that he 
first became acquainted with the prisoner, David 
Alroy, in some ruins in the desert; the haunt of 
banditti, of whom Alroy was the chief ; that he, 
Kisloch, was a reputable merchant, and that his 
caravan had been plundered by these robbers, and 
he himself captured : that on the second night of 
his imprisonment, Alroy appeared to him in the 
hkcness of a lion, and on the third, of a bull with 
fiery eyes : that he was in the habit of constantly 
transforming himself; that he frequently raised 
spirits ; that at length, on one terrible night, Eblis 
himself came in great procession, and presented 
Alroy with the sceptre of Solomon Ben Daoud ; 
and that the next day Alroy raised his standard, 
and soon after massacred Hassan Subah and his 
Seljuks, by the visible aid of many terrible demons, 

CaUdas the Indian, the Guebre, and the Negro, 



and a few congenial spirits, were not echpsed in the 
satisfactory character of their evidence by the lumi 
nous testimony of Kisloch the Kourd. The irre- 
sistible career of the Hebrew conqueror was unde- 
niably accounted for, and the honour of the Mosle- 
min arms, and the purity of the Moslemin faith, 
were established in their pristine glory, and all their 
unsullied reputation. David Alroy was proved to 
be a child of Eblis, a sorcerer, and a dealer in 
channs and magical poisons. The people listened 
with horror and with indignation. • They would 
have burst through the guards and have torn him 
to pieces, had not they been afraid of the Karasmian 
battle-axes. So they consoled themselves with the 
prospect of his approaching tortures. 

The Cadi of Bagdad bowed himself before the 
King of Karasme, and whispered at a respectful 
distance in the royal ear. The trumpets sounded, 
the criers enjoined silence, and the royal lips again 
moved. 

" Hear, O ye people ! and be wise. The cliief cadi 
is about to read the deposition of the royal Princess 
Schirene, chief victim of the sorcerer." 

And the deposition was read which stated that 
David Alroy possessed, and wore next to his heart, 
a talisman, given him by Eblis, of which the virtue 
was so great, that if once it were pressed to the 
heart of any woman, she was no longer mistress of 
her will. Such had been the unhappy fate of the 
daughter of the commander of the faithful. 

" Is it so written !" inquired the captive. 

" It is so written," replied the cadi, " and bears 
the imperial signature of the princess." 

" It is a forgery." 

The King of Karasme started from his throne, 
and in his rage nearly descended its steps. His 
face was like scarlet, his beard like a flame. A fa- 
vourite minister ventured gently to restrain the 
royal robe. 

" Kill the dog on the spot," muttered the King 
of Karasme. 

" The princess is herself here," said the cadi, " to 
bear witness to the spells of which she was a vic- 
tim, but from which, by the power of Allah and the 
prophet, she is now released." 

Alroy started ! 

" Advance, royal princess," said the cadi, " sind 
if the deposition thou hast heard be indeed true, 
condescend to hold up the imperial hand that 
adorned it with thy signature." 

A band of eunuchs near the throne gave way, a 
female figure veiled to her feet appeared. She held 
up her hand amid the breathless agitation of the 
whole assembly ; the ranks of the eunuchs again 
closed; a loud shriek was heard, and the veiled 
figure disappeared. 

" I am ready for thy tortures, king," said Alroy, 
in a tone of deep depression. His firmness ap- 
peared to have deserted him. His eyes were cast 
upon the ground. Apparently he was buried in 
profound thought, or had delivered himself up to 
despair. 

" Prepare the stakes," said Alp Arslan. 

An involuntary, but universal shudder might be 
distinguished through the whole assembly. 

A slave advanced, and ofli^rcd Alroy a scroll. 
He recognised the Nubian vv'ho belonged to Honain. 
His former minister informed him that he was at 
hand, that the terms he oflcred in the dungeon 
might even yet be grante^, that if Ahoy would, as 
he doubted not, as he entreated him, accept them, 



THE WONDROUS TALE OF ALROY. 



529 



he was to place the scroll in his bosom, but that if 
he were still inexorable, still madly determined on 
a horrible and ignominious end, he was to tear the 
scroll, and throw it into the arena. Instantly Alroy 
took the scroll, and with great energy tore it into a 
thousand pieces. A puff of wind carried the frag- 
ments far and wide. The mob fought for these 
last memorials of David Alroy ; and this Uttle inci- 
dent created a great confusion. 

In the mean time the negroes prepared the instru- 
ments of torture and of death. 

" The obstinacy of this Jewish dog makes me 
mad," said the King of Karasme to his courtiers. 
" I will hold some parley with him before he dies." 
The favourite minister entreated his sovereign to 
be content ; but the royal beard grew so red, and 
the royal eyes flashed forth such terrible sparks of 
fire, that even the favourite minister at length gave 
way. 

The trumpets sounded, the criers called silence, 
and the voice of Alp Arslan was again heard. 

" Thou dog, dost see what is preparing for theel 
Dost know what awaits thee in the halls of thy 
master Eblisi Can a Jew be influenced even by 
false pride T Is not life sweet 1 Is it not better to 
be my slipper-bearer than to be impaled ?" 

" Magnanimous Alp Arslan," replied Alroy, in a 
tone of undisguised contempt ; " thinkest thou that 
any torture can be equal to the recollection that I 
have been conquered by thee V 

" By my beard, he mocks me," exclaimed the 
Karasmian monarch, " he defies me. Touch not 
my robe. I will parley with him. Ye see no far- 
ther than a hooded hawk, ye sons of a blind mother. 
This is a sorcerer ; he hath yet some master-spell ; 
he will yet save himself. He will fly into the air, 
or sink into the earth. He laughs at our tortures." 
The King of Karasme precipitately descended the 
steps of his throne, followed by his favourite mi- 
nister, and his counsellors, and chief captains, and 
the cadis, and the moolahs, and the imams, and the 
principal personages of the city. 

" Sorcerer !" exclaimed Alp Arslan, " insolent 
sorcerer ! base son of a base mother ! dog of dogs ! 
dost thou defy us ] Does thy master Eblis whisper 
hope 1 Dost thou laugh at our punishments 1 
Wilt thou fly into the air ] wilt thou sink into the 
earth 1 eh, eh] Is it so, is it so ]" The breathless 
monarch ceased, from the exhaustion of passion. 
He tore his beard up by the roots, he stamped with 
imcontroUable rage. 

" Thou art wiser than thy counsellors, royal 
Arslan ; I do defy thee. My master, although not 
Eblis, has not deserted me. I laugh at thy punish- 
ments. Thy tortures I despise. I shall both sink 
into the earth, and mount into the air. Art thou 
answered V 

67 



" By my beard," exclaimed the enraged Arslan, 
" I am answered. Let Eblis save thee if he can •" 
and the King of Karasme, the most famous master 
of the sabre in Asia, drew his blade like lightning 
from its sheath, and carried off the head of Alroy 
at a stroke. It fell, and as it fell, a smile of trium- 
phant derision seemed to play upon the dying fea- 
tures of the hero, and to ask of his enemies, " Where 
now are all their tortures]"* 



« In the German Davidis o/Ganz translated into Latin 
by Vorstius, Lug. 1G54, is an extract from a Helirew MS>. 
containing an account of Alroy. I subjoin a passase re- 
specting his death for the learned reader. "■ Snibit R. 
Maimonides, Sultanuni interrogasse Mum, num esset 
Messtas, et dixisse, Sum, et quasivisse ab illo regem, 
quodnam signum habes ? Et respondisse, ut pracideret 
I aput, ut se in vilam reversurum. Tunc regem jussisse 
et caput ejus aviputarent, et obiisse ; sed hoc illi dixisse, 
ne gravibus lormenlis ipsum enecaret." 

" Septem annis ante decretum hoc, de rjuo supra locuti 
suinus, habuerunt Israelilae veheiiipnles anguslias propter 
virum Belial, qui seipsum fecit INTpssiam; el rex atque 
principes valde accensi sunt excandescenlia contra Ju- 
daeos, ut dicerent, eos quaerere interitum regni sui IMessiae 
peiitidne. Maledicli hujus nomen vocatura fuit David 
Kl-David aut Alroy ex urbe Omadia ; et erat ibi coetus 
magnus, circilermille familias deviies, refertas, honeslas el 
felices continens. Atque Ecclesia hajc erat principium 
caetuum habitantium circa fluvium Sabhathion, atque 
erant plus quam centum EcclesiEe Erat hie initium 
regionis Medioe, atque lingua eoruni erat idiom Thargum , 
inde autem usque ad resionem Golan est iter 50 dierum, el 
sunt sub imperio Regis Fersiae, cui dantquotannis tributuni 
a 15 annis et ultra aureum unum. Vir autem hie David 
El-David studuit coram principe captiviiaiis Chasdai e: 
coram excellente Scholarcha in urbe Bagdad, qui eximus 
erant sapiens in Thalmude et omnibus scieniiis Exoticis, 
atque in omnibus libris divinatorum, magorum et Chaldseo- 
rum. Hie vero David El-David ex audacia et arrogantia 
cordis sui elevavit manum contra regem, et collegit Ju- 
daeiis habitanies in monie Chophtan, eiseduxil eos, ut exi- 
renl in prselium cum omnibus genlibus. Oslendit iis signa ; 
sed ignorabant quanam virtule ; erant enim homines, qui 
asserebanl islud per niodum magiae et prEestigialionis fieri, 
allii dicebant, potentiam ejus magnam esse propter manum 
Dei. Qui consortium ejus veniebant, vocabant eum Mes- 
siam, eumque laudabaat el extoUebant. 



"In regno Persiae alio qundam tempore surrexitvirquidam 
JudcBus, et seipsum fecit Blessiam, atque valde prospere 
pffil ; et numerosus ex Israele ad ilium confiuxil populus. 
Cum vero audirel rex omnem ejus polenliam, aique propo- 
siium ejus esse descendere in praelium cum ipso, misit ad 
Judaeos congregaius in regione sua, iisque dixit: Nisi 
egerent cum hocce viro, ut e medio toUeiur, certo sciant, 
se eos omnes gladio inlerempturum et uno die infantes ac 
fceminas delplurum. Tunc congregatus est tolus populug 
Israelis simul, atque conlendit ad virum ilium, ceciditque 
coram ; illo in lerram ; vehementersupplicatus est, clama- 
vit atque ploravit, ut reveteretur a visa sua : et cur seipsum 
et omnes affiictos conjiceret in periculum ; jam enim regem 
jurasse se immissurum ei.s gladium, et quomodo possel 
intupri aitliclionem omnium ctEtuum Persiae. Respondil^ 
Veni scrvalum vos, et non vul/is. Quern 7nctiiistis f 
Quisnam coram 7ne consislet? Etquidagct rev Persies, 
ut nonreformidet 7ne et gladium meum'f Interrogarunt 
eum, quod nam signum habereiquod esset Messias. Kespon- 

dil, ai'IA FELICITER BE.M GERERET, NEaUE MeSSIAM OPUS 

HABERE ALIO siGNo. Rpsponderunt mullos similiter egisse, 
neque prospera usos fuisse fortuna' tunc rejecit eos a facie 
sua cumsuperba indignaiione.'' 
3 Y 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



The sun had set behind the mountains, and the 
rich plain of Athens was suffused with the violet 
glow of a Grecian eve. A light breeze rose ; the 
olive groves awoke from their noonday trance, and 
rustled with returning animation, and the pennons 
of the Turkish S(iuadron, that lay at anchor in the 
harbour of Pirseus, twinkled in the lively air. From 
one gate of the city the women came forth in pro- 
cession to the fountain ; from another, a band of 
sumptuous horsemen sallied out, and threw their 
wanton javelins in the invigorating sky, as they 
galloped over the plain. The voice of birds, the 
buzz of beauteous insects, the breath of beauteous 
flowers, the quivering note of the nightingale, the 
pittcring call of the grasshopper, and the perfume 
of the violet, shrinking from the embrace of the 
twilight breeze, fdled the purple air with music and 
cdour. 

A solitary being stood upon the towering crag of 
the Acropolis, amid the ruins of the temple of 
Minerva, and gazed upon the inspiring scene. 
Around him rose the matchless memorials of an- 
tique art; immortal columns whose symmetry baf- 
fles modern proportion, serene caryatides, bearing 
with greater grace a graceful burden, carvings of 
delicate precision, and friezes breathing with heroic 
life. Apparently the stranger, though habited as a 
Moslemin, was not insensible to the genius of the 
locality, nor indeed would his form and counte- 
nance have misbecome a contemporary of Pericles 
and Phidias. In the prime of life, and far above 
the common stature, but with a frame, the muscular 
povs'er of which was even exceeded by its almost 
ideal symmetry, his high white forehead, his straight 
profile, his oval countenance, and his curling lip, 
exhibited the same visage that had inspired the 
sculptor of the surrounding demi-gods. 

The dress of the stranger, although gorgeous, 
was, however, certainly not classic. A crimson 
shawl was wound round his head, and glittered with 
a trembling aigrette of diamonds. His vest, which 
sat tight to his form, was of green velvet, richly em- 
broidered with gold and pearls. Over this he wore 
a very light jacket 'of crimson velvet, equally em- 
broidered, and lined with sable. He wore also the 
full white camese common among the Albanians ; 
and while his feet were protected by sandals, the 
lower part of his legs was guarded by greaves of 
embroidered green velvet. From a broad belt of 
scarlet leather peeped forth the jewelled hilts of a 
variety of daggers, and by his side was an enor- 
mous cimeter, in a scabbard of chased silver. 

The stranger gazed upon the wide prospect be- 
fore him with an air of pensive abstraction. " Beau- 
tiful Greece," he exclaimed, "thou art still my 



I country. A mournful lot is mine, a strange and 
mournful lot, yet not uncheered by hope. I am at 
least a warrior ; and this arm, though trained to 
war against thee, will not well forget, in the quick 
hour of battle, the blood that flows within it. 
Themistocles saved Greece and died a satrap ; I am 
bred one — let me reverse our lots, and die at least 
a patriot." 

At this moment the evening hymn to the Virgin 
arose from a neighbouring convent. The stranger 
started as the sacred melody floated towards him, 
and taking a small golden cross from his heart, he 
kissed it vvith devotion, and then descending the 
steep of the citadel, entered the city. 

He proceeded along the narrow winding streets 
of Athens until he at length arrived in front of a 
marble palace, in the construction of which the 
architect had certainly not consulted the surround- 
ing models which time had spared to him, but which, 
however it might have offended a classic taste, pre- 
sented altogether a magnificent appearance. Half 
a dozen guards, whose shields and helmets some- 
what oddly contrasted with two pieces of cannon, 
one of which was ostentatiously placed on each side 
of the portal, and which had been presented to the 
Prince of Athens by the republic of Venice, loung- 
ing before the entrance, and paid their military 
homage to the stranger as he passed them. He 
passed them and entered a large quadrangular gar- 
den, surrounded by arcades, supported by a con- 
siderable number of thin, low pillars, of barbarous 
workmanship and various-coloured marbles. In the 
midst of the garden rose a fountain, whence the 
bubbling waters flowed in artificial channels 
through vistas of orange and lemon trees. By the 
side of the fountain, on a luxurious couch, his eyes 
fixed upon a richly-illuminated volume, reposed 
Nicaeus, the youthful Prince of Athens. 

"Ah! is it youl" said the prince, looking up 
with a smile, as the stranger advanced. " You have 
arrived just in time to remind me that we must do 
something more than read the Persee — we must 
act it." 

" My dear Nicsus," replied the stranger, " I have 
arrived only to bid you farewell." 

" Farewell I" exclaimed the prince in a tone of 
surprise and sorrow, and he rose from the couch. 
" Why ! what is this V 

" It is too true," said the stranger, and he led the 
way down one of the walks. "Events have oc- 
curred which entirely baffle all our plans and pros- 
pects, and placed me in a position as difficult as it 
is harrowing. Hunniades has suddenly crossed the 
Danube in great force, and carried every thing 
before him. I am ordered to proceed to Albania in- 
stantly, and to repair to the camp at the head of the 
Epirots," 

531 



532 



D ISRAELIS NOVELS. 



"Indeed!" said Nicreus, with a thoughtful air. 
"My letters did not prepare me for this. 'Tis sud- 
den ! Is Amurath himself in the field 1" 

" No ; Karem Bey commands. I have accounted 
for my delay to the sultan hy pretended diiBculties 
in our treaty, and have held out the prospect of a 
large tribute." 

" When we are plotting that that tribute should 
be paid no longer !" added Nicseus with a smile. 

" Alas ! my dear friend," replied the Turkish 
commander, " my situation has now become critical. 
Hitherto my services for the Moslemin have been 
confined to acting against nations of their own 
faith. I am now suddenly summoned to combat 
against my secret creed, and the best allies of what 
I must yet call my secret country. The movement, 
it appears to me, must be made now or never, and I 
cannot conceal from myself, that it never could 
have been prosecuted under less auspicious circum- 
stances." 

"What, you desponding!" exclaimed Nicaeus, 
"then I must despair. Your sanguine temper has 
alone supported me throughout all our dangerous 
hopes." 

"And J3schylus?" said the stranger smiling. 

"And .^schylus, certainly," replied Nicaeus; 
"but I have lived to find even ^schylus insipid. 
I pant for action." 

" It may be nearer than we can foresee," replied 
the stranger. " There is a God who fashions all 
things. He will not desert a righteous cause. He 
knoweth that my thoughts are as pure as my situation 
is difficult. I have some dim ideas still brooding in 
my mind, but we will not discuss them now. I 
must away, dear prince. The breeze serves fairly. 
Have you ever seen Hunniadesl" 

" I was educated at the court of Transylvania," 
replied Nicjeus, looking down with a somewhat 
embarrassed air. "• He is a famous knight, Chris- 
tendom's chief bulwark." 

The Turkish commander sighed. " When we 
meet again," he said, " may we meet with brighter 
hopes and more buoyant spirits. At present, I must, 
indeed, say farewell." 

The prince turned with a dejected countenance, 
and pressed his companion to his heart. " 'Tis a 
sad end," said he, "to all our happy hours and 
lofty plans." 

" You are as yet too young to quarrel with for- 
tune," replied the stranger, " and, for myself, I have 
not yet settled my accounts with her. However, 
for the present, farewell, dear Niceus !" 

" Farewell," replied the Prince of Athens, " Fare- 
well, dear Iskander !" 



n. 



IsKANnMi was the youngest son of the Prince 
of Epirus, who, with the other Grecian princes, had, 
at the commencement of the reign of Amurath the 
Second, in vain resisted the progress of the Turk- 
ish arms in Europe. The Prince of Epirus had 
obtained peace by yielding his four sons as hostages 
to the Turkish sovereign, who engaged that they 
should be educated in all the accomplishments of 
their rank, and with a due deference to their faith. 
On the death of the Prince of Epirus, however, 
Amurath could not resist the opportunity that then 
oflered itself of adding to his empire the rich prin- 
cipality he had long coveted. A Turkish force in- 
etantly marched into Epirus, and seized upon Croia, 



the capital city, and the children of its late ruler 
were doomed to death. The beauty, talents, and 
valour of the youngest son, saved him, however 
from the fate of his poisoned brothers. Iskander 
was educated at Adrianople, in the Moslemin faith, 
and as he, at a very early age, excelled in feats of 
arms all the Moslemin warriors, he became a prime 
favourite of the sultan, and speedily rose in his ser- 
vice to the highest rank. 

At this period the irresistible progress of the 
Turkish arms was the subject of alarm throughout 
all Christendom. 

Constantinople, then the capital of the Greek 
empire, had already been more than once besieged 
by the predecessors of Amurath, and had only been 
preserved by fortunate accidents and humiliating 
terms. The despots of Bosnia, Servia, and Bul- 
garia, and the Grecian princes of ^tolia, Macedon, 
Epirus, Athens, Phocis, Boeotia, and indeed of all 
the regions to the straits of Corinth, were tributa- 
ries to Amurath, and the rest of Europe was only 
preserved from his grasp by the valour of the Hun- 
garians and the Poles, whom a fortunate alliance 
had now united under the' sovereignty of Uladis- 
laus, who, incited by the pious eloquence of the 
Cardinal of St. Angelo, the legate of the pope, and, 
yielding to the tears and supplications of the despot 
of Servia, had, at the time our story opens, quilted 
Buda, at the head of an immense army, crossed 
the Danube, and joining his valiant viceroy, the 
famous John Hunniades, vaivodc of Transylvania, 
defeated the Turks with great slaughter, relieved 
all Bulgaria, and pushed on to the base of Mount 
Hremus, known in modern times as the celebrated 
Balkan. Here the Turkish general, Karam Bey, 
awaited the Christians, and hither to his assistance 
was Iskander commanded to repair at the head of 
a body of janissaries, who had accompanied him 
to Greece, and the tributary Epirots. 

Had Iskander been influenced by vulgar ambi- 
tion, his loftiest desires might have been fully gra- 
tified by the career which Amurath projected for 
him. The Turkish sultan destined for the Gre- 
cian prince the hand of one of his daughters, and 
the principal command of his armies. He lavished 
upon Inm the highest dignities and boundless 
wealth ; and, whether it arose from a feeling of 
remorse, or of aflection for a warrior, whose unex- 
ampled valour and unrivalled skill had already 
added some of the finest provinces of Asia to his 
rule, it is certain that Iskander might have exer- 
cised over Amurath a far greater degree of influence 
than was enjoyed by any other of his courtiers. 
But the heart of Iskander responded with no sym- 
pathy to these flattering fivours. His Turkish 
education could never eradicate from his memory 
the consciousness that he was a Greek ; and al- 
though he was brought up in the Moslemin faith, 
he had, at an early period of his career, secretly 
recurred to the creed of his Christian fathers. He 
beheld in Amurath the murderer of his dearest 
kinsmen, and the oppressor of his country ; and 
although a certain calmness of temper, and cool- 
ness of judgment, which very early developed them- 
selves in his character, prevented him from ever 
giving any indication of his secret feelings, Iskan- 
der had long meditated on the exalted duty of free- 
ing his country. 

Despatched to Greece, to arrange the tributes 
and the treaties of the Grecian princes, Iskander 
became acquainted with the young Nica;us; a;id 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



533 



their acquaintance soon matured into friendship. 
Nicasus was inexperienced: but nature had not in- 
tended him for action. The young Prince of 
Athens would loll by the side of a fountain, and 
dream of the wonders of old days. Surrounded 
by his eunuchs, his priests, and his courtiers, he 
envied Leonidas, and would have emulated The- 
mistocles. He was passionately devoted to the 
ancient literature of his country, and had the good 
taste, rare at that time, to prefer Demosthenes and 
Lysias to Chrysostom and Gregory, and the choruses 
of the Grecian theatre to the hymns of the Greek 
church. The sustained energy and noble simpli- 
city of the character of Iskander, seemed to recall 
to the young prince the classic heroes, over whom 
he was so often musing, while the enthusiasm and 
fancy of Niceeus, and all that apparent weakness 
of will, and those quick vicissitudes of emotion, to 
which men of a fine susceptibility are subject, 
equally engaged the sympathy of the more vigor- 
ous, and constant, and experienced mind of his 
companion. 

To Nicffius, Iskander had, for the first time in 
his life, confided much of his secret heart ; and the 
young prince fired at the inspiring tale. Often 
they consulted over the fortunes of their country, 
and, excited by their mutual invention, at length 
even dared to hope that they might effect its deli- 
verance, when Iskander was summoned to the 
army. It was a mournful parting. Both of them 
felt that the last few months of their lives had owed 
many charms to their companionship. The part- 
ing of friends,- united by sympathetic tastes, is al- 
ways painful ; and friends, unless their sympathy 
subsist, had much better never meet. Iskander 
stepped into the ship, sorrowful, but serene; NicsEus 
returned to his palace moody and fretful ; lost his 
temper with his courtiers, and, when he was alone, 
even shed tears. 

III. 

TuREE weeks had elapsed since the parting of 
Iskander and Nicaeus, when the former, at the head 
of ten thousand men, entered, by a circuitous route, 
the defiles of Mount Hsemus, and approached the 
Turkish camp, which had been pitched upon a 
vast and elevated table-ground, commanded on all 
sides by superior heights, which, however, were 
fortified and well garrisoned by janissaries. The 
Epirots halted, and immediately prepared to raise 
their tents, while their commander, attended by a 
few of his officers, instantly proceeded to the pavi- 
lion of Karam Bey. 

The arrival of Iskander diffused great joy among 
the soldiery ; and as he passed through the en- 
campment, the exclamations of the Turkish war- 
riors announced how ready they were to be led to 
the charge by a chieftain who had been ever suc- 
cessful. A guard of honour, by the orders of Ka- 
ram Bey, advanced, to conduct Iskander to his 
presence; and soon, entering the pavilion, the Gre- 
cian prince exchanged courtesies with the Turkish 
general. After the formal compliments had passed, 
Karam Bey waved his hand, and the pavilion was 
cleared, with the exception of Mousa. the chief 
secretary, and favourite of Karam. " You have 
arrived in good time, Iskander, to assist in the de- 
struction of the Christian dogs," said the bey. 
" Flushed with their accursed success, they have 
advanced too far. Twice they have endeavoured 
to penetrate the mountains; and each time they 



have been forced to retire with great loss. The 
passages are well barricadoed with timber and huge 
fragments of rock. The dogs have lost all heart, 
and are sinking under the joint sufferings of hun- 
ger and cold. Our scouts tell me they exhibit 
symptoms of retreat. We must rush down from 
the mountains, and annihilate them." 

" Is Hunniades here in person "?" inquired Is- 
kander. 

" He is here," replied Karam, " in person — the 
dog of dogs ! Come, Iskander, his head would be 
a fine Ramadan present to Amurath. 'Tis a head 
worth three tails, I guess?" 

Mousa, the chief secretary, indulged in some 
suppressed laughter at this joke. Iskander smiled. 

"If they retreat we must assuredly attack them," 
observed Iskander, musingly. " I have a persua- 
sion that Hunniades and myself will soon meet." 

"If there be truth in the prophet!" exclaimed 
Karam, " I have no doubt of it. Hunniades is re- 
served for you, bey. We shall hold up our heads at 
court yet, Iskander. Vou have had letters lately!" 

" Some slight words." 

"No mention of us, of course!" 

" Nothing, except some passing praise of your 
valour and discretion." 

" We do our best, we do our best. Will Isa 
Bey have ^tolia, think you !" 

" I have no thoughts. Our royal father will not 
forget his children, and Isa Bey is a most valiant 
chieftain." 

" You heard not that he was coming herel" in- 
quired Karam. 

" Have you ?" responded the cautious Iskander. 

"A rumour, a rumour," replied Karam. "He 
is at Adrianople, think you V 

" It may be so : I am, you know, from Athens." 

" True, true. We shall beat them, Iskander, we 
shall beat them." 

" For myself, I feel sanguine," replied the prince, 
and he arose to retire. " I must at present to my 
men. We must ascertain more accurately the 
movements of the Christians before we decide on 
our own. I am inclined myself to reconnoitre 
them. How far may it be ]" 

" There is not room to form our array between 
them and the mountains," replied Karam. 

" 'Tis well. Success attend the true believers ! 
By to-morrow's dawn we shall know more." 

IV. 

Iskander returned to his men. Night was 
coming on. Fires and lights blazed and sparkled 
in every direction. The air was clear but very 
cold. He entered his tent, and muffling himself 
up in his pelisse of sables, he mounted his horse, 
and declining any attendance, rode for some little 
distance, until he had escaped from the precincts 
of the camp. Then he turned his horse towards 
one of the wildest passes of the mountain, and 
galloping at great speed, never stopped until he had 
gained a considerable ascent. The track became 
steep and rugged. The masses of loose stone ren- 
dered his progress slow; but his Anatolian charger 
still bore him at intervals bravely, and in three 
hours' time he had gained the summit of Mount 
Hfemus. A brilliant moon flooded the broad plains 
of Bulgaria with shadowy light. At the base of 
the mountainous range, the red watch-fires denoted 
the situation of the Christian camp. 



534 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Iskandcr proccecleJ down the descent with an 
audacious rapidity; but his charger was thorough- 
bred, and his moments were golden. Ere mid- 
night, he had reached the outposts of the enemy, 
and was challenged hy a sentinel. 
" Who goes there V 
" A friend to Christendom." 
" The word 1" 

" I has'e it not — nay, calmly. I am alone, but I 
am not unarmed. I do not know the word. I 
come from a far country, and bear important tidings 
to the great Hunniades; conduct me to that chief." 
" May I be crucified if I will," responded the 
sentinel, " before I know who and what you are. 
Come, keep off, unless you wish to try the effect 
of a Polish lance," continued the sentinel; "'tis 
something, I assure you, not less awkward than 
your Greek fire, if Greek indeed you be." 

"My friend, you are a fool," said Iskander, "but 
time is too precious to argue any longer." So 
saying, the Turkish commander dismounted, and 
taking up the brawny sentinel in his arms with the 
greatest ease, threw him over his shoulder, and, 
threatening the astounded soldier with instant 
death if he struggled, covered him with his pelisse, 
and entered the camp. 

They approached a watch-fire, around which 
several soldiers were warming themselves. 

" Who goes there V inquired a second sentinel. 
" A friend to Christendom," answered Iskander. 
"The word?" 
Iskander hesitated. 

"The word, or I'll let fly," said the sentinel, ele- 
vating his cross-bow. 

"The Bridge of Buda," instantly replied the 
terrified prisoner beneath the pelisse of Iskander. 

" WHiy did not you answer before, thenl" said 
one of the guards. 

"And why do you mock us by changing your 
voice?" said another. "Come, get on with you, 
and no more jokes." 

Iskander proceeded through a street of tents, in 
some of which were lights, but all of which were 
silent. At length he met the esquire of a Polish 
knight returning from a convivial meeting, not a 
little elevated. 

"Who are you?" inquired Iskander. 
"I am an esquire," replied the gentleman. 
" A shrewd man, I doubt not, who would make 
his fortune," replied Iskander. " You must know 
great things have happened. Being on guard, I 
have taken a prisoner, who has deep secrets to di- 
vulge to the Lord Hunniades. Thither, to his 
pavilion, I am now bearing him. But he is a stout 
barbarian, and almost too much for me. Assist me 
in carrying him to the pavilion of Hunniades, and 
you shall have all the reward and half the fame." 

"You are a very civil spoken young gentleman," 
said the esquire. " I think I know your voice. 
Your name, if I mistake not, is Leckinski?" 
" A relative. We had a common ancestor." 
" I thought so. I know the Leckinskies ever by 
their voice. I am free to help you on the terms 
you mention — all the reward and half the fame. 
'Tis a strong barbarian, is it. We cannot cut its 
threat, or it will not divulge. All the reward and 
half the fame ! I will be a knight to-morrow. It 
seems a sort offish, and has a smell." 

The esquire seized the shoulders of the prisoner, 
who would have spoken had he not been terrified 
by the threats of Iskander, who carrying the legs 



of the sentinel, allowed the Polish gentleman to 
lead the way to the pavilion of Hunniades. Thither 
they soon arrived ; and Iskander, dropping his bur- 
den, and leaving the prisoner without to the charge 
of his assistant, entered the pavilion of the general 
of the Hungarians. 

He was stopped in a small outer apartment by 
an officer, who inquired his purpose, and to whom 
he repeated his desire to see the Hungarian leader, 
without loss of time, on important business. The 
officer hesitated ; but, summoning several guards, 
left Iskander in their custody, and stepping behind 
a curtain, disappeared. Iskander heard voices, but 
could distinguish no words. Soon the officer re- 
turned, and, ordering the guards to disarm and 
search Iskander, directed the Grecian prince to fol- 
low him. Drawing aside the curtain, Iskander and 
his attendant entered a low apartment of conside- 
rable size. It was hung with skins. A variety of 
armour and dresses were piled on couches. A 
middle-aged man, of majestic appearance, muffled 
up in a pelisse of furs, with long chestnut hair, and 
a cap of crimson velvet and ermine, was walking 
up and down the apartment, and dictating some 
instructions to a person who was kneeling on the 
ground, and writing by the bright flame of a brazen 
lamp. The bright flame of the brazen lamp fell 
full upon the face of the secretary. Iskander beheld 
a most beautiful woman. 

She looked up as Iskander entered. Her large 
dark eyes glanced through his soul. Her raven 
hair descended to her shoulders in many curls on 
each side of her face, and was braided with strings 
of immense pearls. A broad cap of white fox-skin 
crowned her whiter forehead. Her features were 
very small, but sharply moulded, and a delicate tint 
gave animation to her clear fair cheek. She looked 
up as Iskander entered, with an air rather of curi- 
osity than embarrassment. 

Hunniades stopped, and examined his visiter 
with a searching inquisition. " Whence come 
you ?" inquired the Hungarian chieftain. 

" From the Turkish camp," was the answer 

"An envoy or a deserter?" 

"Neither." 

" What then ?" 

" A convert." 

"Your name?" 

"Lord Hunniades," said Iskander, "that is fo. 
your private ear. I am unarmed, and were I other- 
wise, the first knight of Christendom can scarcely 
fear. I am one in birth a'hd rank your equal; if not 
in fame, at least, I trust, in honour. My time is 
all-precious : I can scarcely stay here while my 
horse breathes. Dismiss your attendant." 

Hunniades darted a glance at his visiter which 
would have baffled a weaker brain, but Iskander 
stood the scrutiny calm and undisturbed. "Go, 
Stanislaus," said the vaivode to the ofl'icer. "This 
lady, sir," continued the chieftain, "is my daughter, 
and one from whom I have no secrets." 

Iskander bowed lowly as the ofliccr disappeared. 

" And now," said Hunniades, " to business. Your 
purpose?" 

" I am a Grecian prince, and a compulsory ally 
of the Moslemin. In a word, my purpose here is 
to arrange a plan by which we may effect at the 
same time your triumph and my freedom.'' 

"To whom, then, have I the honour of speak- 
ing?" inquired Hunniades. 

"My name, great Hunniades, is perhaps no< 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



535 



altogether unknown to you: they call me Iskan- 
der." 

" What, the right arm of Amurath, the conqueror 
of Caramania, the flower of Turkish chivalry 1 Do 
I indeed behold that matchless warrior ]" exclaimed 
Hunniades, and he held forth his hand to his 
puest, and ungirding his own sword, offered it to 
the prince. "Iduna," continued Hunniades, to his 
daughter, " you at length behold Iskander." 

" My joy is great, sir," replied Iduna, " if I indeed 
rightly understand that we may count the Prince 
Iskander a champion of the cross." 

Iskander took from his heart his golden crucifix, 
and kissed it before her. " This has been my com- 
panion and consolation for long years, lady," said 
Iskander; "you, perhaps, know my mournful his- 
tory, Hunniades. Hitherto, my pretended sovereign 
has not required me to bare my cimeter against 
my Christian brethren. That hour, however, has 
at length arrived, and it has decided me to adopt a 
line of conduct long meditated. Karam Bey, who 
is aware of your necessities, the moment you com- 
mence your retreat, will attack you. I shall com- 
mand his left wing. In spite of his superior power 
and position, draw up in array, and meet him with 
confidence. I propose, at a convenient moment in 
the day, to withdraw my troops, and, with the 
Epirots, hasten to my native country, and at once 
raise the standard of independence. It is a bold 
measure, but success is the child of audacity. We 
must assist each other with mutual diversions. 
Single-handed it is in vain for me to commence a 
struggle, which, with all adventitious advantages, 
will require the utmost exertion of energy, skill, 
and patience. But if yourself and the King Uia- 
dislaus occupy the armies of Amurath in Bulgaria, 
I am not without hope of ultimate success, since I 
have to inspire me all the most urgent interests of 
humanity, and combat, at the same time, for my 
God, my country, and my lawful crown." 

" Brave prince, I pledge you my troth," said 
Hunniades, coming forward, and seizing his hand ; 
"and while Iskander and Hunniades live, they will 
never cease until they have achieved their great 
and holy end." 

"It is a solemn compact," said Iskander, "more 
sacred than if registered by the scribes of Christen- 
dom. Lady Iduna, your prayers!" 

" They are ever with the champions of the cross," 
replied the daughter of Hunniades. She rose, the 
large cloak in which she was enveloped, fell from 
her exquisite form. " Noble Iskander, this rosary 
is from the holy sepulchre," continued Iduna ; 
" wear it for the sake and memory of that blessed 
Saviour, who died for our sins." 

Iskander held forth his arm and touched her 
delicate hand as he received the rosary, which, 
pressing to his lips, he placed round his neck. 

"Great Hunniades," said the Grecian prince, "I 
must cross the mountains before dawn. Let me 
venture to entreat that we should hear to-morrow 
that the Christian camp is in retreat." 

" Let it be even so," said the Hungarian, after 
some thought, "and may to-morrow's sun bring 
brighter days to Christendom." And with these 
words terminated the brief and extraordinary visit 
of Iskander to the Christian general. 

V. 

The intelligence of the breaking up of the Chris- 
tian camp, and the retreat of the Christian army, 



soon reached the divan of Karam Bey, who im- 
mediately summoned Iskander to consult on the 
necessary operations. The chieftains agreed that 
instant pursuit was indispensable, and soon the 
savage Hsemus poured forth from its green bosom, 
swarms of that light cavalry which was perhapa 
even a more fatal arm of the Turkish power than 
the famous janissaries themselves. They hovered 
on the rear of the retreating Christians, charged 
the wavering, captured the unwary. It was im- 
possible to resist their sudden and impetuous move- 
ments, which rendered their escape as secure as 
their onset was overwhelming. Wearied at length 
by the repeated assaults, Hunniades, who, attended 
by some chosen knights, had himself repaired to 
the rear, gave orders for the army to halt and offer 
battle. 

Their pursuers instantly withdrew to a distance, 
and gradually forming into two divisions, awaited 
the arrival of the advancing army of the Turks. 
The Moslemin came forward in fierce array, and 
with the sanguine courage inspired by expected 
triumph. Very conspicuous was Iskander bound- 
ing in his crimson vest upon his ebon steed, and 
waving his gleaming cimeter. 

The janissaries charged calling upon Allah ! 
with an awful shout. The Christian knights, in- 
voking the Christian saints, received the Turks at 
the point of their lances. But many a noble lance 
was shivered that morn, and many a bold rider and 
worthy steed bit the dust of that field, borne down 
by the irresistible numbers of their fierce adversaries. 
Everywhere the balls and the arrows whistled 
through the air, and sometimes an isolated shriek, 
heard amid the general clang, announced another 
victim to the fell and mysterious agency of the 
Greek fire. 

Hunniades, while he performed all the feats of 
an approved warrior, watched with anxiety the dis- 
position of the Turkish troops. Hitherto, from the 
nature of their position, but a portion of both armies 
had interfered in the contest, and as yet, Iskander 
had kept aloof. But now, as the battle each instant 
raged with more fury, and it was evident that ere 
long the main force of both armies must be bro'" 
into collision, Hunniades, with a terrible »• 
watched whether the Grecian prince " 
or even capable of executin"' ' ' 
this fulfilment, the Ch'' 
ceal from himself '' 
against the crbs' 

In the mear 
events with 
Already Kar 
ed him to ' 
sentcd ; h 
his positi 
than rag 
secretary 
his coUe 
views a 
rounded 
mountec 
a wide-s 
of Karr 
his CO' 
live»^ 

CO' 



536 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



He deems that a battle is not to be won by loitering 
under a shadowy tree. Now I differ with him, and 
I even mean to win this day by such a piece of 
truancy. However, it may certainly now be time for 
more active work. You smile encouragement, good 
Mousa. Giorgio, Demetrius, to your duty !" 

At these words, two stout Epirots advanced to 
the unfortunate secretary, seized and bound him, 
and placed him on horseback before one of their 
comrades. 

" Now all who love their country follow me !" 
exclaimed Iskander. So saying, and at the head 
of five thousand horsemen, Iskander quitted the 
field at a rapid pace. 



VI. 



With incredible celerity Iskander and his ca- 
valry dashed over the plains of Roumelia, and never 
halted except for short and hurried intervals of 
rest and repose, until they had entered the moun- 
tainous borders of Epirus, and were within fifty 
miles of its capital, Croia. On the eve of entering 
the kingdom of his fathers, Iskander ordered his 
guards to produce the chief secretary of Karam Bey. 
Exhausted with fatigue, vexation, and terror, the 
disconsolate Mousa was led forward. 

"Cheer up, worthy Mousa!" said Iskander, 
lying his length on the green turf. " We have had 
a sharp ride ; but I doubt not we shall soon find 
ourselves, by the blessing of God, in good quarters. 
There is a city at hand which they call Croia, in 
which once, as the rumour runs, the son of my 
father should not have had to go seek for an entrance. 
No matter. Methinks, worthy Mousa, thou art the 
only man in our society that can sign thy name. 
Come, now, write me an order signed Karam Bey 
to the governor of this said city, for its delivery up 
to the valiant champion of the crescent, Iskander, 
and thou shalt ride in future at a pace more suit- 
able to a secretary." 

The worthy Mousa humbled himself to the 
ground, and then taking his writing materials from 
his girdle, inscribed the desired order, and delivered 
it to Iskander, who, glancing at the inscription, 
'lushed it into his vest. 

I shall proceed at once to Croia, with a few 

Is," said Iskander; "do you, my bold com- 

*" this eve in various parties, and 

'" id of the. second night, 

'ates of Croia !" 

^d for his now re- 

'' by two hundred 

"■f period to his 

mountains, de- 

us. 

, Iskander and 

'' the plain a 

It was sur- 

ed by square 

3 eminence, 

ice. Behind 

ins of very 

aks capped 

:h troops of 

'ike a sheet 

' >-n breast 

^"uses. 

■ old 

hall 

for 



strangers, or their own seed." So saying, he spur 
red his horse, and with panting hearts and smiling 
faces, Iskander and his company had soon arrived 
in the vicinity of the city. 

The city was surrounded by a beautiful region 
of corn-fields and fruit trees. The road was arched 
with the overhanging boughs. The birds chirped 
on every spray. It was a blithe and merry morn. 
Iskander plucked a bunch of olives as he cantered 
along. " Dear friends," he said, looking round with 
an inspiring smile, " let us gather our first harvest!" 
And, thereupon, each putting forth his rapid hand, 
seized, as he rushed by, the emblem of possession, 
and following the example of his leader, placed it 
in his cap. 

They arrived at the gates of the city, which was 
strongly garrisoned ; and Iskander, followed by his 
train, galloped up the height of the citadel. Alight- 
ing from his horse, he was ushered into the divan of 
the governor, an ancient pasha, who received the 
conqueror of Caramania with all the respect that 
became so illustrious a companion of the crescent. 
After the usual forms of ceremonious hospitality, 
Iskander, with a courteous air, presented him the 
order for delivering up the citadel ; and the old 
pasha, resigning himself to the loss of his post with 
oriental submission, instantly delivered the keys of 
the citadel and town to Iskander, and requested 
permission immediately to quit the late scene of his 
command. 

Quitting the citadel, Iskander now proceeded 
through the whole town, and in the afternoon re- 
viewed the Turkish garrison in the great square. 
As the late governor was very anxious to quit Croia 
that very day, Iskander insisted on a considerable 
portion of the garrison accompanying him as a 
guard of honour, and returning the next morning. 
The rest he divided in several quarters, and placed 
the gates in charge of his own companions. 

At midnight the Epirots, faithful to their orders, 
arrived and united beneath the walls of the city, 
and after interchanging the signals agreed upon, 
the gates were opened. A large body instantly 
marched and secured the citadel. The rest, con- 
ducted by appointed leaders, surrounded the Turks 
in their quarters. And suddenly, in the noon of 
night, in that great city, arose a clang so dreadful 
that people leaped up from their sleep and stared 
with stupor. Instantly the terrace of every house 
blazed with torches, and it became as light as day. 
Troops of armed men were charging down the 
streets brandishing their cimeters and yataghans, 
and exclaiming, "The Cross, the Cross!" — "Iji- 
berty !" — "Greece!" — "Iskander and Epirus!" 
The townsmen recognised their countrymen by 
their language and their dress. The name of Is- 
kander acted as a spell. They stopped not to in 
quire. A magic sympathy at once persuaded them 
that this great man had, by the grace of heaven, re- 
curred to the creed and country of his fathers. And 
so every townsman, seizing the nearest weapon, 
with a spirit of patriotic frenzy, rushed into the 
streets, crying out, " The Cross, the Cross ! Liberty ! 
Greece! Iskander and Epirus!" Ay! even the 
women lost all womanly fears, and stimulated in 
stead of soothing the impulse of their masters. 
'I'hey fetched them arms, they held the torches, 
they sent them forth with vows, and prayers, and 
imprecations, their children clinging to their robes, 
and repeating with enthusiasm, phrases which they 
could not comprehe..n.(1 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



537 



X he Turks fought with the desperation of men who 
feel that they are betrayed, and must be victims. 
The small and isolated bodies were soon massacred, 
and with cold steel, for at this time, although some 
ofthe terrible inventions of modern warfare v^-ere 
introduced, their use was not general. The citadel, 
mdeed, was fortified with cannon ; but the greater 
part of the soldiery trusted to their crooked swords, 
and their unerring javelins. The main force ofthe 
Turkish garrison had been quartered in an old pa- 
lace ofthe archbishop, situated in the iniddle ofthe 
city on a slightly rising and open ground, a massy 
building of rustic stone. Here the Turks, although 
surrounded, defended themselves desperately, using 
their cross-bows with terrible etTect; and hither, 
the rest of the city being now secured, Iskander 
himself prepared to achieve its complete deliverance. 

The Greeks had endeavoured to carry the princi- 
pal entrance of the palace by main force, but the 
strength of the portal had resisted their utmost ex- 
ertions, and the arrows of the besieged had at length 
forced them to retire to a distance. Iskander direct- 
ed that two pieces of cannon should be dragged 
down from the citadel, and then played against the 
entranee. In the mean time, he ordered immense 
piles of damp fagots to be litbefore the building, the 
smoke of which prevented the besieged from taking 
any aim. The ardour of the people was so great, 
that the cannon were soon served against the 
palace, and their effects were speedily remarked. 
The massy portal shook; a few blows ofthe batter- 
ing ram, and it fell. The Turks sallied forth, were 
received with a shower of Greek fire, and driven 
in with agonizing yells. Some endeavoured to es- 
cape from the windows, and were speared or cut 
down ; some appeared wringing their hands in de- 
spair upon the terraced roof. Suddenly the palace 
was announced to be on fire. A tall white bluish 
flame darted up from a cloud of smoke, and soon, as 
if by magic, the whole back of the building was 
encompassed with rising tongues of red and raging 
light. Amid a Babel of shrieks, and shouts, and 
cheers, and prayers, and curses, the roof of the pa- 
lace fell in with a crash, which prodaccd amid the 
besiegers an awful and momentary silence, but. in 
an instant they started from their strange inactivity, 
and rushing forward, leaped into the smoking ruins, 
and at the same time completed the massacre and 
achieved their freedom. 

VII. 

At break of dawn Iskander sent couriers through- 
out all Epirus, announcing the fall of Croia, and, 
that he had raised the standard of independence in 
his ancient country. He also despatched a trusty 
messenger to Prince Nicsus, at Athens, and to the 
great Hunniades. The people were so excited 
throughout all Epirus, at this great and unthought 
of intelligence, that they simultaneously rose in all 
the open country, and massacred the Turks, and 
the towns were only restrained in a forced submis- 
sion to Amurath, by the strong garrisons of the 
eultan. 

Now Iskander was very anxious to effect the re- 
moval of these garrisons without loss of time, in 
order that if Amurath sent a great power against 
him, as he expected, the invading army might have 
nothing to rely upon but its own force, and that 
his attention might not in any way be diverted from 
effecting their overthrow. Therefore, as soon as 
68 



his troops had rested, and he had formed his new 
recruits into some order, which, with their willing 
spirits, did not demand many days, Iskander set 
out from Croia, at the head of twelve thousand 
men, and marched against the strong city of Pe- 
trella, meeting in his way the remainder of the 
garrison of Croia on their return, who surrendered 
themselves to him at discretion. Petrella was only 
one day's march from Croia, and when Iskander 
arrived there he requested a conference with the 
governor, and told his tale so well, representing the 
late overthrow of the Turks by Hunniades, and 
the incapacity of Amurath at present to relieve 
him, that the Turkish commander agreed to deliver 
up the place, and leave the country with his troops, 
particularly as the alternative of Iskander to these 
easy terms was ever conquest without quarter. 
And thus, by a happy mixture of audacity and 
adroitness, the march of Iskander throughout Epi- 
rus, was rather like a triumph than a campaign, 
the Turkish garrisons imitating, without any ex- 
ception, the conduct of their comrades at Petrella, 
and dreading the fate of their comrades at the 
capital. In less than a month, Iskander returned 
to Epirus, having delivered the whole country from 
the Moslemin yoke. 

Hitherto Iskander had heard nothing either of 
Hunniades or Nicseus. He learned therefore with 
great interest as he passed through the gates of the 
city that the Prince of Athens had arrived at Croia 
on the preceding eve, and also that the messenger 
had returned from the Hungarian camp. Amid 
the acclamations of an enthusiastic people, Iskander 
once more ascended the citadel of Croia. Nicteus 
received him at the gate. Iskander sprang from 
his horse, and embraced his friend. Hand in hand, 
and followed by their respective trains, they entered 
the fortress palace. 

" My dear friend," said Iskander, when they 
were once more alone, " you see we were right not 
to despair. Two months have scarcely elapsed 
since we parted without a prospect, or with the 
most gloomy one, and now we are in a fair way of 
achieving all that we can desire. Epirus is free !" 

" I came to claim my share in its emancipation," 
said NicjEus with a smile, "but Iskander is another 
Csesar !" 

" You will have many opportunities yet, believe 
me, Nicreus, of proving your courage and your 
patriotism," replied Iskander; "Amurath will never 
allow this affair to pass over in this quiet manner. 
I did not commence this struggle without a con- 
viction that it would demand all the energy and 
patience of a long life, I shall be rewarded if I 
leave freedom as a heritage to my countrymen ; 
but for the rest, I feel that I bid farewell to every 
joy of life, except the ennobling consciousness of 
performing a noble duty. In the mean time, I un- 
derstand a messenger awaits me here from the 
great Hunniades. Unless that shield of Christen- 
dom maintain himself in his present position, oui 
chance of uitiinate security is feeble. With his 
constant diversion in Bulgaria, we may contrive 
here to struggle into success. You sometimes 
laugh at my sanguine temper, NicEUs. To say 
the truth, I am more serene than sanguine, and 
was never more conscious of the strength of my 
opponent than now, when it appears that I have 
beaten him. Hark ! the people cheer. I love the 
people, NicfEus, who are ever influenced by genuine 
and generous feelings. They cheer as if they had 



538 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



once more gained a country. Alas ! they little 
know what they must endure even at the best. 
Nay ! look not gloomy ; we have done great things, 
and will do more. Who waits without there ? 
Demetrius ! Call the messenger from Lord Hun- 
niadcs." 

An Epirot bearing a silken packet was now in- 
troduced, which he delivered to Iskandei. Re- 
verently touching the hand of his chieftain, the 
messenger then kissed his own and withdrew. Is- 
kander broke the seal, and drew forth a letter from 
the silken cover. 

" So ! this is well !" exclaimed the prince with 
great animation, as he threw his quick eye over 
the letter. " As I hoped and deemed, a most com- 
plete victory. Karam Bey himself a prisoner, 
baggage, standards, great guns, treasure. Brave 
soldier of the cross! (may I prove so!) Your 
perfectly devised movement, (poh, poh!) Hah! 
what is this?" exclaimed Iskander, turning pale; 
his lip quivered, his eye looked dim. He walked 
to an arched window. His companion, who sup- 
posed that he was reading, did not disturb him. 

" Poor, poor Hunniades!" at length exclaimed 
Iskander, shaking his head. 

" What of him 1" inquired Nicaeus quickly. 

" The sharpest accident of war !" replied Iskan- 
der. " It quite clouds my spirit. We must forget 
these things, we must forget. Epirus ! he is not a 
patriot who can spare a thought from thee. And 
yet, so young, so beautiful, so gifted, so worthy of 
a hero ! — when I saw her by her great father's 
side, sharing the toils, aiding his councils, supply- 
ing his necessities, methought I gazed upon a min- 
istering angel ! — upon — " 

" Stop, stop in mercy's name, Iskander !" ex- 
claimed NicfEus in a very agitated tone. " What is 
all this? Surely no, — surely not — surely Iduna — !" 

" 'Tis she !'"' 

'• Dead ?" exclaimed Nicajus, rushing up to his 
companion, and seizing his arm. 

" Worse, much worse !" 
God of heaven !" exclaimed the young prince, 
with almost a frantic air. " Tell me -all, tell me 
all! This suspense fires my brain. Iskander, you 
know not what this woman is to me — the sole ob- 
ject of my being, the bane, the blessing of my life ! 
Speak, dear friend, speak ! I beseech you ! where 
is Iduna?" 

" A prisoner to the Turk." 

" Iduna a prisoner to the Turk! I'll not believe 
it ! Why do we wear swords 1 Where's chivalry ! 
Iiluna a prisoner to the Turk ! 'Tis false. It can- 
not be. Iskander, you are a coward! I am a cow- 
ard ! All are cowards ! A prisoner to the Turk ! 
Iduna! What, the rose of Christendom! has it 
been plucked by such a turbaned dog as Amurath 1 
Farewell, Epinis! Farewell, classic Athens! Fare- 
well, bright fields of Greece, and dreams that made 
them brighter ! The sun of all my joy and hope 
is set, and set forever !" 

So saying, Nicrrus, tearing his hair and gar- 
ments, flung himself upon the floor, and hid his 
face in his robes. 

Iskander paced the room with a troubled step 
and thoughtful brow. After some minutes he 
leaned down by the Prince of Athens, and endea- 
voured to console him. 

" It is in vain, Iskander, it is in vain," said Ni- 
csEUS. " I wish to die." 

' Were I a favoured lover, in such a situation," 



replied Iskander, "I should scarcely consider death 
my duty, unless the sacrifice of myself preserved 
my mistress." 

"Hah!" exclaimed Nicaeus, starting from the 
ground. " Do you conceive, then, the possibility 
of rescuing her." 

" If she live, she is a prisoner in the seraglio at 
Adrianople. You are as good a judge as myself • 
of the prospect that awaits your exertions. It is, 
without doubt, a difficult adventure, but such, me- 
thinks, as a Christian knight should scarcely shun." 

" To horse," exclaimed Nicaeus, " to horse — and 
yet what can I do ? Were she in any other place 
but tUc capital I might rescue her by force, but in 
the heart of their empire — it is impossible. Is 
there no ransom that can tempt the Turk 1 My 
principality would rise in the balance beside this 
jewel." 

" That were scarcely wise, and certainly not 
just," replied Iskander; "but ransom will be of no 
avail. Hunniades has already off'ered to restore 
Karam Bey, and all the prisoners of rank, and the 
chief trophies, and Amurath has refused to listen 
to any terms. The truth is, Iduna has found fa- 
vour in the e3-es of his son, the young Mahomed." 

" Holy Virgin ! hast thou no pity on this Chris- 
tian maid V exclaimed Nicaeus. " The young 
Mahomed ! Shall this licentious infidel — ah ! Is- 
kander, dear, dear Iskander, you who have so much 
wisdom, and so much courage ; you who can de- 
vise all things, and dare all things ; help me, help 
me ; on my knees I do beseech you, take up this 
crying cause of foul oppression, and for the sake 
of all you love and reverence — your creed, your 
country, and perchance your friend, let your great 
genius, like some solemn angel, haste to the rescue 
of the sweet Iduna, and save her, save her !" 

" Some thoughts like these were rising in my 
mind when first I spoke," replied Iskander. "This 
is a better cue, far more beseeming princes than 
boyish tears, and all the outward misery of wo, a 
tattered garment and dishevelled locks. Come, 
Nic.TBUs, we have to struggle with a mighty fortune. 
Let us be firm as fate itself." 

VIII. 

Immediately atter his interview with Nicjeus, 
Iskander summoned some of the chief citizens of 
Croia to the citadel, and submitting to them his 
arrangements for the administration of Epirus, an- 
nounced the necessity of his instant departure for 
a short interval ; and the same evening, ere the 
moon had risen, himself and the Prince of Athens 
quitted tiie city, and proceeded in the direction of 
Adrianople. They travelled with great rapidity 
until they reached a small town upon the frontiers, 
where they hailed for one day. Here, in the bazaar, 
Iskander purchased for himself the dress of an 
Armenian physician. In his long dark robes, and 
large round cap of black wool, his face and hands 
stained, and his beard and mustachios shaven, it 
seemed impossible that he could be recognised. 
Nicaeus was habited as his page, in a dress of coarse 
red cloth, setting tight to his form, with a red cap, 
with a long blue tassel. He carried a large bag 
containing drugs, some surgical instruments, and a 
few books. In this guise, as soon as the gates 
were open on the morrow, Iskander mounted on a 
very small mule, and Nicaeus on a very large don- 
key, the two princes commenced the pass of the 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



539 



mountainous range, an arm of the Balkan, which 
divided Epirus from ^oumelia. 

" I broke the wind of the finest charger in all 
Asia when I last ascended these mountains," said 
Iskander ; " I hope this day's journey may be ac- 
cepted as a sort of atonement." 

" Faith ! there is little doubt I am the best 
mounted of the two," said Nicseus. " However, I 
hope we shall return at a sharper pace." 

" How came it, my Nica;us," said Iskander, 
" that you never mentioned to me the name of 
Iduna when we were at Athens ? I little sup- 
posed when I made my sudden visit to Hunniades, 
that I was about to appear to so fair a host. She 
is a rarely gifted lady." 

" I knew of her being at the camp as little as 
yourself," replied the Prince of Athens, "and for 
the rest, the truth is, Iskander, there are some 
slight crosses in our loves, which time, I hope, will 
fashion rightly." So saying, Nicaeus pricked on 
his donkey, and flung his stick at a bird which 
was perched on the branch of a tree. Iskander 
did not resume a topic to which his companion 
seemed disinclined. Their journey was tedious. 
Towards nightfall they reached the summit of the 
usual track ; and as the descent was difficult, they 
were obliged to rest until daybreak. 

On the morrow they had a magnificent view of 
the rich plains of Roumelia, and in the extreme 
distance, the great city of Adrianople, its cupolas 
and minarets blazing and sparkling in the sun. 
This glorious prospect at once revived all their 
energies. It seemed that the moment of peril and 
of fate had arrived. They pricked on their sorry 
steeds; and on the morning of the next day, pre- 
sented themselves at the gates of the city. The 
thorough knowledge which Iskander possessed of 
the Turkish character, obtained them an entrance, 
which was at one time almost doubtful, from the 
irritability and impatience of Nicsus. They re- 
paired to a caravansera of good repute in the neigh- 
bourhood of the seraglio; and having engaged their 
rooms, the Armenian physician, attended by his 
page, visited several of the neighbouring coffee- 
houses, announcing, at the same time, his arrival, 
his profession, and his skill. 

As Iskander felt pulses, examined tongues, and 
distributed drugs and charms, he listened with in- 
terest and amusement to the conversation of which 
he himself was often the hero. He found that the 
Turks had not yet recovered from their consterna- 
tion at his audacity and success. They were still 
wondering, and if possible more astounded than 
indignant. The politicians of the coffee-houses, 
chiefly consisting of janissaries, were loud in their 
murmurs. The popularity of Amurath had va- 
nished before the triumph of Hunniades, and the 
rise of Iskander. 

"But Allah has in some instances favoured the 
faithful," remarked Iskander; "I heard in my tra- 
vels of your having captured a great princess of 
the Giaours'?" 

" God is great !" said an elderly Turk with a 
long white beard. "The hakim congratulates the 
faithful because they have taken a woman !" 

" Not so, merely," replied Iskander ; " I heard 
the woman was a princess. If so, the people of 
Franguestan will pay any ransom for their great 
women ; and by giving up this fair Giaour, you 
xnav free many of the faithful." 



"Mashallah !" said another ancient Turk, sip- 
ping his coffee. " The hakim speaks wisely." 

"May I murder my mother!" exclaimed a young 
janissary, with great indignation. " But this is 
the very thing that makes me wild against Amu- 
rath. Is not this princess a daughter of that ac- 
cursed Giaour, that dog of dogs, Hunniades 1 and 
has he not offered for her ransom our brave Karam 
Bey himself, and his chosen warriors'? and has not 
Amurath said nay 1 And why has he said nay 1 
Because his son, the Prince Mahomed, instead of 
fighting against the Giaours, has looked upon one 
of their women, and has become a mejnoun. Pah! 
May I murder my mother, — but if the Giaours 
were in full march to the city, I'd not fight. And 
let him tell this to the cadi who dares ; for there 
are ten thousand of us, and we have sworn by the 
kettle — but we will not fight for Giaours, or those 
who love Giaours !" 

" If you mean me, Ali, about going to the cadi," 
said the chief eunuch of Mahomed, who was stand- 
ing by, " let me tell you I am no tale-bearer, and 
?corn to do an unmanly act. The young prince 
can beat the Giaours without the aid of those who 
are noisy enough in a coffee-house, when they are 
quiet enough in the field. And, for the rest of the 
business, you may all ease your hearts; for the 
frangy princess you talk of, is pining away, and 
will soon die. Tlie sultan has offered a hundred 
purses of gold to any one who cures her ; but the 
gold will never be counted by the hasnadar, or I 
will double it." 

" Try your fortune, hakim," said several laugh- 
ing loungers to Iskander. 

"Allah has stricken the frangy princess," said 
the old Turk with a white beard. 

" He will strike all Giaours," said his ancient 
companion, sipping his coffee. " 'Tis so written." 

" Well ! I do not like to hear of women-slaves 
pining to death," said the young janissary, in a 
softened tone, " particularly when they are young. 
Amurath should have ransomed her, or he might 
have given her to one of his officers, or any young 
fellow that had particularly distinguished himself." 
And so, twirhng his mustachios, and flinging down 
his piastre, the young janissary strutted out of the 
coffee-house. 

" When we were young," said the old Turk 
with the white beard to his companion, shaking 
his head, " when we were young — " 

"We conquered Anatolia, and never opened our 
mouths," rejoined his companion. 

" I never offered an opinion till I was sixty," 
said the old Turk ; " and then it was one which 
had been in our family for a century." 

" No wonder Hunniades carries every thing be- 
fore him," said his companion. 

"And thafaccursed Iskander," said the old man. 

The chief eunuch, finishing his vase of sherbet, 
moved away. The Armenian physician followed 
him. 

IX. 

The chief eunuch turned into a burial-ground, 
through which a way led, by an avenue of cypress- 
trees, to the quarter of the seraglio. The Armeniaii 
physician, accompanied by his page, followed him. 

" Noble sir !" said the Armenian physician ; 
" may I trespass for a moment on your lordship's 
attention V 



540 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Worthy hakim, is it you ?" replied the chief 
eunuch, turning round with an encouraging smile 
of courteous condescension, — " your pleasure V 

" I would speak to you of important matters," 
said the physician. 

The eunuch carelessly seated himself on a richly-, 
carved tomb, and crossing his legs with an air of 
pleasant superiority, adjusted a fine emerald that 
sparkled on his finger, and bade the hakim address 
him without hesitation. 

" I am a physician," said the Armenian. 

The eunuch nodded. 

" And I heard your lordship in the coffee-house 
mention that the sultan, our sublime master, had 
offered a rich reward to any one who could effect 
the cure of a favourite captive." 

" No less a reward than one hundred purses of 
gold," remarked the eunuch. "The reward is 
proportioned to the exigency of the case. Beheve 
me, worthy sir, it is desperate." 

" With mortal means," replied the Armenian ; 
"but I possess a talisman of magical influence, 
which no disorder can resist. I would fain try its 
efficacy." 

" This is not the first talisman that has been of- 
fered us, worthy doctor," said the eunuch, smiling 
incredulously. 

" But the first that has been offered on these 
terms," said the Armenian. "Let me cure the 
captive, and of the one hundred purses, a moiety 
shall belong to yourself. Ay ! so confident am I 
of success, that I deem it no hazard to commence 
our contract by this surety." And so saying, the 
Armenian took from his finger a gorgeous carbun- 
cle, and offered it to the eunuch. The worthy de- 
pendant of the seraglio had a great taste in jewel- 
lery. He examined the stone with admiration, 
and placed it on his finger with complacency. "I 
require no inducements to promote the interests 
of science, and the purposes of charity," said , the 
eunuch, with a patronising air. " 'Tis assuredly 
a pretty stone, and, as the memorial of an inge- 
nious stranger, whom I respect, I shall, with plea- 
sure, retain it. You were saying something about 
a talisman. Are you serious 1 I doubt not that 
there are means which might obtain you the desired 
trial ; but the Prince Mahomed is as violent when 
displeased or disappointed as munificent when gra- 
tified. Cure this Christian captive, and we may 
certainly receive the promised purses ; fail, and your 
head will as assuredly be flung into the seraglio 
moat, to say nothing of my own." 

"Most noble sir!" said the physician; "I am 
willing to undertake the experiment on the terms 
you mentioned. Kest assured that the patient, if 
alive, must, with this remedy, speedily recover. 
You marvel ! Believe me, had you witnessed the 
cures which it has already effected, you would only 
wonder at its otherwise incredible influence." 

"You have the advantage," replied the eunuch, 
'of addressing a man who has seen something of 
the world. I travel every year to Anatolia with the 
Prince Mahomed. Were I a narrow-minded bigot, 
who had never been five miles from Adrianople in 
the whole course of my life, I might indeed be 
skeptical. But I am a patron of science, and have 
heard of talismans. How much might this ring 
weigh, think you !" 

" I have heard it spoken of as a carbuncle of un- 
common size," replied the Armenian. 

" Where did you say you lodged, hakim ?" 



" At the khan of Bedreddin." 

" A very proper dwelling. Well, we shall see. 
Have you more jewels ] I might, perhaps, put you 
in the way of parting with some at good prices. 
The khan of Bedreddin is very conveniently si- 
tuated. I may, perhaps, towards evening, taste 
your coffee at the khan of Bedreddin, and we will 
talk of this said talisman. Allah be with you, 
worthy hakim !" The eunuch nodded, not without 
encouragement, and went his way. 

" Anxiety alone enabled me to keep my coun- 
tenance," said Nicseus. " A patron of science, 
forsooth ! Of all the insolent, shallow-brained, 
rapacious coxcombs " 

" Hush, my friend !" said Iskander, with a smile 
" The chief eunuch of the heir apparent of the 
Turkish empire is a far greater man than a poor 
prince, or a proscribed rebel. This worthy can do 
our business, and I trust will. He clearly bites, and 
a richer bait will, perhaps, secure him. In the 
mean time, we must be patient, and remember whose 
destiny is at stake." 



X. 



The chief eunuch did not keep the adventurous 
companions long in suspense ; for before the muez- 
zin had announced the close of day from the mina- 
rets, he had reached the khan of Bedreddin, and 
inquired for the Armenian physician. 

" We have no time to lose," said the eunuch to 
Iskander. " Bring with you whatever you may re- 
quire, and follow me." 

The eunuch led the way, Iskander and Nicaeus 
maintaining a respectful distance. After proceed- 
ing down several streets, they arrived at the burial- 
ground, where they had conversed in the morning ; 
and when they had entered this more retired spot, 
the eunuch fell back, and addressed his companion. 

"Now, worthy hakim," he said, " if you deceive 
me, I will never patronise a man of science again. 
I found an opportunity of speaking to the prince 
this afternoon of your talisman, and he has taken 
from my representations such a fancy for its im- 
mediate proof, that I found it quite impossible to 
postpone its trial even until to-morrow. I men- 
tioned the terms. I told the prince your life was 
the pledge. I said nothing of the moiety of the re- 
ward, worthy hakim. That is an affair between 
ourselves. I trust to your honour, and I always act 
thus with men of science." 

" I shall not disgrace my profession or your con- 
fidence, rest assured," replied Iskander. " And am 
I to see the captive to-nightl" 

" I doubt it not. Are you prepared 1 We might, 
perhaps, gain a little time, if very necessary." 

" By no means, sir ; truth is ever prepared." 

Thus conversing, they passed through the burial- 
ground, and approached some high, broad walls, 
forming a terrace, and planted with young syca 
more trees. The eunuch tapped, with his silver 
stick, at a small gate, which opened and admitted 
them into a garden, full of large clumps of massy 
shrubs. Through these a winding walk led foi 
some way, and then conducted them to an open 
lawn, on which was situated a vast and irregular 
building. As they approached the pile, a young 
man of very imperious aspect rushed forward from 
a gate, and abruptly accosted Iskander. 

"Are you the Armenian physician?" he in- 
quired. 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



541 



Iskander bowed assent. 

" Have you got your talisman? You know the 
terms 1 Cure this Christian girl, and you shall 
name your own reward ; fail, and I shall claim your 
forfeited head." 

" The terms are well understood, mighty prince," 
said Iskander, for the young man was no less a per- 
sonage than the son of Amurath, and future con- 
queror of Constantinople; "but I am confident 
there will be no necessity for the terror of Christen- 
dom claiming any other heads than those of his 
enemies." 

" Kaflis will conduct you at once to your patient," 
said Mahomed. "For myself, I cannot rest until 
I know the result of your visit. I shall wander 
about these gardens, and destroy the flowers, which 
is the only pleasure now left me." 

Kaflis motioned to his companions to advance, 
and they entered the seraglio. 

At the end of a long gallery they came to a great 
portal, which Kaflis opened, and Iskander and Ni- 
caeus for a moment supposed that they had ar- 
rived at the chief hall of the tower of Babel, but 
they found the shrill din only proceeded from a 
large company of women, who were employed in 
distilling the rare atar of the jessamine flower. All 
their voices ceased on the entrance of the strangers, 
as if by a miracle ; but when they had examined 
them, and observed that it was only a physician and 
his boy, their awe, or their surprise, disappeared ; 
and they crowded round Iskander, some holding 
out their wrists, others lolling out their tongues, 
and some asking questions, which perplexed alike 
the skill and the modesty of the adventurous dealer 
in magical medicine. The annoyance, however, 
v.-as not of great duration, for Kaflis so belaboured 
their fair shoulders with his oflicial baton, that they 
instantly retreated with precipitation, uttering the 
most violent shrieks, and bestowing on the eunuch 
so many titles, that Iskander and his page were 
quite astounded at the intuitive knowledge which 
the imprisoned damsels possessed of that vocabulary 
of abuse, which is in general mastered only by the 
experience of active existence. 

Quitting this chamber, the eunuch and his com- 
panions ascended a lofty staircase. They halted, 
at length, before a door. " This is the chamber of 
the tower," said their guide, " and here we shall 
find the fair captive." He knocked, the door was 
opened by a female slave, and Iskander and Nicjeus, 
with an anxiety they could with difficulty conceal, 
were ushered into a small but sumptuous apart- 
ment. In the extremity was a recess covered with 
a light gauzy curtain. The eunuch bidding them 
keep in the background, advanced, and cautiously 
withdrawing the curtain slightly aside, addressed 
some words in a low voice t6 the inmate of the re- 
cess. In a few minutes the eunuch beckoned to 
Iskander to advance, and whispered to him : " She 
would not at first see you, but I have told her you 
are a Christian, the more the pity, and she con- 
sents." So saying, he withdrew the curtain, and 
exhibited a veiled female figure lying on a couch. 

" Noble lady," said the physician in Greek, which 
he had ascertained the eunuch did not comprehend ; 
"pardon the zeal of a Christian friend. Though 
habited in this garb, I have served under your illus- 
trious sire. I should deem my life well spent in 
serving the daughter of the great Hunniades." 

" Kind stranger," replied the captive, " I was ill- 
prepared for such a meeting. I thank you for your 



sympathy, but my sad fortunes are beyond human 
aid." 

" God works by humble instruments, noble lady," 
said Iskander, " and with his blessing we may yet 
prosper." 

" I fear that I must look to death as my only re- 
fuge," replied Iduna, "and still more, I fear that it 
is not so present a refuge as my oppressors them- 
selves imagine. But you are a physician ; tell me 
then how speedily nature will make me free." 

She held forth her hand, which Iskander took 
and involuntarily pressed. "Noble lady," he said, 
" my skill is mere pretence to enter these walls. 
The only talisman I bear with me is a message 
from your friends." 

" Indeed !" said Iduna, in a very agitated tone. 

" Restrain yourself, noble lady," said Iskander, 
interposing, "restrain j^ourself. Were you any 
other but the daughter of Hunniades, I would not 
have ventured upon this perilous exploit. But I 
know that the Lady Iduna has inherited something 
more than the name of her great ancestors — their 
heroic soul. If ever there were a moment in her 
life in which it behoved her to exert all her energies, 
that moment has arrived. The physician who ad- 
dresses her, and his attendant who waits at hand, 
are two of the Lady Iduna's most devoted friends. 
There is nothing that they will not hazard to effect 
her delivery ; and they have matured a plan of es- 
cape which they are sanguine must succeed. Yet 
its completion will require, on her part, great anx- 
iety of mind, greater exertion of body, danger, 
fatigue, privation. Is the Lady Iduna prepared for 
all this endurance, and all this hazard]" 

"Noble friend," replied Iduna, "for I cannc* 
deem you a stranger, and none but a most chivalric 
knight could have entered upon this almost forlorn 
adventure ; you have not, I trust, miscalculated my 
character. I am a slave, and unless Heaven will 
interpose, must soon be a dishonoured one. My 
freedom and my fame are alike at stake. There is 
no danger, and no suffering which I will not gladly 
welcome, provided there be even a remote chance 
of regaining my liberty and securing my honour." 

"You are in the mind I counted on. Now, mark 
my words, dear lady. Seize an opportunity this 
evening of expressing to your jailers that you have 
already experienced some benefit from my visit, 
and announce your rising confidence in my skill. 
In the mean time I will make such a report that our 
daily meetings will not be difficult. For the present, 
farewell. The Prince Mahomed waits without, and 
I would exchange some words with him before I go." 

" And must we part without my being acquainted 
with the generous friends to whom I am indebted 
for an act of devotion which almost reconciles me 
to my sad fate 1" said Iduna. "You will not, per- 
haps, deem the implicit trust reposed in you by one 
whom you have no interest to deceive, and who, if 
deceived, cannot be placed in a worse position than 
she at present fills, as a very gratifying mark of 
confidence, yet that trust is reposed in you , and 
let me at least soothe the galling dreariness of my 
solitary hours, by the recollection of the friends 
to whom I am indebted for a deed of friendship 
which has filled me with a feeling of wonder from 
which I have not yet recovered." 

" The person who has penetrated the seraglio of 
Constantinople in disguise, to rescue the Lady 
Iduna," answered Iskander, "is the Prince Nicceus. ' 

" NicjBus !" exclaimed Iduna, ia an agitated tone 
2 



643 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



"The voice to which I listen is surely not that of 
the Prince Nicseus; nor the form on which I gaze," 
she added, as she unveiled. Beside her stood the 
tall figure of the Armenian physician. She beheld 
his swarthy and unrecognised countenance. She 
cast her dark eyes around with an air of beautiful 
perplexity. 

" I am a friend of the Prince Nicseus," said the 
physician. " He is here. Shall he advance 1 
Alexis," called out Iskander, not waiting for her 
reply. The page of the physician came forward, 
but the eunuch accompanied him. "All is right," 
said Iskander to Kafiis. " We are sure of our 
hundred purses. But, without doubt, with any 
other aid, the case were desperate." 

" There is but one God," said the eunuch, polish- 
ing his carbuncle, with a visage radiant as the gem. 
" I never repented patronising men of science. 
The prince waits without. Come along." He took 
Iskander by the arm. " Where is your boy 1 What 
are you doing there, sir?" inquired the eunuch, 
sharply, of Nicaeus, who was tarrying behind and 
kissing the hand of Iduna. 

" I was asking the lady for a favour to go to the 
coffee-house with," replied Nicsus, with pouting 
lips; "you forget that I am to have none of the 
hundred purses." 

" True," said the eunuch ; " there is something 
in that. Here, boy, here is a piastre for you. I 
like to encourage men of science, and all that belong 
to them. Do not go and spend it ail in one morn- 
ing, boy, and when the fair captive is cured, if you 
remind me, boy, perhaps I may give you another." 

XI. 

Kaflis and his charge again reached the garden. 
The twilight was nearly past. A horseman gal- 
loped up to them, followed by several running 
'botmen. It was the prince. 

" Well, hakim," he inquired, in his usual abrupt 
style, "can you cure her1" 

"Yes," answered Iskander, firmly. 

"Now listen, hakim," said Mahomed. "I must 
very shortly leave the city, and proceed into Epirus 
at the head of our troops. I have sworn two things, 
and I have sworn them by the holy stone. Ere the 
new moon, I will have the heart of Iduna and the 
head of Iskander !" 

The physician bowed. 

"If you can so restore the health of this frangy 
girl," continued Mahomed, " that she nigy attend 
me within ten days into Epirus, you shall claim 
from my treasury what sum you like, and become 
physician to the seraglio. What say you ?" 

" My hope and my belief is," replied Iskander, 
" that within ten days she may breathe the air of 
Epirus." 

" By my father's beard, you are a man after my 
own heart," exclaimed the prince; "and since thou 
lealcst in talismans, hakim, qan you give me a 
charm that will secure me a meeting with this 
Epirot rebel within the term, so that I may keep 
my oath. What say you T — what say you?" 

" There are such spells," replied Iskander. "But 
mark, I can only secure the meeting, not the head." 

" That is my part," said Mahomed, with an ar- 
rogant sneer. " But the meeting, the meeting ?" 

" You know the fountain of Kallista in Epirus. 
Its virtues are renowned." 

"I have heard of it." 



" Plunge your cimeter in its midnight watCrr 
thrice, on the eve of the new moon, and each tim« 
summon the enemy you would desire to meet. He 
will not fail you." 

" If you cure the captive, I will credit the legend, 
and keep the appointment," replied Mahomed, 
thoughtfully. 

" I have engaged to do that," replied the phy- 
sician. 

" Well, then, I shall redeem my pledge," said the 
prince. 

" But mind," said the physician, " while I engage 
to cure the lady, and produce the warrior, I can 
secure your highness neither the heart of the one 
nor the head of the other." 

" 'Tis understood," said Mahomed. 

XII. 

The Armenian physician did not fail to attend 
his captive patient at an early hour on the ensuing 
morn. His patron Kaflis received him with an 
encouraging smile. "The talisman already wctfks," 
said the eunuch: " she has passed a good night, 
and confesses to an improvement. Our purses 
are safe. Methinks I already count the gold. 
But I say, worthy hakim, come hither, come hither," 
and Kaflis looked around to be sure that no one 
was within hearing. " I say," and here he put on 
a very mysterious air indeed, "the prince is gene- 
rous : you understand ? We go shares. We shall 
not quarrel. I never yet repented patronising a 
man of science, and I am sure I never shall. The 
prince you see is violent, but generous. I would 
not cure her too soon, eh V 

" You take a most discreet view of aflairs," re- 
sponded Iskander, with an air of complete assent, 
and they entered the chamber of the tower. 

Iduna performed her part with great dexterity ; 
but indeed it required less skill than herself and 
her advisers had at first imagined. Her malady, 
although it might have ended fatally, was, in its 
origin, entirely mental, and the sudden prospect 
of freedom, and of restoration to her country and 
her family, at a moment when she had delivered 
herself up to despair, afforded her a great and 
instantaneous benefit. She could not indeed 
sufiicienlly restrain her spirits, and smiled incredu- 
lously when Iskander mentioned the impending 
exertion and fatigues, with doubt and apprehension. 
His anxiety to return immediately to Epirus, de- 
termined him to adopt the measures for her rescue 
without loss of time, and on his third visit, he 
prepared her for making the great atten)pt on the 
ensuing morn. Hitherto Iskander had refrained 
from revealing himself to Iduna. He was induced 
to adopt this conduct by various considerations. 
He could no longer conceal from himself that the 
daughter of Hunniades exercised an influence over 
his feelings which he was unwilling to encourage. 
His sincere friendship for Nicmus, and his convic- 
tion that it was his present duty to concentrate all 
his thought and afleition in the cause of his coun- 
try, would have rendered him anxious to have 
resisted any emotions of the kind, even could he 
have flattered himself that there was any chance 
of their being returned by the object of his rising 
passion. But Iskander was as modest as he was 
brave and gifted. The disparity of age between 
himself and Iduna appeared an insuperable barrel 
to his hopes, even had there been no other obstacle 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



543 



Iskander struggled with his love, and with his 
strong mind the struggle, though painful, was not 
without success. He felt that he was acting in a 
manner which must uUimately tend to the advan- 
tage of his country, the happiness of his friend, and 
perhaps the maintenance of liis own self-respect ; 
for he had too much pride not to be very sensible 
to the bitterness of rejection. 

Had he perceived more indications of a very 
cordial feeling subsisting between Nicseus and 
Iduna, he would, perhaps, not have persisted in 
maintaining his disguise. But he had long sus- 
pected that the passion of the Prince of Athens was 
not too favourably considered by the daughter of 
Kunniades, and he was therefore exceedingly anx- 
ious that Nicaius should possess all the credit of the 
present adventure, which Iskander scarcely doubted, 
if successful, would allow Nicceus to urge irresisti- 
ble claims to the heart of a mistress whom he had 
rescued, at the peril of his life, from slavery and 
dishonour, to offer rank, reputation, and love. Is- 
kander' took, therefore, several opportunities of lead- 
ing Iduna to believe that he was merely a confi- 
dential agent of Nicssus, and that the whole plan 
of her rescue from the seraglio of Adrianople had 
been planned by his young friend. In the mean 
time, during the three days on which they had for 
short intervals met, very few words had been inter- 
changed between Nicajus and his mistress. Those 
words, indeed, had been to him of the most inspir- 
ing nature, and expressed such a deep sense of 
gratitude, and such lively regard, that Nicaeus could 
no longer resist the delightful conviction that he 
had at length created a permanent interest in her 
heart. Often he longed to rush to her couch, and 
jpress her hand to his lips. Even the anticipation 
tf future happiness could not prevent him from 
envying the good fortune of Iskander, who was 
allowed to converse with her without restraint; and 
bitterly, on their return to the khan, did he execrate 
the pompous eunuch for all the torture which he 
occasioned him by his silly conversation, and the 
petty tyranny of office with which Kaflis always 
repressed his attempts to converse for a moment 
with Iduna. 

In the mean time all Adrianople sounded with 
the preparations for the immediate invasion of 
Epirus, and the return of Iskander to his country 
became each hour more urgent. Every thing being 
prepared, the adventurers determined on the fourth 
morning to attempt the rescue. They repaired as 
usual to the serail, and were attended by Kaflis to 
the chamber of the tower, who congratulated Is- 
kander on their way on the rapid convalescence of 
the captive. When they had fairly entered the 
chamber, the physician being somewhat in advance, 
Nicceus, who was behind, commenced proceedings 
by knocking down the eunuch, and Iskander 
instantly turning round to his assistance, they suc- 
ceeded in gagging and binding the alarmed and 
astonished Kaflis. Iduna then habited herself in a 
costume exactly similar to that worn by Nicaius, 
and which her friends had brought to her in their 
bag. Iskander and Iduna then immediately quitted 
the serail without notice or suspicion, and hurried 
to the khan, where they mounted their horses, that 
were in readiness, and hastened without a moment's 
loss of time to a fountain without the gates, where 
they awaited the arrival of Nicaeus with anxiety. 
After remaining a few minutes in the chamber of 
the tower, the Prince of Athens stole out, taking 



care to secure the door upon Kaflis. He descended 
the staircase, and escaped through the serail with- 
out meeting any one, and had nearly reached the 
gate of the gardens, when he was challenged by 
some of the eunuch guard at a little distance. 

" Hilloa !" exclaimed one, " I thought you passed 
just now1" 

" So I did," replied Nicaeus, with nervous effron- 
tery ; " but I came back for my bag, which I left 
behind," and giving them no time to reflect, he 
pushed his way through the gate with all the im- 
pudence of a page. He rushed through the burial 
ground, hurried through the streets, mounted his 
horse, and galloped through the gates. Iskander 
and Iduna were in sight, he waved his hand for 
them at once to proceed, and in a moment, without 
exchanging a word, they were all galloping at full 
speed, nor did they breathe their horses until sunset. 

By nightfall they had reached a small wood of 
chestnut trees, where they rested for two hours, 
more for the sake of their steeds than their own 
refreshment, for anxiety prevented Iduna from in- 
dulging in any repose, as much as excitement pre- 
vented her from feeling any fatigue. Iskander lit 
a fire and prepared their rough meal, unharnessed 
the horses, and turned them out to their pasture. 
Nicaeus made Iduna a couch of fern, and sup- 
ported her head, while, in deference to his entreaties, 
she endeavoured in vain to sleep. Before midnight 
they were again on their way, and proceeded at a 
rapid pace towards the mountains, until a few 
hours before noon, when their horses began to sink 
under the united influence of their previous exer- 
tions and the increasing heat of the day. Iskander 
looked serious, and often threw a backward glance 
in the direction of Adrianople. 

" We must be beyond pursuit," said Nicseus. 
" I dare say poor Kaflis is still gagged and bound." 

" Could wc but once reach the mountains," re- 
plied his companion, " I should have little fear, but 
I counted upon our steeds carrying us there with- 
out faltering. We cannot reckon upon more than 
three hours' start, prince. Our friend Kaflis is too 
important a personage to be long missed." 

" The holy Virgin befriend us !" said the Lady 
Iduna. "I can urge my poor horse no more." 

They had now ascended a small rising ground 
which gave them a wide prospect over the plain. 
Iskander halted, and threw an anxious glance 
around him. 

" There are some horsemen in the distance 
whom I do not like," said the physician. 

"I see them," said Nicaeus; " travellers like our- 
selves." 

" Let us die sooner than be taken," said Iduna. 

"Move on," said the physician, "and let me 
observe these horsemen alone. I would there were 
some forest at hand. In two hours we may gain 
the mountains." 

The daughter of Hunniades and the Prince of 
Athens descended the rising ground. Before them, 
but at a considerable distance, was a broad and 
rapid river, crossed by a ruinous Roman bridge. 
The opposite bank of the river was the termination 
of a narrow plain, which led immediately to the 
mountains. 

" Fair Iduna, you are safe," said the Prince of 
Athens. 

" Dear Nieasus," replied his companion, " ima 
gine what I feel. It is too wild a moment to ex- 
press my gratitude." 



544 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



"I trust that Iduna wil! never express her grati- 
tude tc Nicaus," answered the prhice ; " it is. not, I 
assure you, a favourite word with him." 

Their companion rejoined them, urging his wea- 
ried horse to its utmost speed. 

" Nicoeus !" he called out, " halt !" 

They stopped their willing horses. 

" How now !" my I'.iend," said the prince ; "you 
look grave !" 

" Lady Iduna !" said the Armenian, " we are 
pursued." 

Hitherto the prospect of success, and the con- 
sciousness of the terrible destiny that awaited fail- 
ure, had supported Iduna under exertions which, 
under any other circumstances, must have proved 
fatal. But to learn, at the very moment that she 
was congratulating herself on the felicitous co!n- 
plelion of their daring enterprise, that that dreaded 
failure was absolutely impending, demanded too 
great an exertion of her exhausted energies. She 
turned pale ; she lifted up her imploring hands and 
eyes to heaven in speechless agony, and then bend- 
ing down her head, wept with unrestrained and 
harrowing violence. The distracted Nica3us sprung 
from his horse, endeavoured to console the almost 
insensible Iduna, and then wofully glancing at his 
fellow-adventurer, wrung his hands in despair. 
His fellow-adventurer seemed lost in thought. 

"They come," said Nicajus, starting; " methinks 
I see one on the brow of the hill. Away ! fly ! 
Let us at least die fighting. Dear, dear Iduna, 
would that my life could ransom thine. God ! 
this is indeed agony." 

"Escape is impossible," said Iduna, in a tone 
of calmness which astonished them. " They must 
overtake us. Alas! brave friends, I have brought 
ye to this! Pardon me! pardon me! I am 
ashamed of my selfish grief. Ascribe it to other 
causes than a narrow spirit and a weak mind. One 
course is alone left to us. We must not be taken 
prisoners. Ye are warriors, and can die as such. 
I am only a woman, but I am the daughter of Hun- 
niades. Nicasus, you are my father's friend ; I be- 
seech you, sheathe your dagger in my breast." 

The prince in silent agony pressed his hands to 
his sight. His limbs quivered v^ith terrible emo- 
tion. Suddenly he advanced and threw himself at 
the feet of his hitherto silent comrade. " ! 
Iskander !" exclaimed Nicrcus, "great and glorious 
friend ! my head and heart are both too weak for 
these awful trials — save her, save her !" 

" Iskander !" exclaimed the thunderstruck Iduna. 
" Iskander !" 

" I have, indeed, the misfortune to be Iskander, 
beloved lady," he replied. " This is, indeed, a case 
almost of desperation, but if I have to endure more 
than most men, I have, to inspire me, influences 
which fall to the lot of few — yourself and Epirus. 
Come ! Nicffius, there is but one chance — we must 
gain the bridge." Thus speaking, Iskander caught 
duna in his arms, and remounting his steed, and 
followed by the Prince of Athens, hurried towards 
the river. 

"The water is not fordable," said Iskander, 
when they had arrived at its bank. " The bridge 
I shall defend ; and it will go hard if I do not keep 
thern at bay long enough for you and Iduna to gain 
the mountains. Away ; think no more of me ; nay ! 
no tear, dear lady, or you will unman me. An in- 
spiring smile, and all will go well. Hasten to 
Croia, and let nothing tempt you to linger in the 



vicinity, with the hope of my again joining yea, 
Believe me, we shall meet again, but act upon what 
I say, as if they were my dying words. God bless 
you, Nicffius! No murmuring. For once let the 
physician, indeed, command his page. Gentle lady, 
commend me to your father. Would I had such a 
daughter in Epirus, to head my trusty brethren if 
I fall ! Tell the great Hunniades, my legacy to 
him is my country. Farewell, farewell !" 

" I will not say farewell," exclaimed Iduna, " I 
too can fight. I will stay and die with you." 

" See, they come ! Believe me, I shall conquer 
Fly, fly, thou noble girl ! Guard her well, Nicaeus. 
God bless thee, boy ! Live and be happy. Nay, 
nay, not another word. The farther ye are both 
distant, trust me, the stronger will be my arm. In- 
deed, indeed, I do beseech ye, fly !" 

NicfBus placed the weeping Iduna in her saddle, 
and after leading her horse ov^?"- the narrow and 
broken bridge, mounted his own, and then they 
ascended together the hilly and winding track. Is- 
kander watched them as they went. Ofterk Iduna 
waved her kerchief to her forlorn champion. In 
the mean time Iskander tore olT his Armenian 
robes and flung them into the river, tried his footing 
on the position he had taken up, stretched his 
limbs, examined his daggers, flourished his cime- 
ter. 

The bridge would only permit a single rider to 
pass abreast. It was supported by three arches, 
the centre one of very considerable size, the others 
small, and rising out of the shallow water on each 
side. In many parts the parapet wall was broken, 
in some even the pathway was almost impassable, 
from the masses of fallen stone and the dangerous 
fissures. In the centre of the middle arch was an 
immense key-stone, on which was sculptured, in 
high relief, an enormous helmet, which indeed 
gave among the people of the country, a title to the 
bridge. 

A band of horsemen dashed at full speed, with 
a loud shout, down the hill. They checked their 
horses, when to their astonishment they found Is- 
kander with his drawn cimeter, prepared to resist 
their passage. But they paused only for a mo- 
ment, and immediately attempted to swim the 
river. But their exhausted horses drew back with 
a strong instinct from the rushing waters : one of 
the band alone, mounted on a magnificent black 
mare, succeeding in his purpose. The rider was 
halfway in the stream, his high-bred steed snorting 
and struggling in the strong current. Iskander, 
with the same ease as if he were plucking the ripe 
fruit from a tree, took up a ponderous stone, and 
hurled it with fatal precision at his adventurous 
enemy. The rider shrieked and fell, and rose no 
more: the mare, relieved from her burden, exerted 
all her failing energies, and succeeded in gaining 
the opposite bank. There, rolling herself in the 
welcome pasture, and neighing with a note of tri- 
umph, she revelled in her hard escape. 

" Cut down the Giaour !" exclaimed one of the 
horsemen, and he dashed at the bridge. His fragile 
blade shivered into a thousand pieces as it crossed 
the cimeter of Iskander, and in a moment his 
bleeding head fell over the parapet. 

Instantly the whole band, each emulous of re- 
venging his comrades, rushed without thought at 
Iskander, and endeavoured to overpower him by 
their irresistible charge. His cimeter flashed like 
lightning. The two foremost of his enemies fell. 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



545 



cut the impulse of the numbers prevailed, and each 
instant, although dealing destruction with every 
blow, he felt himself losing ground. At length he 
was on the centre of the centre arch, an eminent 
position, which allowed him for a moment to keep 
them at bay, and gave him breathing-time. Sud- 
denly he made a desperate charge, clove the head 
of the leader of the band in two, and beat them 
back several yards; then swiftly returning to his 
former position, he summoned all his supernatural 
strength, and stamping on the mighty, but moul- 
dering key-stone, he forced it from its form, and 
broke the masonry of a thousand years. Amid a 
loud and awful shriek, horses and horsemen, and 
the dissolving fragments of the scene for a moment 
mingled, as it were, in airy chaos, and then plunged 
with a horrible plash into the fatal depths below. 
Some fell, and, stunned by the massy fragments, 
rose no more; others struggled again into light, 
and gained with difficulty their old shore. Amid 
them, Iskander, unhurt, swam like a river-god, and 
stabbed to the heart the ordy strong swimmer that 
was making his way in the direction of Epirus. 
Drenched and exhausted, Iskander at length stood 
upon the opposite margin, and wrang his garments, 
while he watched the scene of strange destruction. 

Three or four exhausted wretches were lying 
bruised and breathless on the opposite bank : one 
drowned horse was stranded near them, caught by 
the rushes. Of all that brave company the rest 
had vanished, and the broad, and blue, and sunny 
waters rushed without a shadow beneath the two 
remaining arches. 

" Iduna ! thou art safe," exclaimed Iskander. 
"Now for Epirus!" So saying, he seized the 
black mare, renovated by her bath and pasture, and 
vaulting on her back, was in a few minutes bound- 
ing over his native hills. 

xin. 

In the mean time let us not forget the Prince of 
Athens and the Lady Iduna. These adventurous 
companions soon lost sight of their devoted cham- 
pion, and entered a winding ravine, which gradu- 
ally brought them to the summit of the first chain 
of the Epirot mountains. From it they looked 
down upon a vast and rocky valley, through which 
several mule tracks led in various directions, and 
entered the highest barrier of the mountains which 
rose before them, covered with forests of chestnut and 
ilex. Nicfeus chose the track which he considered 
least tempting to pursuit, and towards sunset they 
had again entered a ravine washed by a mountain 
stream. The course of the waters had made the 
earth fertile and beautiful. Wild shrubs of gay 
and pleasant colours refreshed their wearied eye- 
sight, and the perfumes of aromatic plants invigo- 
rated their jaded senses. Upon the bank, too, of 
the river, a large cross of roughly carved wood 
brought comfort tdr their Christian hearts, and 
while the holy emblem filled them with hope and 
consolation, and seemed an omen of refuge from 
iheir Moslemin oppressors, a venerable eremite, 
with a long white beard descending over his dark 
robes, and leaning on a staff of thorn,* came forth 
from an adjoining cavern to breathe the evening air 
and pour forth his evening orisons. 

Iduna and Nicseus had hitherto prosecuted their 
sorrowful journey almost in silence. Exhausted 
with anxiety, affliction, and bodily fatigue, with 
69 



difficulty the daughter of Hunniades could preserve 
her seat upon her steed. One thought alone in- 
terested her, and, by its engrossing influence, main- 
tained her under all sufferings — the memory of 
Iskander. Since she first met him, at the extraor- 
''inary interview in her father's pavilion, often had 
the image of the hero recurred to her fancy, often 
had she mused over his great qualities and strange 
career. His fame, so dangerous to female hearts. 
w&s not diminished by his presence. And now, 
when Iduna recollected that she was indebted to 
him for all that she held dear, that she owed to his 
disinterested devotion, not only life, but all that 
rentiers life desirable, — honour and freedom, country 
and kindred, — that image was invested with asso 
ciations and with sentiments, which, had Iskander 
himself been conscious of their existence, would 
have lent redoubled vigour to his arm, and fresh in- 
spiration to his energy. More than once Iduna 
had been on the point of inquiring of Nicsus the 
reason which had induced alike him and Iskander 
to preserve so strictly the disguise of his companion. 
But a feeling which she did not choose to analyze, 
struggled successfully with her curiosity : she felt a 
reluctance to speak of Iskander to the Prince of 
Athens. In the mean time, Nicteus himself was 
not apparently very anxious of conversing upon 
the subject, and after the first rapid expressions of 
fear and hope as to the situation of their late com- 
rade, they relapsed into silence, seldom broken by 
Nicaeus, but to deplore the sufferings of his mis- 
tress, — lamentations which Iduna answered with a 
faint smile. 

The refreshing scene wherein they had now en- 
tered, and the cheering appearance of the eremite 
were subjects of mutual congratulation, and Nicoeus, 
somewhat advancing, claimed the attention of the 
holy man, announcing their faith, imprisonment, 
escape, and sufferings, and entreating hospitality 
and refuge. The eremite pointed with his staff to 
the winding path, which ascended the bank of the 
river to the cavern, and welcomed the pilgrims in 
the name of their blessed Saviour to his wild abode 
and simple fare. 

The cavern widened when they entered, and 
comprised several small apartments. It was a work 
of the early Christians, who had f)und a refuge in 
their days of persecution, and art had completed 
the beneficent design of nature. The cavern was 
fresh, and sweet, and clean. Heaven smiled upon 
its pious inmate through an aperture in the roof; 
the floor was covered with rushes; in one niche 
rested a brazen cross, and in another a perpetual 
lamp burned before a picture, where Madonna 
smiled with meek tenderness upon her young di- 
vinity. 

The eremite placed upon a block of wood, the 
surface of which he had himself smoothed, some 
honey, some dried fish, and a wooden bowl filled 
with the pure stream that flowed beneath them : a 
simple meal but welcome. His guests seated 
themselves upon a rushy couch, and while they 
refreshed themselves, he gently inquired the history 
of their adventures. As it was evident that the 
eremite, from her apparel, mistook the sex of Iduna, 
Nicseus thought fit not to undeceive him, but passed 
her off as his brother. He described themselves as 
two Athenian youths, who had been captured 
while serving as volunteers under the great Hun- 
niades, and who had effected their escape from 
Adrianople under circumstances of great peril and 
2z2 



546 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



difficulty; and when he had gratified the eremite's 
curiosity respecting their Christian brethren in 
Paynim lands, and sympathetically marvelled with 
him at the advancing fortunes of the crescent, 
NictEus, who perceived that Iduna stood in great 
need of rest, mentioned the fatigues of his more 
fragile brother, and requested permission for him 
to retire. Whereupon the eremite himself, fetching 
3 load of fresh rushes, arranged them in one of the 
cells, and invited the fair Iduna to repose. The 
daughter of Hunniades, first humbling herself be- 
fore the altar of the Virgin, and offering her grati- 
tude for all the late mercies vouchsafed unto her, 
and then bidding a word of peace to her host and 
her companion, withdrew to her hard-earned couch, 
and soon was buried in a sleep as sweet and inno- 
cent as herself. 

But repose fell not upon the eyelids of NicKus 
in spite of all his labours. The heart of the Athe- 
nian prince was distracted by the two most powerful 
of passions — love and jealousy — and when the 
eremite, pointing out to his guest his allotted rest- 
ing-place, himself retired to his regular and simple 
slumbers, Nicajus quitted the cavern, and standing 
upon the bank of the river, gazed in abstraction 
upon the rushing waters foaming in the moonlight. 
The Prince of Athens, with many admirable quali- 
ties, was one of those men who are influenced only 
by their passions, and who, in the affairs of life, are 
invariably guided by their imagination instead of 
their reason. At present all thought and feeling, 
all considerations, and all circumstances, merged 
in the overpowering love he entertained for Iduna, 
his determination to obtain her at all cost and peril, 
and his resolution that she should never again meet 
Iskander, except as the wife of Nicsus. Com- 
pared with this paramount object, the future seemed 
to vanish. The emancipation of his country, the 
welfare of his friend, even the maintenance of his 
holy creed, all those great and noble objects for 
which, under other circumstances, he would have 
been prepared to sacrifice his fortune and his life, 
no longer interested or influenced him; and while 
the legions of the crescent were on the point of 
pouring into Greece to crush that patriotic and 
Christian cause over which Iskander and himself 
had so often mused, whose interests the disinterested 
absence of Iskander, occasioned solely by his devo- 
tion to Nicajus, had certainly endangered, and, 
perhaps, could the events of the last few hours be 
known, even sacrificed, the Prince of Athens re- 
solved, unless Iduna would consent to become his, 
at once to carry off" the daughter of Hunniades to 
some distant country. Nor, indeed, even with his 
easily excited vanity, was Nicaus sanguine of ob- 
taining his purpose by less violent means. He was 
already a rejected suitor, and under circumstances 
which scarcely had left hope. Nothing but the 
sole credit of her chivalric rescue could perhaps 
have obtained for him the interest in the heart of 
Iduna which he coveted. For while this exploit 
proftcred an irresistible claim to her deepest grati- 
tude, it indicated also, on the part of her deliverer, 
the presence and possession of all those great 
qtialitics, the absence of which in the character and 
conduct of her suitor, Iduna had not, at a former 
period, endeavoured to conceal to be the principal 
cause of his rejection. And now, by the unhappy 
course of circumstances, the very deed on which he 
CDuntcd, with sanguine hope, as the sure means of 
Lis success, seemed as it were to have placed him 



in a still inferior situation than before. The con 
stant society of his mistress had fanned the flame 
which, apart from her and hopeless, he had endea- 
voured to repress, to all its former force and ardour; 
while, on the other hand, he could not concea. 
from himself, that Iduna must feel that he had 
played in these great proceedings but a secondary 
part; that all the genius and all the generosity of 
the exploit rested with Iskander, who, after having 
obtained her freedom by so much energy, peril, 
sagacity, and skill, had secured it by a devoted 
courage which might shame all the knights of 
Christendom, perhaps, too, had secured it by his 
own life. 

What if Iskander were no morel It was a great 
contingency. The eternal servitude of Greece, and 
the shameful triumph of the crescent, were involved, 
perhaps, in that single event. And could the pos- 
session of Iduna compensate for such disgrace and 
infamy 1 Let us not record the wild i espouse of 
passion. 

It was midnight ere the restless NicaBUs, more 
exhausted by his agitating revery, than by his pre- 
vious exertions, returned into the cavern, and found 
refuge in sleep from all his disquietudes. 

XIV. 

The eremite rose with the sun : and while he 
was yet at matins, was joined by Iduna, refreshed 
and cheerful after her unusual slumbers. After per- 
forming their devotions, her venerable host pro- 
posed that they should go forth and enjoy the 
morning air. So, descending the precipitous bank 
of the river, he led the way to a small glen, the bed 
of a tributary rivulet, now nearly exhausted. Beau- 
tiful clumps of birch trees, and tall thin poplars, 
rose on each side among the rocks, which were 
covered with bright mosses, and parasitical plants 
of gay and various colours. One side of the glen 
was touched with the golden and grateful beams of 
the rising sun, and the other was in deep shadow. 

" Here you can enjoy nature and freedom in se- 
curity," said the eremite; " for your enemies, if they 
have-not already given up their pursuit, will scarcely 
search this sweet solitude." 

" It is indeed sweet, holy father," said Iduna 
" but the captive, who has escaped from captivity, 
can alone feel all its sweetness." 

" It is true," said the eremite ; "I also have been 
a captive." 

"Indeed ! holy father. To the infidels'?" 

" To the infidels, gentle pilgrim." 

"Have you been at Adrianople?" 

" My oppressors were not the Paynim," replied 
the eremite, " but they were enemies far more dire 
— my own evil passions. Time was when my eye 
sparkled like thine, gentle pilgrim, and my heart 
was not as pure." 

" God is merciful," said Iduna, " and without his 
aid, the strongest are but shadows." 

" Ever think so," replied the eremite, " and you 
will deserve rather his love than his mercy. Thirty 
long years have I spent in this solitude, meditating 
upon the past, and it is a theme yet fertile in in- 
struction. My hours are never heavy, and memory 
is to me what action is to other men." 

"You have seen much, holy father?" 

" And felt more. Yet you will perhaps think the 
result of all my experience very slight, for I can 
only say unto thee, Trust not in thyself." 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



547 



" It is a great truth," rcmaikcd Iduna, " and leads 
to a higher one." 

"Even so," replied the eremite. "We are full 
of wisdom in old age, as in winter this river is full 
of water, but the fire of youth, like the summer sun, 
dries up the stream." 

Iduna did not reply. The eremite attracted her 
attention to a patch of cresses on the opposite bank 
of the strctkn. " Every morn I rise only to discover 
fresh instances of omnipotent benevolence," he ex- 
claimed. " Yesterday ye tasted my honey and my 
lish. To-day I can otier ye a fresh dainty. \\c will 
break our fast in this pleasant glen. Rest thou here, 
gentle youth, and I will summon thy brotlier to our 
meal. I fear me much he does not bear so content- 
ed a spirit as thyself." 

" He is older, and has seen more," replied Idur^fi 

The eremite shook his head, and leaning on ''Is 
staff, returned to the cavern. Iduna remained, #'4t- 
ed on a mossy rock, listening to the awaking I i!l*ds, 
and musing over the fate of Iskander. While she 
was indulging in this revery, her name was called. 
She looked up with a blush, and beheld Nica-us. 

"How fares my gentle comrade?" inquired the 
Prince of Athens. 

" As well as I hope you are, dear Nicaus. We 
have been indeed fortunate in finding so kind a 
host." 

"I think I may now congratulate you on your 
safety," said the prince. "This unfrequented pass 
will lead us in two days to Epirus, nor do I indeed 
now fear pursuit." 

" Acts and not words must express in future how 
much we owe to you," said Iduna. " My joy would 
be complete if my father only knew of our safety, 
and if our late companion were here to share it." 

"Fear not for my friend," replied Nica;us. "I 
have faith in the fortune of Iskander." 

"If any one could succeed under such circum- 
stances, he doubtless is the man," rejoined Iduna ; 
" but it was indeed an awful crisis in his fate." 

" Trust me, dear lady, it is wise to banish gloomy 
thoughts." 

" We can give him only our thoughts,", said 
Iduna, " and when we remember how much is de- 
pendent on his life, can they be cheerful V 

" Mine must be so, when I am in the presence of 
Iduna," replied IVicaius. 

The daughter of Hunniades gathered moss from 
the rock and tlirew it into the stream. 

" Dear lady," said the Prince of Athens, seating 
himself by her side, and stealing her gentle hand. 
"Pardon me if an irrepressible feeling at this mo- 
ment impels me torecur to a subject, which, I would 
fain hope, were not so unpleasing to you, as once 
so unhappily you deemed it. 0! Iduna, Iduna, best 
and dearest, we are once more together ; once more 
I gaze upon that unrivalled form, and listen to the 
music of that matchless voice. I sought you, I per- 
haps violated my pledge, but I sought you in 
captivity and sorrow. Pardon me, pity me, Iduna! 
O ! Iduna, if possiltle, love me!" 

She turned away her head, she turned away her 
streaming eyes. " It is impossible not to love my 
deliverer," she replied, in a low and tremulous 
voire, " even could he not prefer the many other 
claims to atVection which are possessed by the 
Prince of Athens. I was not prepared for this re- 
newal of a most painful subject, perhai)s under no 
circumstances ; but least of all under those in which 
we now find ourselves. 



" Alas !" exclaimed the prince ; " I can no longer 
control my passion. My life, not my happiness 
merely, depends upon Iduna becoming mine. Bear 
with me, my beloved, bear with me ! Were you 
Nica;us, you too would need forgiveness." 

"I beseech you, cease!" exclaimed Iduna, in a 
firmer voice; and withdrawing her hand, she sud- 
denly rose. "This is neither the time nor jjlace 
for such conversation. I have not forgotten that, 
but a few days back, I was a hopeless captive, and 
that my life and fame are even now in danger. 
Great mercies have been vouchsafed to me; but 
still I perhaps need the hourly interposition of 
heavenly aid. Other than such worldly thoughts 
should fill my mind, and do. Dear iN'ica?us," she 
continued, in a more soothing tone, "you have 
nobly commenced a most heroic enterprise ; fulfil 
it in like spirit." 

He would have replied ; but at this moment, the 
staff of the eremite sounded among the rocks. 
Baffled, and dark with rage and passion, the Prince 
of Athens quitted Iduna, and strolled towards the 
upper part of the glen, to conceal his anger and dis- 
appointment. 

" Eat, gentle youth," said the eremite. 

" Will not thy brother join us ? What may be 
his name 1" 

"Nicffius, holy father." 

" And thine?" 

Iduna blushed and hesitated. At length, in her 
confusion, she replied " Iskander." 

" Nica;us !" called out the eremite, " Iskander and 
myself await thee !" 

Iduna trembled. She was agreeably surprised 
when the prince returned with a smiling counte- 
nance, and joined in the meal, with many cheerful 
words. 

" Now, I propose," said the eremite, " that your- 
self and your brother Iskander should tarry with me 
some days, if, indeed, my simple fare have any 
temptation." 

" I thank thee, holy father," replied Nicseus, " but 
our affairs are urgent ; nor indeed could I have tar- 
ried here at all, had it not been for my young Is- 
kander here, who, as you may easily helieve, is 
little accustomed to his late exertions. But, indeed, 
towards sunset, we must proceed." 

" Bearing with us," added Iduna, " a most grate- 
ful recollection of our host." 

"God be with ye, wherever ye may proceed," re- 
plied the eremite. 

"My trust is indeed in him," rejoined Iduna. 

XV. 

And so, two hours before sunset, mounting their 
refreshed horses, Nicteus and Iduna quitted, with 
many kind words, the cavern of the eremite, and 
took their v/ay along the winding of the river. 
Throughout the moonlit night they travelled, as- 
cending the last and highest chain of mountains, 
and reaching the summit by dawn. The cheerful 
light of morning revealed to them the ha[)py plains 
of a Christian country. With joyful spirits they 
descended into fertile land, and stopped at a beauti- 
ful Greek village, embowered in orchards and 
groves of olive trees. 

The Prince of Athens instantly inquired for the 
primate, or chief personage of the village, and wa:« 
conducted to his house ; but its master, he was in 
formed, was without, supervising the commence- 



548 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



ment of the vintage. Leaving Iduna with the fa- 
mily of the primate, Nicseiis went in search of 
him. The vineyard was full of groups, busied in 
the most elegant and joyous of human occupations, 
gathering, with infinite bursts of merriment, the 
harvest of the vine. Some mounted on ladders, 
fixed against the festooning branches, plucked the 
rich bunches,- and threw them below, where girls, 
singing in chorus, caught them in panniers, or their 
extended drapery. In the centre of the vineyard, 
a middle-aged man watched with a calm, but vigi- 
lant eye, the whole proceedings, and occasionally 
stimulated the indolent, or prompted the inexpe- 
rienced. 

"Christo!" said the Prince of Athens, when he 
had approached him. The primate turned round, 
but evidently did not immediately recognise the 
person who addressed him. 

" I see," continued t'he prince, " that my medi- 
tated caution was unnecessary. My strange garb 
is a sufficient disguise." 

"The Prince IS'icagus!" exclaimed the primate. 
" He is, indeed, disguised, but will, I am sure, par- 
don his faithful servant." 

"Not a word, Christo!" replied the prince. "To 
be brief. I have crossed the mountains from Rou- 
melia, and have only within this hour recognised 
the spot whither I have chanced to arrive. I have 
a companion with me. I would not be known. 
You comprehend ? Affairs of state. I take it for 
granted that there are none here who will recognise 
me, after three years' absence, in this dress." 

"You may feel secure, my lord," replied Christo. 
" If you puzzled mc, who have known you since 
you were no bigger than this bunch of grapes, you 
will quite confound the rest." 

" 'Tis well. I shall stay here a day or two, in 
order to give them an opportunity to prepare for 
my reception. In the mean time, it is necessary 
to send on a courier at once. You must manage 
all this for me, Christo. How are your daughters!" 
" So, so, please your highness," replied Christo. 
" A man with seven daughters has got trouble for 
every d^.ty in the week." 

"I3ut not when they are as pretty as yours 
are?" 

" Poh! poh ! Handsome is that handsome does; 
and as for Alexina, she wants to be married." 
"Very natural. Let her marry, by all means." 
" But Helena wants to do the same." 
"More natural still; for, if possible, she is pret- 
tier. For my part, I could marry them both." 

" Ay, ay ! that is all very well ; but handsome 
is that handsome does. I have no objection to 
Alexina marrying, and even Helena; but then there 

is Lais ." 

" Hah ! hah ! hah !" exclaimed the prince. " I 
see, my dear Christo, that my foster sisters give 
you a proper portion of trouble. However, I must 
be off to my travelling companion. Come in as 
soon as you can, my dear fellow, and we will settle 
every thing. A good vintage to you, and only as 
much mischief as is necessary." So saying, the 
jjrince tripped away. 

" Well ! who would have thought of seeing him 
here!" exclaimed the worthy primate. "The same 
gay dog as ever ! What can he have been doing 
in Roumelial Affairs of state, indeed ! I'll wager 
my new epiphany scarf, that, whatever the affairs 
are, there is a pretty girl in the case." 



XVL 

The fair Iduna, after all her perils and suffering?, 
was at length sheltered in safety under a kind and 
domestic roof. Alexina, and Helena, and Lais, 
and all the other sisters emulated each other in the 
attentions which they lavished upon the two bro 
thers, but especially the youngest. Their kind- 
ness, indeed, was only equalled by their ceaseless 
curiosity, and had they ever waited for the answeris; 
of Iduna to their questions, the daughter of Hun- 
niades might, perhaps, have been somewhat puzzled 
to reconcile her responses with probability. Helena 
answered the questions of Alexina: Lais antici- 
pated even Helena. All that Iduna had to do, was 
to smile and be silent, and it was universally agre&l 
that Iskander was singularly shy as well as exces- 
sively handsome. In the mean time, when Ni- 
crsas met Iduna in the evening of the second day 
of their visit, he informed her that he had been so 
fortunate as to resume an acquaintance with an old 
companion in arms in the person of a neighbouring 
noble, who had invited them to rest at his castle at 
the end of their next day's journey. He told her 
likewise that he had despatched a courier to Croia 
to inquire after Iskander, who, he expected, in the 
course of a very few days, would bring them intelli- 
gence to guide their future movements, and decide 
whether they should at once proceed to the capital 
of Epirus, or advance into Bulgaria, in case Hun- 
niades was still in the field. On the morrow, there- 
fore, they proceeded on their journey. Nicaeus had 
procured a litter for Iduna, for which her delicate 
health was an excuse to Alexina and her sisters, 
and they were attended by a small body of well- 
armed cavalry, for, according to the accounts which 
Nicrcus had received, the country was still dis- 
turbed. They departed at break of day, Nica3us 
riding by the side of the litter, and occasionally 
making the most anxious inquiries after the well- 
being of his fair charge. An hour after noon they 
rested at a well, surrounded by olive trees, until the 
extreme heat was somewhat allayed : and then re- 
mounting, proceeded in the direction of an undu- 
lating ridge of green hills, that partially intersected 
the wide plain. Towards sunset the Prince of 
Athens withdrew the curtains of the litter, and 
called the attention of Iduna to a very fair castle, 
rising on a fertile eminence and sparkling in the 
quivering beams of dying light. 

"I fear," said Nicoeus, "that my friend Justinian 
will scarcely have returned, but we are old com- 
rades, and he desired me to act as his seneschal. 
For your sake I am sorry, Iduna, for I feel con- 
vinced that he would please you." 

" It is, indeed, a fair castle," replied Iduna, " and 
none but a true knight deserves such a noble resi- 
dence." 

While she spoke, the commander of the escort 
sounded his bugle, and they commenced the ascent 
of the steep, a winding road, cut through a thick 
wood of evergreen shrubs. The gradual and easy 
ascent soon brought them to a portal flanked with 
towers, which admitted them into the outworks of 
the fortification. Here they found several soldiers 
on guard, and the commander again sounding his 
bugle, the gates of the castle opened, and the 
seneschal, attended by a suite of many domestics, 
advanced and welcomed Nicsus and Iduna. The 
Prince of Athens dismounting, assisted his fair 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



549 



companion from the litter, ami leaJing her hy the 
hand, and preceded by the seneschal, entered the 
castle. 

They passed through a magnificent hall, hung 
with choice armour, and ascending a staircase, of 
Pentelic marble, were ushered into a suite of lofty 
chambers, lined with oriental tapestry, and furnished 
with many costly couches and cabinets. While 
they admired a spectacle so dilVerent to any thing 
they had recently beheld or experienced, the senes- 
chal, followed by a number of slaves in splendid 
attire, advanced and oflered them rare and choice 
refreshments, cofl'ee and confectionary, sherbets and 
spiced wines. When they had partaken of this 
elegant cheer, Nicsus intimated to the seneschal 
that the Lady Iduna might probably wish to retire, 
and instanllv a discreet matron, followed by six 
most beautiful girls, each bearing a fragrant torch 
■of cinnamon and roses, advanced and offered to 
conduct the Lady Iduna to her apartments. 

The matron and her company of maidens con- 
ducted the daughter of Hunniades down a long 
gallery, which led to a suite of the prettiest cham- 
bers in the world. The first was an antechamber, 
painted like a bower, but filled with the music of 
living birds ; the second, which was much larger, 
was entirely covered with Venetian mirrors, and 
resting on a bright Persian carpet, were many 
couches of crimson velvet, covered with a variety 
of sumptuous dresses; the third room was a bath, 
made in the semblance of a gigantic shell. Its 
roof was of transparent alabaster, glowing with 
shadowy light. 

xvn. 

A FLounisH of trumpets announced the return 
of the Lady Iduna, and the Prince of Athens, magni- 
ficently attired, came forv^'ard with a smile and led 
her, with a compliment on her resuming the dress 
of her sex, if not of her country, to the banquet. 
Iduna was not uninfluenced by that excitement 
which is insensibly produced by a sudden change 
of scene and circumstances, and especially by an 
unexpected transition from hardship, peril, and suf- 
fering, to luxury, security, and enjoyment. Their 
spirits were elevated and gay : she smiled upon 
Nicajus with a cheerful sympathy. They feasted, 
they listened to sweet music, they talked over their 
late adventures, and animated by their own enjoy- 
ment, they became more sanguine as to the fate of 
Iskander. 

" In two or three days we shall know more," 
said Nicajus. "In the mean time, rest is absolutely 
necessary to you. It is only now that you will 
i)egin to be sensible of the exertion you have made. 
If Iskander be at Croia, he has already informed 
your father of your escape; if he have not arrived, 
I have arranged that a courier shall be despatched 
(o Hunniades from that city. Do not be anxious. 
Pry to be happy. I am myself sanguine that you 
will find all well. Come, pledge me your father's 
nealth, fair lady, in this goblet of Tenedos !" 

" How know I that at this moment he may not 
DC at the point of death?" replied Iduna. " When 
I am absent from those I love, I dream only of their 
unhappiness." 

" At this moment also," rejoined Nicaus, " he 
dreams perhaps of your imprisonment among bar- 
barians. Yet how mistaken ! Let that considera- 
tion support you. Come ! here is to the eremite." 

" As willing, if not as sumptuous a host as our 



present one," said Iduna; and when,by-the-by, do 
you think that your friend, the Lord Justinian, will 
arrive." 

" O ! never mind him," said Nicteus. " He 
would have arrived to-morrow, but the great news 
which I gave him has probably changed his plans. 
1 told him of the approaching invasion, and he has 
perha|)s found it necessary to visit the neighbour- 
ing chieftains, or even to go on to Croia." 

" Well-a-day !" exclaimed Iduna, " I would we 
were in my father's camp !" 

" We shall soon be there, dear lady," replied the 
prince. " Come, worthy seneschal,'' he added, 
turning to that functionary, "drink to this noble 
lady's happy meeting with her friends." 

XVIII. 

Three or four days passed away at the castle of 
Justinian, in which Nica'.us used his utmost exer- 
tions to divert the anxiety of Iduna. One day 
was spent in examining tlie castle, on another he 
amused her with a hnwking-party, on a third he 
carried her to the neighbouring ruins of a temple, 
and read his favourite ^■Eschylus to her amid its 
lone and elegant columns. It was impossible for 
any one to lie more amiable and entertaining, and 
Iduna could not resist from recognising his many 
virtues and accomplishments. The courier had 
not yet returned from Croia, which NicECUs ac- 
counted for by many satisfactory reasons. The 
suspense, however, at length became so painful to 
Iduna, that she proposed to the Prince of Athens 
that they should, without further delay, proceed to 
that city. As usual, Nica?us was not vvanting in 
many plausible arguments in favour of their re- 
maining at the castle, but Iduna was resolute. 

" Indeed, dear Nicfeus," she said, " my anxiety 
to see my father, or hear from him, is so great, that 
there is scarcely any danger which I would not en- 
counter to gratify my wish. I feel that I have 
already taxed your endurance too much. But we 
are no longer in a hostile land, and guards and 
guides are to be engaged. Let me then depart 
alone !" 

" Iduna !" exclaimed Nicfcus. reproachfully 
"Alas! Iduna, you are cruel, but I did not expect 
this!" 

"Dear Nicscus!" she answered, "you always 
misinterpret me! It would infinitely delight me 
to be restored to Hunniades by yourself, but these 
are no common times, and you are no common 
person. You forget that there is one that has 
greater claims upon you even than a forlorn 
maiden — your country. And whether Iskander be 
at Croia or not, Creece requires the presence and 
exertions of the Prince of Athens." 

" I have no country," replied Nicajus, mourn- 
fully, " and no object for which to exert myself." 

"Nicaeus! Is this the poetic patriot who was 
yesterday envying Theniistocles 1" 

"Alas ! Iduna, yesterday you were my muse. I 
do not wonder you are wearied of this castle," con- 
tinued the prince, in a melancholy tone. " This 
spot contains nothing to interest you ; but for me, 
it holds all that is dear, and — O ! gentle maiden, 
one smile from you, one smile of inspiration, and I 
wouM not envy Themistocles, and might perhaps 
rival him." 

They were walking together in the hall of the 
castle; Iduna stepped aside and alTected to eia 



550 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



mine a curious buckler. Nicteus followecl her, and 
placing his arm gently in hers, led her away. 

" Dearest Iduna," he said, " pardon me, but men 
struggle for their fate. Mine is in your power. It 
is a contest between misery and happiness, glory 
and perhaps infamy. Do not then wonder that I 
will not yield my chance of the brighter fortune 
without an effort. Once more I appeal to your 
pity if not to your love. Were Iduna mine, were 
she to hold out but the possibility of her being 
mine, there is no career — solemnly I avow what 
solemnly I feel — there is no career of which I could 
not be capable, and no conditions to which I would 
not willingly subscribe. But this certainty, or this 
contingency, I must have : I cannot exist without 
the alternative. And now, upon my knees, I im- 
plore her to grant it to me !" 

" Nicffius," said Iduna, "this continued recur- 
rence to a forbidden subject is most ungenerous." 

" Alas ! Iduna, my life depends upon a word, 
which you will not speak, and you t:Uk of gene- 
rosity ! No ! Iduna, it is not I that am ungene- 
rous." 

" Let me say then unreasonable, Prince Nica;us." 

" Say what you like, Iduna, provided you say 
that you are mine." 

" Pardon me, sir; I am free." 

"Free! You have ever underrated me, Iduna. 
To whom do you owe this boasted freedom ?" 

" This is not the first time," remarked Iduna, 
" that you have reminded me of an obligation, the 
memory of which is indelibly impressed upon my 
heart, and for which even the present conversation 
cannot make me feel less grateful. I can never for- 
get that I owe all that is dear to yourself and your 
companion." 

" My companion !" replied the Prince of Athens, 
pale and passionate. " My companion ! Am I ever 
to be reminded of my companion?" 

" Nicfeus !" said Iduna; "if you forget what is 
due to me, at least endeavour to remember what is 
due to yourself!" 

" Beautiful being !" said the prince, advancing 
and passionately seizing her hand; "pardon me! — 
pardon me ! I am not master of my reason ; I am 
nothing, I am nothing while Iduna hesitates." 

" She does not hesitate, Nicaus. I desire — I re- 
quire that this conversation shall cease — shall 
never, never be renewed." 

" And I tell thee, haughty woman," said the 
Prince of Athens, grinding his teeth, and speaking 
with violent action, " that I will no longer be 
despised with impunity. Iduna is mine, or is no 
one else's." 

" Is it possible !" exclaimed the daughter of Hun- 
ntades. " Is it indeed come to this 1 But why 
am I surprised 1 I have long known Nicaeus. I 
quit this castle instantly." 

"You are a prisoner," replied the prince, very 
•almly, and leaning with folded arms against the 
wall. 

" A prisoner!" exclaimed Iduna, a little alarm- 
ed — "A prisoner ! I defy you, sir. You are only 
a guest like myself. I will appeal to the seneschal 
in the absence of his lord. He will never permit 
the honour of his master's flag to be violated by the 
irrational caprice of a passionate boy." 

" What lord 1" inquired Nicajus. 

" Your friend, the Lord Justinian," answered 
Iduna. " He could little anticipate such an abuse 
of his hospitality." 



" My friend, the Lord Justinian !" replied Ni 
CfEus, with a malignant smile. " I am surprised 
that a personage of the Lady Iduna's deep discrimi- 
nation should so easily be deceived by ' a passionate 
boy I' Is it possible that you could have supposed 
for a moment that there was any ether lord of this 
castle, save your devoted slave 1" 

" What !" exclaimed Iduna, really frightened. 

" I have indeed the honour of finding the Lady 
Iduna my guest," continued Nicsus, in a tone of 
bitter raillery. " This castle of Kallista, the fairest 
in all Epirus, I inherit from my mother. Of late I 
have seldom visited it ; but indeed it will become 
a favourite residence of mine, if it be, as I antici- 
pate, the scene of my nuptial ceremony." 

Iduna looked around her with astonishment, then 
threw herself upon a couch, and burst into tears. 
The Prince of Athens walked up and down the 
hall with an air of determined coolness. 

"Perfidious!" exclaimed Iduna between her 
sobs. 

"Lady Iduna," said the prince, and he seated 
himself by her side. "I will not attempt to pal- 
liate a deception which your charms could alone in- 
spire and can alone justify. Hear me. Lady Iduna, 
hear me with calmness. I love you ; I love with a 
passion which has been as constant as it is strong. 
My birth, my rank, my fortunes, do not disqualify 
me for a union with the daughter of the great Hun- 
niades. If my personal claims may sink in com- 
parison with her surpassing excellence, I am yet to 
learn that any other prince in Christendom can urge 
a more effective plea. I am young ; the ladies of 
the court have called me handsome ; by your great 
father's side I have broken some lances in your 
honour; and even Iduna once confessed she thought 
me clever. Come, come, be merciful ! Let my 
beautiful Athens receive a fitting mistress. A holy 
father is in readiness, dear maiden. Come now, 
one smile ! In a few days we shall reach your 
father's camp, and then we will kneel, as I do now, 
and beg a blessing on our happy union." As he 
spoke, he dropped upon his knee, and stealing her 
hand, looked into her face. It was sorrowful and 
gloomy. 

" It is vain, Nicteus," said Iduna, " to appeal to 
vour generosity ; it is useless to talk of the past ; 
it is idle to reproach you for the present. I am a 
woman, alone and persecuted, where I could least 
anticipate persecution. Nicfeus, I never can be 
yours ; and now I deliver myself to the mercy of 
Almighty God." 

" 'Tis well," replied Nicseus. " From the tower 
of the castle you may behold the waves of the 
Ionian sea. You will remain here a close prisoner, 
until one of my galleys arrives from Piraeus, to 
bear us to Italy. Mine you must be, Iduna. It re- 
mains for you to decide under what circumstances. 
Continue in your obstinacy, and you may bid fare- 
well for ever to your country and to your father. 
Be reasonable, and a destiny awaits you which 
oflfers every thing that has hitherto been considered 
the source or cause of happiness." Thus speak- 
ing, the prince retired, leaving Lady Iduna to her 
own unhappy thoughts. 

XIX. 

The Lady Iduna was at first inclined to view the 
conduct of the Prince of Athens as one of those 
passionate and passing ebullitions in which her 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



551 



long acquaintance with him had tauc;ht her he was 
accustomed to indulge. But when on retiring soon 
after to her apartments, she was informed by her 
attendant matron that she must in future consider 
herself a prisoner, and not venture again to quit 
them without permission, she began to tremble at 
the possible violence of an ill-regulated mind. She 
endeavoured to interest her attendant in her behalf; 
but the matron was too well schooled to evince any 
feeling or express any opinion on the subject; and 
indeed, at length, fairly informed Iduna that she 
was commanded to confine her conversation to the 
duties of her ofTice. 

The Lady Iduiiavvas very unhappy. She thought 
of her father, she thought of Iskander. The past 
seemed a dream ; she was often tempted to believe 
that she was still, and had ever been, a prisoner in 
the serail of Adrianople; and that all the late won- 
derful incidents of her life were but the shifting 
scenes of some wild slumber. And then some 
Blight incident, the sound of a bell, or the sight of 
some holy emblem, assured her she was in a 
Christian land, and convinced her of the strange 
truth that she was indeed in captivity, and a pri- 
soner, above all others, to the fond companion of 
her youth. Her indignation at the conduct of Ni- 
cseus roused her courage ; she resolved to make an 
elTort to escape. Her rooms were only lighted from 
above ; she determined to steal forth at night into 
the gallery ; the door was secured. She hastened 
back to her chamber in fear and sorrow, and wept. 
Twice in the course of the day the stern and 
silent matron visited Iduna with her food ; and as 
she retired, secured the door. This was the only 
individual that the imprisoned lady ever beheld. 
And thus heavily rolled on upwards of a week. 
On the eve of the ninth day, Iduna was surprised 
by the matron presenting her a letter as she quitted 
the chamber for the night. Iduna seized it with a 
feeling of curiosity not unmixed with pleasure. It 
was the only incident that had occurred during her 
captivity. She recognised the handwriting of Ni- 
csEUs. and threw it down with vexation at her silli- 
ness in supposing, for a moment, that the matron 
could have been the emissary of any other person. 
Yet the letter must be read, and at length she 
opened it. It informed her that a ship had arrived 
from Athens at the coast, and that to-morrow she 
must depart for Italy. It told her also, that the 
Turks, under Mahomed, had invaded Albania; 
and that the Hungarians under the command of 
her father, had come to support the cross. It said 
nothing of Iskander. But it reminded her that 
little more than the same time that would carry 
her to the coast to embark for a foreign land, would. 
were she wise, alike enable Nica3us to place her in 
her father's arms, and allow him to jc)in in the 
great struggle for his country and his creed. The 
letter was written with firnmess, but tenderly. It 
left, however, on the mind of Iduna, an impression 
of the desperate resolution of the writer. 

Now it so happened that as this unhappy lady 
jumped from her couch, and paced the room in the 
perturbation of her mind, the wind of her drapery 
extinguished her lamp. As her attendant or jailer, 
had paid her last visit for the day, there seemed 
little chance of its being again illumined. The 
miserable are always more unhappy in the dark. 
Light is the greatest of comforters. And this little 
misfortune seemed to the forlorn Iduna almost over- 
whelming. And as she attempted to look around, 



and wrung her hands in very wo, her attention 
was attracted by a brilliant streak of light upon the 
wall, which greatly surprised her. She groped her 
way in its direction, and slowly stretching forth hei 
hand, observed that it made its way through a 
chink in the frame of one of the great mirrors 
which were inlaid in the wall. As she pressed the 
frame, she felt to her surprise that it sprang for- 
ward. Had she not been very cautioaBk-tl-e ad- 
vancing mirror would have struck her '^p great 
force, but she had presence of mind to withdraw 
her hand very gradually, repressing the swiftness *: 
of the spring. The aperture occasioned by the ^ 
opening of the mirror consisted of a recess, formed 
by a closed up window. An old wooden shutter, 
or blind, in so ruinous a state, that the light freely 
made its way, was the only barrier against the ele- 
ments. Iduna seizing the handle which remained, 
at once drew it open with little difficulty. 

The captive gazed with gladdened feelings upon 
the free and beautiful scene. Beneath her rose the 
rich and aromatic shrubs tinged with the soft and 
silver light of eve : before her extended the wide 
and fertile champaign, skirted by the dark and un- 
dulating mountains: in the clear sky, glittering and 
sharp, sparkled the first crescent of the new moon, 
an auspicious omen to the Moslemin invaders. 

Iduna gazed with joy upon the landscape, and 
then hastily descending from the recess, she placed 
her hands to her eyes, so long unaccustomed to the 
light. Perhaps, too, she indulged in momentary 
meditation. For suddenly seizing a number of 
shawls which were lying on the couches, she 
knotted them together, and then s'riving with ail 
her force, she placed the heaviest couch on one 
end of the costly cord, and then throwing the other 
out of the window, and intrusting herself to the 
merciful care of the holy Virgin, the brave daughter 
of Hunniades successfully dropped down into the 
garden below. 

She stopped to breathe, and to revel in her eman- 
cipated existence. It was a bold enterprise gal 
lantly achieved. But the danger had now only 
commenced. She found that she had lighted at 
the back of the castle. She stole along upon tip- 
toe, timid as a fawn. She remembered a small 
wicket-gate that led into the open country. She 
arrived at it. It was of course guarded. The sin- 
gle sentinel was kneeling before an image of St. 
George beside him was an empty drinking-cup 
and an exhausted wine-skin. 

" Holy saint !" exclaimed the pious sentinel, 
"preserve us from all Turkish infidels!" Iduna 
stole behind him. "Shall men who drink no wine 
conquer true Christians !" continued the sentinel. 
Iduna placed her hand upon the lock. " We thank 
thee for our good vintage," said the sentinel. Idana 
opened the gate with the noiseless touch which a 
feminine finger alone can command. "And for 
the rise of Lord Iskander !" added the sentinel. 
Iduna escaped ! 

Now she indeed was free. Swiftly she ran over 
the wide plain. She hoped to reach some town or 
village before her escape could be discovered, and 
she hurried on for three hours without resting. 
She came to a beautiful grove of olive trees that 
spread in extensive ramifications about the plain. 
And through this beautiful grove of olive trees her 
path seemed to lead. So she entered and advanced. 
And when she had journeyed for about a mile, she 
came to an open and very verdant piece of ground. 



553 



©'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



which was, as it were, the heart of the grove. In 
its centre rose a fair and antique structure of white 
marble, shrouding from the noonday sun the peren- 
nial fiow of a very famous fountain. It was near 
pn midnight. Iduna was wearied, and she sat 
down upon the steps of the fountain for rest. And 
while she was musing over all the strange adven- 
tures of her life, she heard a rustling in the wood, 
no being alarmed, she rose and hid herself behind 
tree. 

And while she stood there, with palpitating 
heart, the figure of a man advanced to the fountain 
ficni an opposite direction of the grove. He went 
up the steps, and looked down upon the spring as 
if he were about to drink, but instead of doing 
that, he drew his cimeter and plunged it into the 
water, and called out with a loud voice the name 
of " Iskanderi" three times. Whereupon Iduna, 
actuated by an irresistible impulse, came forward 
from her hiding-place, but instantly gave a loud 
shriek when she beheld — the Prince Mahomed ! 

" O ! night of glory !" exclaimed the prince, ad- 
vancing, " Do I indeed behold the fair Iduna ! 
This is truly magic!'' 

" Away ! away !" exclaimed the distracted Iduna, 
as she endeavoured to fly from him. 

" He has kept his word, that cunning leech, bet- 
ter than I expected," said Mahomed, seizing her. 

" As well as you deserve, ravisher !" exclaimed 
a majestic voice. A tall figure rushed forward from 
the wood and dashed back the Turk. 

"I am here to complete my contract. Prince 
Mahomed," said the stranger, drawing his sword. 

" Iskander!" exclaimed the prince. 

" We have met before, prince. Let us so act 
now that we may meet for the last time." 

"Infamous, infernal traitor," exclaimed Maho- 
med, " dost thou, indeed, imagine that I will sully 
my imperial blade with the blood of my runaway 
slave ! No ! I came here to secure thy punish- 
ment, but I cannot condescend to become thy pun- 
isher. Advance, guards, and seize him! Seize 
them both I" 

Iduna flew to Iskander, who caught her in one 
arm, while he waved his cimeter with the other. 
The guards of Mahomed poured forth from the 
side of the grove whence the prince had issued. 

"And dost thou, indeed, think, Mahomed," said 
Iskander, "that I have been educated in the seraglio 
to be duped by Moslemin craft? I offer thee sin- 
gle combat if thou desirest it, but combat as we 
may, the struggle shall be equal." He whistled, 
and instantly a body of Hungarians, headed by 
Hunniades himself, advanced from the side of the 
grove whence Iskander had issued. 

" Come on, then," said Mahomed ; " each to his 
inan." Their swords clashed, but the principal 
attendants of the son of Amurath, deeming the 
affair, under the present circumstances, assumed 
the character of a mere rash adventure, bore away 
the Turkish prince. 

" To-morrow, then, this fray shall be decided, on 
the plains of Kallisla," said Mahomed. 

" Epirus is prepared," replied Iskander. 

The Turks withdrew. Iskander bore the sense- 
less form of Iduna to her father. Hunniades em- 
braced his long lost child. They sprinkled her 
face with water from the fountain. She revived. 

" Where is Nica^us," inquired Iskander ; " and 
how came you again, dear lady, in the power of 
Mahomed 1" 



" Alas ! noble sir, my twice deliverer," answered 
Iduna, " I have, indeed, again been doomed to 
captivity, but my persecutor, I blush to say, was 
this time a Christian prince." 

" Holy Virgin !" exclaimed Iskander. " Who 
can this villain be 1" 

" The villain. Lord Iskander, is your friend; and 
your pupil, dear father." 

"Nicaeusof Athens!" exclaimed Hunniades. 

Iskander was silent and melancholy. 

Thereupon the Lady Iduna recounted to her fa- 
ther and Iskander, sitting between them on the 
margin of the fount, all that had occurred to her, 
since herself and Nicajus parted with Iskander; 
nor did she omit to relate to Hunniades all the devo- 
tion of Iskander, respecting which, like a truly 
brave man, he had himself been silent. The great 
Hunniades scarcely knew which rather to do, to 
lavish his affection on his beloved child, or his gra- 
titude upon Iskander. Thus they went on con- 
versing for some time, Iskander placing his own 
cloak around Iduna, and almost unconsciously 
winding his arm around her unresisting form. 

Just as they were preparing to return to the 
Christian camp, a great noise was heard in the 
grove, and presently, in the direction whence Iduna 
had arrived, there came a band of men, bearing 
torches and examining the grove in all directions 
i'.i great agitation. Iskander and Hunniades stood 
upon their guard, but soon perceived they were 
Greeks. Their leader, seeing a group near the 
fountain, advanced to make inquiries respecting 
the object of his search, but when he indeed re- 
cognised the persons who formed the group, the 
torch fell from his grasp, and he turned away his 
head and hid his face in his hands. 

Iiluna clung to her father; Iskander stood with 
his eyes fixed upon the ground, but Hunniades, 
stern and terrible, disembarrassing himself of the 
grasp of his daughter, advanced and laid his hand 
upon the stranger. 

"Young man," said the noble father, "were it 
contrition instead of shame that inspired this atti- 
tude, it might be better. I have often warned you 
of the fatal consequences of a reckless indulgence 
of the passions. More than once I have predicted 
to you, that however great might be your confi- 
dence in your ingenuity and your resources, the 
hour would arrive when such a career would place 
you in a position as despicable as it was shameful. 
That hour has arrived, and that position is now 
filled by the Prince of Athens. You stand before 
the three individuals in this world whom you have 
most injured, and whom you were most bound to 
love and to protect. Here is a friend, who has ha- 
zarded his property and his existence for your life 
and your happiness. And you have made him a 
mere pander to your lusts, and then deserted him 
in his greatest necessities. This maiden was the 
companion of your youth, and entitled to your 
kindest offices. You have treated her infinitely 
worse than her Turkish captor. And for myself, 
sir, your father was my dearest friend. I endea- 
voured to repay his friendship by supplying his 
place to his orphan child. How I discharged my 
duty, it becomes not me to say: how you have dis- 
charged yours, this lady here, my daughter, your 
late prisoner, sir, can best prove." 

"O! spare me, spare me, sir," said the Prince of 
Athens, turning and falling upon his knee. " I am 
most wretched. Every word cuts to my very core 



THE RISE OF ISKANDER. 



553 



Just Providpnce has baflleJ all my arts, and I am 
grateful. Whether this lady can, indeed, forgive 
me, I hardly dare to think, or even hope. And 
yet forgiveness is a heavenly boon. Perhaps the 
memory of old days may melt her. As for your- 
self, sir — but I'll not speak, I cannot. Noble 
Iskander, if I mistake not, you may whisper words 
in that fair ear, less grating than my own. May 
you be happy! I will not profane your prospects 
with my vows. And yet I'll say farewell!" 

The Prince of .\lhens turned away with an air 
of complete wretchedness, and slowly withdrew. 
Iskander followed him. 

"Nic£Eiis," said Iskander; but the prince entered 
the grove, and did not turn round. 

" Dear Nica;us," said Iskander. The prince 
hesitated. 

" Jjct us not part thus," said Iskander. " Iduna 
is most unhappy. She bade me tell you she had 
forgotten all." 

'• God bless her, and God bless you too!" replied 
Nicffius. " I pray you let me go." 

"Jsay! dear Nieajus, are we not friends 1" 

" The best and truest, Iskander. I will to the 
camp, and meet you in your tent ere morning break. 
At present, I would be alone." 

" Dear Nicoeus, one word. You have said upon 
one point, what I could well wish unsaid, and dared 
to prophesy what may never happen. I am not 
made for such supreme felicity. Epirus is my 
mistress, my Nicaeus. As there is a living God, 
my friend, most solemnly I vow, I have had no 
thoughts in this affair, but for your_ honour." 

" I know it, my dear friend, I know it," replied 
Nica;us. " I keenly feel your admirable worth. 
Bay no more, say no more ! She is a fit wife for 
a hero, and you are one!" 



XX. 

Aftkr (he battle of the bridge, Iskander had 
hurried to Croia without delay. In his progress, 
he had made many fruitless inquiries after Iduna and 
Nicscus, but he consoled himself for the unsatisfac- 
tory answers he received by the opinion that they 
had taken a different course, and the conviction 
that all must now be safe. The messenger from 
Croia that informed Hunniades of the escape of his 
daughter, also solicited his aid in favour of Epirus 
against the impending invasion of the Turks, and 
stimulated by personal gratitude as well as bv pub- 
lic duty, Hunniades answered the solicitation in 
person, at the head of twenty thousand lances. 

Hunniades and Iskander had mutually flattered 
themselves when apart, that each would be able to 
quell the anxiety. of the other on the subject of 
Iduna. The leader of Epirus flattered himself thift 
his late companions had proceeded at once to 
Tratisylvania, and the vaivode himself had in- 
dulged in the delightful hope that the first person 
be should embrace at Croia would be his long-lost 
child. VVMien, therefore, they met, and were mu- 
tually incapable of imparting any information on 
the subject to each other, they were filled with 
astonishment and disquietude. Events, however, 
gave them little opportunity to indulge in anxiety 
or grief. On the day that Hunniades and his 
lances arrived at Croia, the invading army of the 
Turks under the Prince Mahomed crossed the 
70 



mountains, and soon after pitched their camp on 

the fertile plain of Kallista. 

As Iskander, by the aid of Hunniades and the 
neighbouring princes, and the patriotic exertions 
of his countrymen^, was at this moment at the head 
of a force which the Turkish prince could not have 
anticipated, he resolved to march at once to meet 
the Ottomans, and decide the fate of Greece by a 
pitched battle. ^^ 

The night before the arrival of Iduna at the fa- 
mous fountain, the Christian army had taken up 
its position within a few miles of the Turks. The 
turbaned warriors wished to delay the engagement 
until the new moon, the eve of which was at hand. 
And it happened on that said eve that Iskander, 
calling to mind his contract with the Turkish 
prince made in the gardens of the seraglio at Adrian- 
ople, and believing from the superstitious character 
of Mahomed that he would not fail to be at the 
appointed spot, resolved, as we have seen, to repair 
to the fountain of Kallista. 

And now from that fountain the hero retired, 
bearing with him a prize scarcely less precious than 
the freedom of the country, for which he was to 
combat on the morrow's morn. 

Ere the dawn had broken, the Christian power 
was in motion. Iskander commanded the centre, 
Hunniades the right wing. The left was intrusted 
at his urgent request to the Prince of .Athens. A 
mist that hung about the plain, allowed Nieajus to 
charge the right wing of the Turks almost unper- 
ccived. He charged with irresistible fury, and soon 
disorcfered the ranks of the Moslemin. Mahomed 
with the reserve hastened to their aid. A mighty 
multitude of janissaries, shouting the name of Allah 
and his prophet, penetrated the Christian centre 
Hunniades endeavoured to attack them on their 
flank, but was himself charged by the Turkish 
cavalry. The battle was now general, and raged 
with terrible fury. Iskander had secreted in his 
centre a new and powerful battery of cannon, pre- 
sented to him by the pope, and which had just ar- 
rived from Venice. This battery played upon the 
janissaries with great destruction. He himself 
mowed them down with his irresistible cimeter. 

Infinite was the slaughter! awful the uproar! 
But of all the Christian knights, this day, no one 
performed such mighty feats of arms as the Prince 
of Athens. With a reckless desperation, he dashed 
about the field, and every thing seemed to yield to 
his inspiring impulse. His example animated his 
men with such a degree of enthusiasm, that the 
division to which he was opposed, although en- 
couraged by the presence of Mahomed himself, 
could no longer withstand the desperate courage 
of the Christians, and they fled in all directions. 
Then, rushing to the aid of Iskander, Nicsjus, at 
the head of a body of picked men, dashed upon the 
rear of the janissaries, and nearly surrounded them. 
Hunniades instantly made a fresh charge upon the 
left wing of the Turks. A panic fell upon the 
Moslemin, who were little prepared for such a 
demonstration of strength on the part of their 
adversaries. In a few minutes their order seemed 
generally broken, and their leaders in vain endea- 
voured to rally them. Waving his bloody cimeter, 
and bounding on his black charger, Iskander called 
upon his men to secure the triumph of the cross 
and the freedom of Epirus. Pursuit was now 
general. 

3A 



554 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



XXI. 

The Turks were massacred by thousands. Ma- 
homed, when he found that all was lost, fled to the 
mountains, with a train of guards and eunuchs, and 
left the care of his dispersed host to his pashas. 
The hills were covered with the fugitives and their 
pursuers. Some also fled to the sea-shore, where 
the Turkish fleet was at anchor. The plain was 
strewn with corpses and arms, and tents and stand- 
ards. The sun was now high in the heavens. 
The mist had cleared away ; but occasional clouds 
of smoke still sailed about. 

A solitary Christian knight entered a winding 
pass in the green hills, apart from the scene of strife. 
The slow and trembling step of his wearied steed 
would have ill qualified him to join in the trium- 
phant pursuit, even had he himself been physically 
enabled ; but the Christian knight was covered 
with gore, unhappily not alone that of his enemies. 
He was, indeed, streaming with desperate wounds, 
and scarcely could his fainting form retain its tot- 
tering scat. 

The winding pass, which, for some singular 
reason, he now pursued in solitude, instead of re- 
turning to the busy camp for aid and assistance, 
conducted the knight to a small green valley, 
covered with sweet herbs, and entirely surrounded 
by hanging woods. In the centre rose the ruins 
of a Doric fane: three or four columns gray and 
majestic. All was still and silent, save that in the 
clear blue sky an eagle flew, high in the air, but 
whirling round the temple. 

The knight reached the ruins of the Doric fane, 
and with difficulty dismounting from his charger, 
fell upon the soft and flowery turf, and for some 
moments was motionless. His horse stole a few 
yards away, and, though scarcely less injured than 
Its rider, instantly commenced cropping the inviting 
pasture. 

At length the Christian knight slowly raised his 
head, and leaning on his arm, sighed deeply. His 
face was very pale; but as he looked up and per- 
ceived the eagle in the heaven, a smile played upon 
his pallid cheek, and his beautiful eye gleamed with 
a sudden flash of light. 



" Glorious bird !" murmured the Christian war- 
rior, " once I deemed that my career might resemble 
thine ! 'Tis over now ; and Greece, for which I 
would have doi e so much, will soon forget my 
immemorial name. I i»ave stolen here to die in 
silence and in beauty. This blue air, and these 
green woods, and these lone columns, which oft to 
me have been a consolation, breathing of the poetic 
past, and of the days wherein I fain had lived, I 
have escaped from the fell field of carnage to die 
among them. Farewell ! my country ! Farewell 
to one more beautiful than Greece — farewell, Idu- 
na!" 

These were the last words of Nicsus, Prince of 
Athens ! 

XXII. 

While the unhappy lover of the daughter of 
Hunniades breathed his last words to the solitary 
elements, his more fortunate friend received, in the 
centre of his scene of triumph, the glorious con- 
gratulations of his emancipated country. The dis- 
comfiture of the Turks was complete, and this 
overthrow, coupled with their recent defeat in Bul- 
garia, secured Christendom from their assaults 
during the remainder of the reign of Amurath the 
Second. Surrounded by his princely allies, and 
the chieftains of Epirus, the victorious standards of 
Christendom, and the triumphant trophies of the 
Moslemin, Iskander received from the great Hun- 
niades the hand of his beautiful daughter. — "Thanks 
to these brave warriors," said the hero, " I can now 
offer to your daughter a safe, an honourable, and a 
Christian home." 

" It is to thee, great sir, that Epirus owes its se- 
curity," said an ancient chieftain, addressing Iskan- 
der, " its national existence, and its holy religion. 
All that we have to do now is to preserve them ; 
nor indeed do I see that we can more effectually ob- 
tain these great objects than by entreating the* to 
mount the redeemed throne of thy ancestors. There- 
fore I say, God SAVE Iskander, King of Epirus !" 

And all the people shouted and said, " God sate 
THE king! God save Iskandeb, King of Epi- 




HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



A LOVE STORY. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



' Quoih Sancho, ' Read il out, by all means ; for I mighily delight in hearing of love-fltories.' " 



BOOK I. 
CHAPTER I. 

«OME ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF AKMUfE, ASD 
ESPECIALLT OF Sill FERDIXAJfD AND SIR H AT- 
CLIFFE. 

The family of Armine entered England with 
William the Norman. Ralph D'Ermyn was stand- 
ard bearer of the Conqueror, and shared prodigally 
in the plunder, as appears by Domesday Book. At 
the time of the general survey, the family of Ermy n, 
or Armyn, possessed numerous manors in Notting- 
hamshire, and several in the shire of Lincoln. 
William d'Armyn, lord of the honour of Armyn, 
was one of the subscribing barons to the Great 
Charter. His predecessor died in the Holy Land 
before Ascalon. A succession of stout barons and 
valiant knights maintained the high fortunes of the 
family; and, in the course of the various struggles 
with France, they obtained possession of several 
fair castles in Guienne and Gascony. In the wars 
of the Roses the Armyns sided with the house of 
Lancaster. Ferdinand Armyn, who shared the exile 
of Henry the Seventh, was knighted on Bosworth 
Field, and soon after created Earl of Tewkesbury. 
Faithful to the Church, the second Lord Tewkes- 
bury became involved in one of those numerous 
risings that harrassed the last years of Henry the 
Eighth. The rebellion was unsuccessful. Lord 
Tewkesbury was beheaded, his blood attainted, and 
his numerous estates forfeited to the crown. A 
younger branch of the family, who had adopted 
Protestantism, married the daughter of Sir Francis 
Walsingham, and attracted, by his talents in nego- 
tiation, the notice of Queen Elizabeth. He was 
f-ent on a secret mission to the Low Countries, 
where, having greatly distinguished himself, he ob- 
tained on his return the restoration of the family 
estate of Armine, in Nottinghamshire, to which he 
retired after an eminently prosperous career, and 
amused the latter years of his life in the construc- 
tion of a family mansion, built in that national 
style of architecture since described by the name 
of his royal mistress, at once magnificent and 
convenient. His son, Sir Walsingham Armine, 
figured in the first batch of baronets under James 
the First. 

During the memorable struggle between the 
frown and the Commons, in the reign of the un- 
happy Charles, the Armine family became most 
disiingui>^hcd cavaliers. The second Sir Walcing- 



ham riused a troop of horse, and gained great credit 
by charging at the head of his regiment, and de- 
feating Sir Arthur Hasclrigg's cuirassiers. It was 
the first time tliat that impenetrable band had been 
taught to fly ; but the conqueror was covered with 
wounds. The same Sir Walsingham also success- 
fully defended Armine House against the Com- 
mons, and commanded the cavalry at the battle of 
Newbury, where two of his brothers were slain. 
For these various services and suflferings Sir Wal- 
singham was advanced to the dignity of a baron of 
the realm, by the title of Lord Armine, of Armine, 
in the county of Nottingham. lie died without 
issue, but the baronetcy devolved on his youngest 
brother. Sir Ferdiiiando. 

The Armine family, who had relapsed into popery, 
followed the fortunes of the second James, and the 
head of the house died at St. Germains. His son, 
however, had been prudent enough to remain in 
England and support the new dynasty, by which 
means he contrived to secure his title and estates. 
Roman Catholics, however, the Armincs always 
remained, and this circumstance accounts for this 
once distinguished family no longer figuring in the 
history of their country. As far, therefore, as the 
house of Armine was concerned, time flew during 
the next century with immemorable wing. The 
family led a secluded life on their estate, intermarry- 
ing only with the great Catholic families, and duly 
begetting baronets. 

At length arose, in the person of the last Sir 
Ferdinand Armine, one of those extraordinary and 
rarely gifted beings who require only an opportu- 
nity to influence the fortunes of their nation, and 
to figure as a Casar or an Alcibiades. Beautiful, 
brilliant, and ambitious, the young and restless 
Armine quitted, in his eighteenth year, the house 
of his fathers, and his stepdame of a country, and 
entered the Imperial service. His blood and creed 
gained him a flattering reception ; his skill and 
valour soon made him distinguished. The world 
rang with stories of his romantic bravery, his gal- 
lantries, his eccentric manners, and his political in- 
trigues, for he nearly contrived to be elected King 
of Poland. Whether it were disgust at being foiled 
in this high object by the influence of Austria, or 
whether, as was much whispered at the time, he 
had dared to urge his insolent and unsuccessful 
suit on a still more delicate subject to the Empress 
Queen herself, certain it is that Sir Ferdinand sud- 
denly quitted the Imperial service, and appeared at 
Constantinople in person. The man, whom a 
point of honour prevented from becoming a Pro- 
^a2 557 



558 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



testant in his native country, had no scruples about 
nis professiup, of faith at Stamboul ; certain it is, 
that the English baronet soon rose high in the 
favour of the sultan, assumed the Turkish dress, 
conformed to the Turkish customs, and, finally, led 
against Austria a division of the Turkish army. 
Having gratified his pique by defeating the Impe- 
rial forces in a sanguinary engagement, and obtain- 
ing a favourable peace for the Porte, Sir Ferdinand 
Armine doffed his turban, and suddenly reappeared 
in his native country. After the sketch we have 
given of the last ten years of his life, it is unneces- 
sary to observe that Sir Ferdinand Armine imme- 
diately became what is called extremely fashionable, 
and, as he was now in Protestant England, the 
empire of fashion was the only one in which the 
young Catholic could distinguish himself. Let us 
then charitably set down to the score of his political 
disabilities the fantastic dissipation and the frantic 
prodigality in which the liveliness of his imagina- 
tion, and the energy of his soul, exhausted them- 
selves. After three startling years he married the 
Lady Barbara Ratclille, whose previous divorce 
from her husband, the Earl of Faulconville, Sir 
Ferdinand had occasioned. He was, however, 
separated from his lady during the first year of their 
more hallowed union, and, retiring to Rome, Sir 
Ferdinand became apparently very devout. At the 
end of a year he offered to transfer the whole of 
his property to the Church, provided the Pope 
would allow him an annuity, and make him a Car- 
dinal. His Holiness not deeming it fit to consent 
to the proposition, Sir Ferdinand quitted his capi- 
tal in a huff, and, returning to England, laid claim 
to the peerages of Tewkesbury and Armine. Al- 
though assured of failing in these claims, and him- 
self, perhaps, as certain of ill success as his lawyers. 
Sir Ferdinand, nevertheless, expended upwards of 
60,000/. in their promotion, and was amply repaid 
for the expenditure in the gratification of his vanity 
in keeping his name before the public. He was, 
indeed, never content, except when he was astonish- 
ing mankind, and while he was apparently exert- 
ing all his efforts to become a King of Poland, a 
Roman cardinal, or an English peer, the crown, 
the coronet, and the scarlet hat, were in truth ever 
secondary points with him, compared to the sensa- 
tion throughout Europe, which the effort was con- 
trived and calculated to ensure. 

On his second return to his native country, Sir 
Ferdinand had not re-entered society. For such a 
man, indeed, society, with all its superficial excite- 
ment, and all the shadowy variety with which it 
attempts to cloud the essential monotony of its na- 
ture, was intolerably dull and commonplace. Sir 
Ferdinand, on the contrary, shut himself up in- 
Armine, having previously announced to the world 
that he was going to write his memoirs. This his- 
tory, the construction of a castle, and the prosecu- 
tion of his claims before the House of Lords, 
apparently occupied his time to his satisfaction, for 
he remained quiet for several years, until, on the 
creaking out of the French Revolution, he hastened 
to Paris, became a member of the Jacobin Club, 
and of the National Convention. The name of 
Citizen Armine ap[)ears among the regicides. Per- 
liaps in this vote he avenged the loss of the crown 
(if Poland, and the still more mortifying repulse he 
received from the mother of Marie Antoinette. 
After the execution of the royal victims, however, 



it was discovered that Citizen Armine had made 
them an offer to save their lives and raise an insur- 
ruction in La Vendee, provided he was made lieu- 
tenant-general of the kingdom. At his trial, which 
from the nature of the accusation and the character 
of the accused, occasioned to his gratification a 
great sensation, he made no effort to defend him- 
self; but seemed to glory in the chivalric crime. 
He was hurried to the guillotine, and met his fate 
with the greatest composure, assuring the pubHc 
with a mysterious air, that, had he lived four-and- 
twenty hours longer every thing would have been 
arranged, and the troubles which he foresaw im- 
pending for Europe prevented. So successfully 
had Armine played his part, that his mysterious 
and doubtful career occasioned a controversy, from 
which only the appearance of Napoleon distracted 
universal attention, and which, indeed, only wholly 
ceased within these few years. What were his 
intentions ] Was he or was not he a sincere 
Jacobin ] If he made the offer to the royal family, 
why did he vote for their death 1 Was he resolved, 
at all events, to be at the head of one of the parties? 
A middle course would not suit such a man ; and 
so on. Interminable were the queries and their 
solutions, the pamphlets and the memoirs, which 
the conduct of this vain man occasioned, and which 
must assuredly have appeased his manes. Recently 
it has been discovered that the charge brought 
against Armine was perfectly false and purely ma- 
licious. Its victim, however, could not resist the 
dazzling celebrity of the imaginary crime, and he 
preferred the reputation of closing his career by 
conduct which at once perplexed and astonished 
mankind, to a vindication which would have de- 
prived his name of some brilliant accessories, and 
spared him to a life of which he was, perhaps, 
wearied. 

By the unhappy victim of his vanity and passion 
Sir Ferdinand Armine left one child, a son, whom 
he had never seen, now Sir Ratcliffe. Brought up 
in sadness artd seclusion, education had faithfully 
developed the characteristics of a reserved and me- 
lancholy mind. Pride of lineage and sentiments of 
religion, which even in early youth darkened into 
bigotry, where not incompatible with strong affec- 
tions, a stern sense of duty, and a spirit of chival- 
ric honour. Limited in capacity, he was, however, 
firm in purpose. Trembling at the name of his 
father, and devoted to the unhappy parent whose 
presence he had scarcely ever quitted, a word of 
reproach had never escaped his lips against the 
chieftain of his blood, and one too whose career, 
how little soever his child could sympathize with it, 
still maintained, in men's mouths and minds, the 
name and memory of the house of Armine. At 
the death of his father, Sir Ratcliffe had just at- 
tained his majority, and he succeeded to immense 
estates encumbered with mortgages, and to con- 
siderable debts, which his feelings of honour would 
have compelled him to discharge, had they indeed 
been enforced by no other claim. The estates of 
the family, on their restoration, had not been en- 
tailed ; but, until Sir Ferdinand, no head of the 
house had abused the confidence of his ancestors, 
and the vast possessions of the house of Armine 
has descended unimpaired ; and unimpaired, as far 
as he was concerned. Sir Ratcliffe determined they 
should remain. Although, by the sale of the 
estates, not only the incumbrances and liabilities 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



559 



might have been discharged, but himself left in pos- 
session of a moderate independence, Sir KatclilVe at 
once resolved to part with nothing. Fresh sums 
were raised for the payment of the debts, and the 
mortgages now consumed nearly the whole rental 
of the lands on which they were secured. Sir Rat- 
clifTe obtained for himself only an annuity of three 
hundred per annum, which he presented to his mo- 
ther, in addition to the small portion which she had 
received on her first marriage; and for himself, 
visiting Armine Place for the first time, he roamed 
for a few days with sad complacency about that 
magnificent demesne, and then, taking down from 
the walls of the magnificent hall the sabre with 
which his father had defeated the Imperial host, 
he embarked for Cadiz, and very shortly after his 
arrival obtained a commission in the Spanish ser- 
vice. 

Although the hereditary valour of the Armines 
had descended to their forlorn representative, it is 
not probable that, under any circumstances, Sir Rat- 
cliffe would have risen to any particular eminence 
in the country of his temporary adoption. His was 
not one of those minds born to command and to 
create ; and his temper was too proud to serve and 
to solicit. His residence in Spain, however, was 
not altogether without satisfaction. It was during 
this sojourn that he gained the little knowledge of 
life and human nature he possessed ; and the creed 
and solemn manners of the land harmonized with 
his faith and habits. Among these strangers, too, 
the proud young Englishman felt not so keenly the 
degradation of his house ; and sometimes — though 
his was not the fatal gift of imagination — some- 
times he indulged in day-dreams of its rise. Un- 
practised in business, and not gifted with that intui- 
tive quickness which supplies experience and often 
baffles it, Ratcliffe Armine, who had not quitted the 
domestic hearth even for the purposes of education, 
was yet fortunate enough to possess a devoted 
friend ; and this was Glastonbury, his tutor, and 
soiifessor to his mother. It was to him that Sir 
Ratcliffe intrusted the management of his affairs, 
with a confidence which was deserved ; for Glas- 
tonbury sympathized with all his feelings, and vi'as 
so wrapped up in the glory of the family, that he 
had no greater ambition in life than to become their 
historiographer, and had been for years employed 
in amassing materials for a great work dedicated to 
their celebrity. 

When Ratcliffe Armine had been absent about 
three years, his mother died. Her death was unex- 
pected. She had not fulfilled two-thirds of the al- 
lotted period of the Psalmist, and in spite of many 
sorrows she was still beautiful. Glastonbury, who 
communicated to him the intelligence in a letter in 
which he vainly attempted to suppress his own 
overwhelming affliction, counselled his inmediate 
return to England, if but for a season, and the un- 
happy Ratclilfe followed his advice. By the death 
of his mother Sir Ratcliffe Armine became possess- 
ed, for the first time, of a very snmll but still an in- 
dependent income; and having paid a visit, soon 
after his wturn to his native country, to a Catholic 
nobleman, to whom his acquaintance had been of 
some use when travelling in Spain, he became ena- 
moured of one of his daughters, and his passion be- 
ing returned, and not disapproved by the father, he 
was soon after married to Constance, the eldest 
daughter of Lord Grandison. 



CHAPTER II. 



ARMINE DESCniBED, 



Aftkr his marriage Sir Ratcliffe determined to 
reside at Armine. In one of the largest parks in 
England there yet remained a fragment of a vast 
Elizabethan pile, that in old days bore the name of 
Armine Place. When Sir Ferdinand had com- 
menced building Armine Castle, he had j)ullcd 
down the old mansion, partly for the sakl''^ its 
site, and partly for the sake of its materials.^ Bong 
lines of turreted and many-windowed walls, tall 
towers, and lofty arches now rose in picturesque 
confusion on the green ascent where heretofore old 
Sir Walsingham had raised the fair and convenient 
dwelling, which he justly deemed might have served 
the purpose of a long posterity. The hall and 
chief staircase of the castle, and a gallery, alone 
were finished; and many a day had Sir Ferdinand 
passed in arranging the pictures, the armour, and 
choice rarities, of these magnificent apartments. 
The rest of the building was a mere shell ; nor 
was it in all parts even roofed in. Heaps of bricks 
and stone, and piles of timber, appeared in all direc- 
tions; and traces of the su<iden stoppage of the 
great work might be observed in the temporary 
saw-pits still remaining, the sheds for the workmen, 
and the kilns and furnaces, which had never been 
removed. Time, however, that had stained the 
neglected towers with an anticpic tint, and had per- 
mitted many a generation of birds to build their 
sunny nests on all the coignes of vantage of the unfi- 
nished walls, had exercised a mellowing influence 
even on these rude accessories, and in the course of 
years they had been so drenched by the rain, and so 
butTeted by the wind, and had become so covered 
with moss and ivy, that they rather added to, than 
detracted from the picturesque character of the whole 
mass. 

A few hundred yards from the castle, but situate 
on the same verdant rising ground, and command- 
ing, although well sheltered, an extensive view over 
the wide park, was the fragment of the old Place 
that we have noticed. The rough and undulating 
rent which marked the severance of the building 
was now thickly covered with iv)', which in its 
gamesome luxuriance had contrived also to climb 
up a remaining stack of tall chimneys, and to spread 
over the covering of the large oriel window. This 
fragment contained a set of very pleasant chambers 
which, having been occupied by the late baronet, 
were of course furnished with great taste and com- 
fort ; and there was, moreover, accommodation suf- 
ficient for a small establishment. Armine Place, 
before Sir Ferdinand, unfortunately for his descend- 
ants, determined in the eighteenth century oa 
building a feudal castle, had been situate in very 
famous pleasure-grounds, which extended at the back 
of the mansion over a space of several hundred 
acres. The grounds in the immediate vicinity of tho 
buildings had of course suffered severely, but the 
far greater portion had only been neglected; and 
there were some indeed who deemed, as they wan- 
dered through the arbour walks of this enchanting 
wilderness, that its beauty had been materially en- 
hanced even by this very neglect. It seemed like 
a forest in a beautiful romance ; a green and bowery 
wilderness where Boccaccio would have loved to 
woo, and Waltcau to paint. So artfully, indeed, 



560 



D'lSRAELPS NOVELS. 



had the walks been planned, that they seemed in- 
terminable, nor was there a single point in the whole 
plaisance where the keenest eye could have de- 
tected a limit. Sometimes you wandered in those 
arched and winding walks dear to pensive spirits; 
sometimes you emerged on a plot of turf, blazing 
in the sunshine, a small and bright savannah, and 
gazed with wonder on the group of black and mighty 
cedars that rose from its centre, with their sharp and 
spreading foliage. The beautiful and the vast 
blended together ; and the moment after you had 
beheld with delight a bed of geraniums or of myrtles, 
you found yourself in an amphitheatre of Italian 
pines. A strange exotic perfume filled the air; you 
trod on ihe flowers of other lands; and shrubs and 
plants, that usually are only trusted from their con- 
servatories like sultanas from their jalousies, to 
sniff the air and recall their bloom, here learning 
from hardship the philosophy of endurance, had 
struggled successfully even against northern win- 
ters, and wantoned now in native and unpruned 
luxuriance. Sir Ferdinand, when he resided at Ar- 
mine, was accustomed to fill these pleasure-grounds 
with macaws, and other birds of gorgeous plumage ; 
butthese had fled away with their master, all but two 
swans, which still floated on the surface of an artii' 
ficial lake, narrow, but of great and unswerving 
length, and which marked thecentre of this Paradise. 
In the remains of the ancient seat of his father, 
Sir Ratclilf'e Armitie and his bride now sought a 
home. The principal chamber of Armine Place 
was a large irregular room, a low but richly-carved 
oaken roof, studded with achievements. This 
apartment was lighted by the oriel window we have 
mentioned, the upper panes of which contained 
some very ancient specimens of painted glass, and, 
having been fitted up by Sir Ferdinand as a library, 
contained a large collection of valuable books. 
From the library, you entered through an arched 
door of painted glass into a small room, of which, 
it being much out of repair when the family ar- 
rived. Lady Armine had seized the opportunity of 
gratifying her taste in the adornment. She had 
hung it with some old-fashioned pea-green damask, 
that exhibited to advantage several copies of Spanish 
paintings by herself, for her ladyship was a very 
skilful artist. The third and remaining chamber 
was the dining-room, a somewhat gloomy chamber, 
being shadowed by a neighbouring chestnut, A 
portrait of Sir Ferdinand, when a youth, in a Vene- 
tian dress, was suspended over the old-fashioned 
fireplace: and opposite hung a fine hunting piece 
by Schneiders. Lady Armine was a very .amiable 
and accomplished woman. She had enjoyed all the 
advantage of foreign education under the inspec- 
tion of a cautious parent; and a residence on the 
Continent, while it had aflTordcd her many graces, 
had not, as unfortunately sometimes is the case, 
divested her of those more substantive though less 
showy qualities of which the husband knows the 
value. She was pious and dutiful : her manners 
were graceful, for she had visited courts and mixed 
in the most polished circles, but she had fortunately 
not learned to affect insensibility as a system, or to 
believe that the essence of good breeding consists 
in showing your fellow-creatures that you despise 
tnem. Her cheerful temper solaced the constitu- 
tional gloom of Sir Ratclitfe, and, indeed, had ori- 
ginally won his heart even more than her remarka- 
ble beauty ; and while at the same time she loved a 
country life, she possessed, in a lettered taste, in a 



beautiful and highly-cultivated voice, and in a scien- 
tific knowledge of music and of painting, all those 
resources which prevent retirement degenerating 
into loneliness. Her foibles, if we must confess that 
she was not faultless, endeared her to her husband, 
for her temper reflected his own pride, and she pos' 
sessed the taste for splendour which was also his 
native mood, although circumstances had compelled 
him to stifle its gratification. 

Love, pure and profound, had alone prompted 
the union between Katclilfe Armine and Constance 
Grandison. Doubtless, like all of her race, she might 
have chosen amid the wealthiest of the Catholic no- 
bles and gentry one who would have been proud to 
have mingled his life with hers; but, with a soul not 
insensible to the splendid accidents of existence, 
she yielded her heart to one who could repay the 
rich sacrifice only with devotion. His poverty, his 
[iride, his dangerous and hereditary gift of beauty, 
his mournful life, his illustrious lineage, his re- 
served and romantic mind, had at once attracted 
her fancy and captivated her heart. She shared all 
his aspirations and sympathized with all his hopes; 
and the old glory of the house of Armine, and its 
^revival and restoration, were the object of her daily 
thoughts, and often of her nightly dreams. 

With these feelings Lady Armine settled herself 
at her new home scarcely with a pang that the 
whole park in which she lived was let out as a 
grazing ground, and only trusting, as she beheld 
the groups of ruminating cattle, that the day might 
yet come for the antlered tenants of the bowers to 
resume their shady dwellings. The good man and 
his wife who hitherto had inhabited the old Place, 
and shown the castle and the plaisance to passing 
travellers, were, under the new order of affairs, 
promoted to the respective offices of serving-man 
and cook, or butler and housekeeper, as they styled 
themselves in the village. A maiden brought from 
Grandison to wait on Lady Armine completed the 
establishment, with her young brother, who, among 
numerous duties, performed the office of groom, 
and attended to a pair of beautiful white ponies 
which Sir Katcliffe drove in a phaeton. This 
equipage, which was remarkable for its elegance, 
was the especial delight of Lady Armine, and cer- 
tainly the only piece of splendour in which Sir 
RatclilTe indulged. As for neighbourhood. Sir 
Ratcliire, on his arrival, of course received a visit 
from the rector of the parish, and, by the courteous 
medium of this gentleman, he soon occasioned 
it to be generally understood that he was not 
anxious that the example of his rector should 
be followed. The intimation, in spite of much 
curiosity, was of course respected. Nobody calied 
upon the Armines. This happy couple, how- 
ever, were too much engrossed with their own 
society to require amusement from any other sources 
than themselve.-^. The honeymoon was passed ir. 
wandering in the pleasure-grounds, and in wonder- 
ing at their own marvellous happiness. Then 
Lady Armine would sit on a green bank and sing 
her choicest songs, and Sir Ratcliffe repaid her for 
her kindness by speeches even softer than sere- 
nades. The anangement of their dwelling occu- 
pied the second month : each day witnessed some 
felicitous yet economical alleration of her creative 
taste. The third month Lady Armine determined 
to make a garden. 

" I wish," said her affectionate husband, as he 
toiled with delight in her service, "I wish, mj dear 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



561 



Constance, that Glastonbury was here ; he was 
sucli a capital gardener." 

" Let us ask him, dear Ratclifie ; and, perhaps, 
for such a friend, we have already allowed too 
great a space of time to elapse without sending an 
invitation." 

" Why, we are so happy," said Sir RatclifTe, 
smiling; "and yet Glastonbury is the best creature 
in the world. I hope you will like him, dear Con- 
etance." 

" I am sure I shall, dear Ratclifie. Give me that 
geranium, love. Write to him to-day ; write to 
Glastonbury to-day." 



CHAPTER III. 

AltniVAL OF GIASTONBUIIT. 

AnniAN GtASTONUURr was a younger son of 
an old but decayed English family. He had been 
educated at a college of Jesuits in France, and had 
entered at an early period of life the service of l! 
Romish church, whose communion his family h 
never quitted. At college young Glastonbury had 
been alike distinguished for his assiduous talents, 
and for the extreme benevolence of his disposition. 
He was one of those minds to which refinement is 
natural, and which learning and experience never 
deprive of simplicity. Apparently, his passions 
were not violent ; perhaps they were restrained by 
his profound piety, Next to his devotion, Glaston- 
bury was most remarkable for his taste. The 
magnificent temples, in which the mysteries of the 
Deity and saints he worshipped were celebrated, 
developed the latent predisposition for the beautiful, 
which became almost the master sentiment of his 
life. In the inspired and inspiring paintings that 
crowned the altars of the churches and the cathe- 
drals in which he ministered, Glastonbury first 
studied art; and it was as he glided along the 
solemn shade of those Gothic aisles, gazing on the 
brave groining of the vaulted roofs, whose deep 
and sublime shadows so beautifully contrasted with 
the sparkling shrines and the delicate chantries 
below, that he first imbibed that passion for the 
architecture of the middle ages that afterwards led 
him on many a pleasant pilgrimage, with no better 
companions than a wallet and a sketch-hook. In- 
deed, so very sensible was Glastonbury of the influ- 
ence of th« early and constant scene of his youth 
on his imagination, that he was wont to trace his 
love of heraldry, of which he possessed a remark- 
able knowledge, to the emblazoned windows that 
perpetuated the memory and the achievements of 
many a pious founder. 

When Glastonbury was about twenty-one years 
of age, he unexpectedly inherited from an uncle a 
sum which, though by no means considerable, was 
for him a sutlicient independence ; and as no open- 
ing in the service of the church at this moment 
oflered itself, which he considered it a duty to pur- 
sue, he determined to gratify that restless feeling 
which seems inseparable from the youth of men 
gifted with fine sensibilities, and which probably 
arises in an unconscious desire to quit the common- 
place, and to discover the ideal. He wandered on 
foot throughout the whole of Switzerland , and 
Italy ; and after more than three years' absence, 
returned to England with several thousand sketches, 
71 



and a complete Alpine Hortus Siccus. He was 
even more proud of the latter tlian of having kissed 
the pope's toe. In the next seven years the life 
of Glastonbury was nearly equally divided between 
the duties of a sacred profession and the gratifica- 
tion of his simple and elegant taste. He resided 
principally in Lancashire, where he became libra- 
rian to a Catholic nobleman of the highest rank, 
whose notice he had first attracted by publiehing a 
description of his grace's residence, illustrated by 
his drawings. The duke, who was a man of fine 
taste and antiquarian pursuits, and an exceedingly 
benevolent person, sought Glastonbury's acquaint- 
ance in consequence of the publication, and from 
that moment a close and cherished intimacy sijlj- 
sisted between them. 

In the absence of the family, however, Glaston- 
bury f )und time for many excursions ; by means 
of whi(-h he at last corn[)!etcd drawings of all our 
cathedrals. There remained for him still the abbeys 
and minsters of the West of England, a subject 
on which he was ever very eloquent. Glastonbury 
performed all these excursions on foot, armed only 
;.wilh an ashen staff', which he. had cut in his early 
'travels, and respecting which he was very super- 
stitious ; so that he would have no more thought 
of journeying without this stick than most other 
people without their hat. Indeed, to speak tlie 
truth, Glastonbury has been known to quit a house 
occasionally without that necessary appendage, for, 
from living much alone, he was not a little absent ; 
but, instead of piquing himself on such eccentrici- 
ties, they ever occasioned him mortification. Yet 
Glastonbury was a universal favourite, and ever a 
welcome guest. In his journeys he had no want 
of hosts; for there was not a Catholic family which 
would not have been hurt had he passed them 
without a visit. He was indeed a rarely accom- 
plished personage. An admir.dile scholar and pro- 
found antiquary, he possessed also a considerable 
practical knowledge of the less severe sciences, was 
a fine artist, and no contemptible nmsician. Hid 
pen, too, was that of a ready writer; — if his son- 
nets be ever published, they will rank among the 
finest in our literature. 

Glastonbury was about thirty when he was in- 
duced by Lady Barbara Armine to quit a roof 
where he had passed some happy years, and to 
undertake the education of her son Ratclilfe, a 
child of eight years of age. From this time Glas- 
tonbury in a great degree withdrew himself from 
his former connexions, and so completely aban- 
doned his previous mode of life, that he never 
quitted his new home. His pupil repaid him for 
his zeal rather by the goodness of his disposition, 
and his unblemished conduct, than by any remark- 
able brilliancy of talents or acquirements : but 
Ratcliffe, an<l particularly his mother, were capable 
of appreciating (Jlastonbury ; and certain it is, 
whatever might be the cause, he returned their 
sympathy with deep emotion, for every thought 
and feeling of his existence seemed dedicated to 
their happiness and prosperity. 

So great indeed was the shock which he expe- 
lienced at the unexpected death of Lady Barbara, 
that for some time he meditated assuming the cowl; 
and, if the absence of his pujiil prevented the ac- 
complishment of this project, the plan was only 
postponed, not abandoned. The sjK-cdy marriage 
of Sir RatclifTe followed. Circumstances had pre- 
vented Glastonbury from being present at the cere- 



562 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



mony. It was impossible for him to retire to the 
cloister without seeing his pupil. Business, if not 
alTection, rendered an interview between them ne- 
cessary. It was equally impossible for Glaston- 
bury to trouble a bride and bridegroom with his 
presence. When, however, three months had 
elapsed, he began to believe that he might venture 
to propose a meeting to Sir Ratcliffe ; but while he 
was yet meditating on this step, he was antici- 
pated by the receipt of a letter containing a very 
warm invitation to Armine, 

It was a beautiful sunshiny afternoon in June. 
Lady Armine was seated in front of the place look- 
ing towards the park, and busied with her work ; 
while Sir Ratclilfe, stretched on the grass, was 
reading to her the last poem of Scott, which they 
had just received from the neighbouring town. 

" Katclifle, my dear," said Lady Armine, " some 
one approaches." 

"A tramper, Constance ]" 
" No, no, my love, rise ; it is a gentleman." 
"Who can it be 1" said Sir Ratclilfe, rising ; " per- 
haps it is your brother, love. Ah ! no, it is — it is 
Glastonbury !" 

And at these words, he ran forward, jumped over 
the iron hurdle which separated their lawn from 
the park, nor stopped his quick pace until he reach- 
ed a middle-aged man of very prepossessing ap- 
pearance, though certainly not unsullied by the dust, 
for assuredly the guest had travelled far and long. 
" My dear Glastonbury," exclaimed Sir Ratclifle, 
embracing him, and speaking under the influence 
of an excitement in which he rarely indulged, " I 
am the happiest fellow alive. How do you do 1 I 
will introduce you to Constance directly. She is 
dying to know you, and quite jjrepared to love you as 
much as myself. O! my dear Glastonbury, you have 
no idea how happy I am. She is a perfect angel." 
" I am sure of it," said Glastonbury, very se- 
riously. 

Sir RatclifTe hurried his tutor along. " Here is my 
best friend, Constance," he eagerly exclaimed. Lady 
Armine rose and welcomed Mr. Glastonbury very 
cordially. " Your presence, my dear sir, has, I as- 
sure you, been long desired by both of us," she said, 
with a delightful smile. 

"No compliments, believe me," added Sir Rat- 
clifle, " Constance never pays compliments. Do you, 
sweet 1 She fixed upon your own room, her- 
self. She always calls it Mr. Glastonbury's rooirr; 
she does, upon my word. Is not she an angel V 

"Ah! madam," said Mr. Glastonbury, laying 
his hand very gently on the shoulder of Sir Rat- 
cliffe, and meaning to say something very felicitous, 
"I know tills dear youth well; and I have always 
thought whoever could claim his heart should be 
counted a very fortunate woman." 

" And such the possessor esteems herself," re- 
plied Lady Armine, with a smile. 

Sir Ratclilfe, after a quarter of an hour or so had 
passed in conversation, said, "Come, Glastonbury, 
you have arrived at a good tin>e ; for dinner is at 
hand. Let me show you to your room. I fear you 
have had a hot day's journey — thank God, we are 
together again — Give me your staff — I will take 
care of it — no fear of that — so, this way — you have 
seen the old Place before 1 — Take care of that step 
— I say, Constance," said Sir Ratclilfe, in a sup- 
pressed voice, and running back to his wife, " how 
do you like him!" 
" Very much, indeed." 



"But do you really 1" 

" Really, truly." 

" Angel !" exclaimed the gratified Sir Ratcliffe, 



CHAPTER IV. 

PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS AT ARMINE. 

Life is adventurous. Events are perpetually 
occurring, even in the calmness of domestic exist 
ence, which change in an instant the whole train 
and tenor of our thoughts and feelings, and often 
materially influence our fortunes and our character. 
It is strange, and sometimes as profitable as it is 
singular, to recall our state on the eve of some ac- 
quaintance which transfigures our being ; with some 
man whose philosophy revolutionizes our minds; 
with some woman whose charms metamorphose 
our career. These retrospective meditations are 
fruitful of self-knowledge. 

The visit of Glastonbury was one of those inci- 
dents, which, from the unexpected results that they 
occasion, swell into events. He had not been long 
a guest at Armine before Sir Ratcliffe and his lady 
could not refrain from mutually communicating to 
each other the gratification they should feel could 
Glastonbury be induced to cast his lot among them. 
His benevolent and placid temper, his many ac- 
complishments, and the entire affection which he 
evidently entertained for everybody that bore the 
name and for every thing that related to the fortunes 
of Armine, all pointed him out as a friend alike to 
be cherished and to be valued. Under his auspicea 
the garden of the fair Constance soon flourished; 
his taste guided her pencil and his voice accompa- 
nied her lute. Sir Ratclilfe, too, thoroughly enjoyed 
his society ; Glastonbury was with him the only 
link, in life, between the present and the past. 
They talked over old times together ; and sorrow- 
ful recollections lost half their bitterness from the 
tenderness of his sympathetic reminiscences. Sir 
Ratcliffe, too, was conscious of the value of such a 
companion for his gifted wife. And Glastonbury, 
moreover, among his many accomplishments, had 
the excellent quality of never being in the way. 
He was aware that young people, and especially 
young lovers, are not averse sometimes to being 
alone ; and his friends, in his absence, never felt 
that he was neglected, because his pursuits were so 
various, and his resources so numerous, that they 
were sure he was employed and amused. 

In the plaisance of Armine, at the termination of 
a long turfen avenue of purple beeches, there was a 
turreted gate, flanked by round towers, intended by 
Sir Ferdinand for one of the principal entrances of 
his castle. Over the gate were small but conve- 
nient chambers, to which you ascend by a winding 
staircase in one of the towers ; the other was a mere 
shell. It was sunset; the long vista gleamed in 
the dying rays, that shed also a rich breadth of 
light over the bold and baronial arch. Our friends 
had been examining the chambers, and Lady Ar- 
mine, who was a little wearied by the exertion, 
stood opposite the building, leaning on her hus- 
band and his friend. 

"A man might go far, and find a worse dwell- 
ing than that portal," said Glastonbury, mus- 
ingly. "Methinks life might glide away plea 
santly enough in those little rooms, with one's 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



563 



books and drawings, and this noble avenue for a 
pensive stroll." 

" I wish to heaven, rily dear Glastonbury, you 
would try the experiment," said Sir Katclille. "Ah ! 
do, Mr. Glastonbury," added Lady Armine, " take 
pity upon us !" 

" At any rate, it is not so dull as a cloister," add- 
ed Sir Ratclifle, "and, say what they like, there is 
nothing like living among friends." 

"You will find me very troublesome," replied 
Glastonbury with a smile, and then, turning the 
conversation, evidently more from embarrassment 
than distaste, he remarked the singularity of the 
purple beeches. 

Their origin was uncertain ; but one circumstance 
is sure ; that, before another month had passed, 
Glastonbury was tenant for life of the portal of Ar- 
mine Castle, and all his books and collections were 
safely stowed and arranged in the rooms with which 
he had been so much pleased. 

The course of time for some years flowed on hap- 
pily at Armine. In the second year of their mar- 
riage Lady Armine presented her husband with a 
son. Their fimily was never afterwards increaseJjjl 
but the proud father was consoled by the sex of BB 
child for the recollection that the existence of his 
line depended upon the precious contingency of a 
single life. The boy was christened Ferdinand. 
With the exception of an annual visit to Lord 
Grandison, the Armine fiimily never quitted their 
home. Necessity as well as taste induced this re- 
gularity of life. The affairs of Sir Ratclilfe did not 
irufirove. His mortgagees were more strict in their 
demands of interest, than his tenants in payment of 
their rents. His man of business, who had made 
his fortune in the service of the family, was not 
wanting in accommodation to his client ; but he 
was a man of business: he could not sympathize 
■with the peculiar feelings and fancies of Sir Rat- 
clifle, and he persisted in seizing every opportunity 
of urging on him the advisability of selling his 
estates. However, by strict economy and tempo- 
rary assistance from his lawyer. Sir Ratclilfe, during 
the first ten years of his marriage, managed to carry 
on affairs, and though occasional embarrassment 
sometimes caused him fits of gloom and despond- 
ency, the sanguine spirit of his wife, and the confi- 
dence in the destiny of their beautiful child which 
she regularly enforced upon him, maintained on 
the whole his courage. All their hopes and joys 
were indeed centered in the education of the little 
Ferdinand. At ten years of age he was one of 
those spirited, and at the same time docile, boys, 
who seem to eomlxne w'ith the wild and careless 
grace of childhood the thoughtfulness and self-disci- 
pline of mat.-.rer age. It was the constant and 
truthful boast of his parents, that in spite of all his 
liveliness, he had never in the whole course of his 
life disobeyed them. In the village, where he was 
idolized, they called him " the little prince ;" he was 
so gentle and so generous ; so kind, and yet so digni- 
fied in his demeanour. His education was very 
remarkable; for though he never quitted home, and 
lived indeed in such extreme seclusion, so richly 
gifted were those few persons with whom he passed 
his life, that it would have been diflicult to have 
fixed upon a youth, however favoured by fortune, 
who enjoyed greater advantages for the cultivation 
of his mind and manners. From the first dawn of 
the intellect of the young Armine, Glastonbury had 
devoted himself to its culture ; and the kind scholar, 



who had not shrunk from the painful and patient 
task of impregnating a young mind with the seeds 
of knowledge, had bedewed its budding promise 
with all the fertilizing influence of his learning and 
his taste. As Ferdinand advanced in years, he had 
participated in the accomplishments of his mother ; 
from her he derived not only a taste for the fine 
arts, but no unskilful practice. She, too, had culti- 
vated the rich voice with which nature had endow- 
ed him ; and it was his mother who t;\ught him 
not only to sing, but to dance. In more manly 
accomplishments Ferdinand could not have found 
a more skilful instructor than his father, a consum- 
mate sportsman, and who, like all his ancestors, 
was remarkable for his finished horsemanship, and 
the certainty of his aim. Under a roof, too, whose 
inmates were distinguished for their sincere piety 
and unaffected virtue, the higher duties of existence 
were not forgotten ; and Ferdinand Armine was 
early and ever taught to be sincere, dutiful, charita- 
ble, and just; and to have a deep sense of the great 
account hereafter to be delivered to his Creator. 
The very foibles of his parents which he imbibed 
tended to the maintenance of his magnanimity. His 
illustrious lineage was early impressed upon him, 
and inasmuch as little now was left to them but 
their honour, so was it doubly incumbent upon him 
to preserve that chief treasure, of which fortune 
could not deprive them, unsullied. 

This much of the education of Ferdinand Ar- 
mine. With great gifts of nature, with lively and 
highly cultivated talents, and a most affectionate 
and disciplined temper, he was adored by the friends, 
who nevertheless had too much sense to spoil him. 
But for his character, what was thatl Perhaps, 
with all their anxiety and all their care, and all 
their apparent opportunities for observation, the 
parents and the tutor are rarely skilful in discover- 
ing the character of their child or charge. Custom 
blunts the fineness of psychological study : those 
with whom we have lived long and early, are apt 
to blend our essential and our accidental qualities 
in one bewildering association. The consequences 
of education and of nature are not sufficiently dis- 
criminated. Nor is it, indeed, marvellous, that for 
a long time temperament should be disguised and 
even stifled by education ; for it is, as it were, a 
contest between a child and a man. 

There were moments when Ferdinand Armine 
loved to be alone ; when he could fly from all the 
fondness of his friends, and roam in solitude amid 
the wild and desolate pleasure-grounds, or wander 
for hours in the halls and galleries of the castle, 
gazing on the pictures of his ancestors. He ever 
experienced a strange satisfaction in beholding the 
portrait of his grandfather. He would stand some- 
times abstracted for many minutes before the por- 
trait of Sir Ferdinand, in the gallery, painted by 
Reynolds, before his grandfather left England, and 
which the child already singularly resembled. But 
vi'as there any other resemblance betvi'een them 
than form and feature I Did the fiery imagination 
and the terrible passions of that extraordinary man 
lurk in the innocent heart and the placid mien of 
his young descendant! Awful secrets these, which 
this history shall unfold. No matter now ! Be- 
hold, he is a light-hearted and airy child ! Thought 
passes over his brow like a cloud in a summer-sky, 
or the shadow of a bird over the sunshiny earth ; 
and he skims away from the silent hall and his 
momentary revery, to fly a kite or chase a butterfly ', 



564 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



CHAPTER V. 



A D05IESTIC SCENE. 



I'eahs glided away without any remarkable in- 
cidents in the Hfe of young Ferdinand. He seldom 
quitted home, except as companion to Glastonbury 
in his pcdestrain excursions, when he witnessed a 
different kind of life to that displayed in an annual 
visit which he paid to Grandison. The boy amused 
his grandfather, with whom, therefore, he became 
a favourite. The old lord, indeed, would have had 
no objection to his grandson passing half the year 
with him ; and he always returned home with a 
benediction, a letter full of praises, and a ten-pound 
note. Lady Armine was quite delighted with these 
symptoms of affection on the part of her father 
towards her child ; and augured from them the 
most important future results. But Sir Ratcliffe, 
who was not blessed with so sanguine a tempera- 
ment as his amiable lady, and who, unbiassed by 
blood, was perhaps better qualified to form 'an 
opinion of the character of his father-in-law, never 
shared her transports, and seldom omitted an oppor- 
tunity of restraining. 

" It is all very well, my dear," he would observe, 
" for Ferdinand to visit his relations. Lord Gran- 
dison is his grandfather. It is very proper that he 
should visit his grandfather. I like him to be seen 
at Grandison. That is all very right. Grandison 
is a first-rate establishment, where he is certain of 
meeting persons of his own class, with whom cir- 
cumstances unhappily" — and here Sir Ratcliffe 
sighed — "debar him from mixing: and your father, 
Constance, is a very good sort of man. I like your 
father, Constance, you know, very much. No 
person ever could be more courteous to me than 
your father has ever been. I have no complaints 
to make of your father, Constance; or your brother, 
or indeed of any member of your family. I like 
them all ; I like them very much. Persons more 
kind, or more thoroughly bred, I am sure I never 
knew. And I think they like us — I do indeed — I 
think they like us very much. They appear to me 
to be always really glad to see us, and to be unaf- 
fectedly sorry when we quit them. I am sure I 
should be very happy if it were in my power to 
return their hospitality, and welcome them at Ar- 
mine: but it is useless to think of that. God only 
knows whether we shall be able to remain here 
ourselves. All I want to make you feel, my love, 
is, that if you are building any castle in that little 
brain of yours on the ground of expectations from 
Grandison, trust me, you will be disappointed, my 
dear, you will indeed." 

" But my love — " 

" If your father die to-morrow, my dear, he will 
not leave us a shilling. And who can complain? 
I cannot. He has always been very frank. I re- 
member when we were going to marry, and I was 
obliged to talk to him al)out your portion — I re- 
member it as if it were only yesterday — I remember 
his saying, with the most flattering smile in the 
world, ' I wish the £5,000, Sir Ratcliffe, were 
JE.50,000, for your sake ; particularly, as it never 
will be in my power to increase it.' " 

" But my dear Ratcliffe, surely he may do some- 
thing for his favourite, Ferdinand?" 

" jMy dear Constance — there you are again ! 
Why favourite ? I hate the very word. Your 



father is a good-natured man. a very good-natured 
man — your father is one of the best-natured men I 
ever was acquainted with. He has not a single 
care in the world, and he thinks nobody else has; 
and what is more, my dear, nobody ever could per- 
suade him that anybody else has. He has no idea 
of our situation ; he never could form an idea of 
our situation. If I chose to attempt to make him 
understand it, he would listen with the greatest 
politeness, shrug his shoulders at the end of the 
story, tell me to keep up my spirits, and order 
another bottle of Madeira, in order that he might 
illustrate his precept by practice. He is a good 
natured selfish man. He likes us to visit him, be 
cause you are gay and agreeable, and because I 
never asked a favour of him in the whole course 
of our acquaintance : he likes Ferdinand to visit 
him, because he is a handsome, fine-spirited boy, 
and his friends congratulate him on having such a 
grandson. And so Ferdinand is his favourite ; 
and next year I should not be surprised were 
he to give him a pony; and perhaps, if he die, 
he will leave him fifty guineas to buy a gold 
^Jatch." 

\u Well, I dare say you are right, Ratcliffe ; but 
still nothing that you can say, will ever persuade 
me that Ferdinand is not papa's decided favour- 
ite." 

" Well ! we shall soon see what this favour is 
worth," retorted Sir Ratcliffe, rather bitterly. "Re- 
gularly every visit for the last three years, your 
father has asked me what I intended to do with 
Ferdinand. I said to him last year, more than I 
thought I ever could say to any one — I told him 
that Ferdinand was now fifteen, and that I wished 
to get him a commission ; but that I had no influ- 
ence to get him a commission, and no money to pay 
for it, if it were offered me. I think that was 
pretty plain ; and I have been surprised ever since, 
that I ever could have placed myself in such a de- 
grading position as to say so much." 

" Degrading, my dear Ratcliffe," said his wife. 

" I felt it as such ; and such I still feel it." 

At this moment Glastonbury, who was standing 
at the other end of the room, examining a large 
folio, and who had evidently been very uneasy 
during the whole conversation, attempted to quit 
the room. 

" My dear Glastonbury," said Sir Ratcliffe, with 
a forced smile, "you are alarmed at our domestic 
broils. Pray, do not leave the room. You know 
we have no secrets from you." 

" No, indeed, do not go, Mr. Glastonbury," added 
Lady Armine : " and if indeed there be a domestic 
broil," — and here she rose and kissed her hus- 
band, — " at any rate witness our reconciliation." 

Sir Ratcliffe smiled, and returned his wife's em- 
brace with much feeling, 

" My own Constance," he said, " you are the 
dearest wife in the world; and if I ever feel un^ 
happy, believe me it is only because I do not sea 
you in the position to which you are entitled." 

" I know no fortune to be compared to your love, 
Ratcliffe ; and as for our child, nothing will ever 
persuade me that all will not go right, and that he 
will not restore the fortunes of the family." 

" Amen !" said Glastonbury, closing the book 
with a reverberating sound. " Nor indeed can I 
believe that Providence will ever desert a great and 
pious line !" 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



565 



CHAPTER VI. 

eoXT.llXIXO ANOTHEU DOMESTIC SCES'K. 

Ladt Ahminb and Gliistonliury were both too 
mui'li interested in the welfare of Sir KatchlTe, not 
lo ohscrve with deep concern that a great, although 
gradual, change had occurred in his character dur- 
ing the last live years. He had become moody and 
querulous, occasionally even irritable. His consti- 
tutional melancholy, long diverted by the influence 
of a vigorous youth, the society of a charming 
woman, and the interesting feelings of a fother, 
began to reassert its ancient and essential sway, 
and at times even to deepen into gloom. Some- 
times whole days elapsed without his ever indulg- 
ing in conversation ; his nights, once tranquil, vs'ere 
now remarkable for their restlessness; his wife was 
alarmed at the siglis and agitation of his dreams. 
He quite abandoned also his field sports, and none 
of those innocent sources of amusement, in which 
it was once his boast their retirement was so rich, 
now interested him. In vain Lady Arminc sought 
his society in her walks, or consulted him about 
her flowers. His frigid and monosyllabic replies 
discouraged all her eilbrts. No longer did he lean 
over her easel, or call for a repetition of his favourite 
song. At times these dark fits passed away, and 
if not cheerful, he was at least serene. But, on 
the whole, he was an altered man ; and his wife 
could no longer resist the miserable conviction, that 
he was an unhappy one. 

She, however, was at least spared the mortifica- 
tion, the bitterest that a wife can experience, of 
feeling that this change in his conduct was occa- 
sioned by any indillerence towards her ; for, averse 
as Sir KatclifTe was to converse on a subject so 
hopeless and ungrateful as the stale of his fortune, 
Btill there were times in which he could not refrain 
from communicating to the partner of his bosom all 
the causes of his misery, and these, indeed, too truly 
had she divined. 

"Alas!" she would sometimes say, as she tried 
to compose his restless pillow ; " what is this pride, 
to which you men sacrifice every thing 1 For me, 
who am a woman, love is sufficient. O ! my Rat- 
clilTc, why do you not feel like your Constance 1 
What if these estates be sold, still we are Armincs ! 
and still our dear Ferdinand is spared to us ! Be- 
lieve me, love, that if deference to your feelings has 
prompted my silence, I have long felt that it would 
be wiser for us at once to meet a necessary evil. 
For God's sake, put an end to the tortures of this 
life, which is destroying us both. Poverty, abso- 
lute poverty, with you and with your love, I can 
meet even with cheerfulness ; but indeed, my Rat- 
clifle, I can bear our present life no longer ; I shall 
die, if you be unhappy. And O ! dearest Ratclitle, 
if that were to happen which sometimes I fear 
has happened, if vou were no longer to love me — " 

But here ^ir Ratelifte assured her of the reverse. 

"Only think," she would continue, '-if when 
wc married we had voluntarily done that which we 
may now be forced to do, we really should have 
been almost rich people; at least we should have 
had quite enough to live in ease, and even elegan.tc. 
And now we owe thousands to that horrible Bag- 
sto.-, who, I am sure, cheated your father out of 
nocse and home, and, I dare say, after all, wants to 
(•uy Armine for himself." 

" He buy Armine ! An attorney buy Armine ! 



Never, Constance, never — I will be buried in its 
ruins first. There is no sacrifice that I would not 
sooner make — " 

" But, dearest love, suppose we sell it to some 
one else, and suppose, after paying every thing, we 
have thirty thousand pounds left. How well we 
could live abroad on the interest of thirty thousand 
pounds !" 

"There would not be thirty thousai^pounds 
left now !" ^H^ 

"Well, five-and-twenty, or even tweTOf. I 
could manage on twenty. And then we could buy 
a commission for dear Ferdinand." 

" But to leave our child !" 

" Could not he go into the Spanish service. Per- 
haps yoti could get a commission in the Spanish 
Guards for nothing. They must remember you 
there. And such a name is Armine ! I have no 
doubt that the king would be quite proud lo have 
another Armine in his guard. And then we could 
live at Madrid ; and that would be so delightful ; 
because you speak Spanish so beautifully, and I 
could learn it very quickly. I am very quick at 
learning languages. I am indeed." 

" I think you are very ([uick at every thing, dear 
Constance. I am sure you are really a treasure of 
a wife ; I have cause every hour to bless you ; and 
if it were not for my own sake, I should say that 
I wished you had made a happier marriage." 

"O I do not say that, Ratclilfe; say any thing 
but that, Ratcliffe. If you love me, I am the hap- 
piest woman that ever lived. Be sure always of 
that." 

" I wonder if they do remember me at Madrid !" 

" To be sure they do. How could they forget 
you — how could they forget my Ratclilfe T I dare 
say, you go to this day by the name of the hand- 
some Englishman." • 

" Poh ! I remember when I left England before — 
I had no wife then, no child, bull remembered who 
I vvas — and when I thought I was the last of our 
race, and that I was in all probability going to spill 
the little blood that was spared of us in a foreign 
soil — O ! Constance, I do not think I ever could 
forget the agony of that moment. Had it been for 
England, I would have met my fate without a pang. 
No ! Constance, I am an Englishman — I am proud 
of being an Englishman. My fathers helped to 
make this country what it is ; no one can deny 
that, and no consideration in the world shall ever 
induce me again to quit this island." 

" But suppose we do not quit England. Sup 
pose we buy a small estate, and live at home." 

" A small estate at home ! A small, new estate ! 
Bought of a Mr. Hopkins, a great tallow-chandler, 
or some stock-jobber about to make a new flight 
from a lodge lo a park. no ! that would bo 
too degrading." 

" But suppose we keep one of our own manors!" 

" And be reminded every instant of every day 
of those we have lost ; and hear of the wonderful 
improvements of our successors. I should go mad." 

" But suppose we live in London 1" 

" Where V 

" I am sure I do not know, but I should think 
we might get a nice little house somewhere." 

" In a suburb ! a fitting lodgment for Lady 
Armine. No I at any rate we will have no wit- 
nesses to our fall." 

" But could not we try some place near my fa- 
ther's]" 

3B 



566 



D' ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" And be patronised by the great family with 
t\'hom I had the good fortune of being connected. 
Ko ! my dear Constance, I like your father very 
well, but I could not stand his eleemosynary 
haunches of venison, and great baskets of apples 
and cream cheeses sent with the housekeeper's 
duty." 

" But what shall we do, dear Ratcliffe V 

" My love, there is no resisting fate. We must 
live or die at Arraine, even if we starve." 

"Perhaps something will turnup. I dreamed 
the other night that dear Ferdinand married an 
heiress. Suppose he were 1 What do you think V 

"Why, even then, that he would not be as lucky 
as his father. Good night, love !" 



CHAPTER VII. 

COXTAIIfING AN UNEXPECTED VISIT TO LONDON 
AND ITS CONSEaUENCES. 

The day after the conversation in the library to 
which Glastonbury had been an unwilling listener, 
he informed his friends that it was necessary lOr 
him to visit the metropolis; and as young Ferdi- 
nand had never yet seen London, he proposed that 
he should accompany him. Sir Ratclifl'e and Lady 
Armine cheerfully assented to this proposition ; 
and as for Ferdinand, it is ditlicult to describe the 
delight which the anticipation of his visit occa- 
sioned him. The three days that were to elapse 
before his departure did not seem sufficient to en- 
sure the complete packing of his portmanteau; and 
his excited manner, the rapidity of his conversa- 
tion, and the restlessness of his movements, were 
very diverting. 

" Mamma ! is London twenty times bigger than 
Tsoltingham? How big is it, then ] Shall we 
travel all night ! What o'clock is it now ? I 
Ti'onder if Thursday will ever come ? I think I 
shall go to bed early, to finish the day sooner. Do 
you think my cap is good eno,ugh to travel in 1 I 
shall buy a hat in London. I shall get up early 
the very first morning, and buy a hat. Do you 
think my uncle is in London ? I wish Augustus 
were not at Eton, perhaps he would be there. I 
Tvonder if Mr. Glastonbury will take me to see St. 
Paul's ! I wonder if he will take me to the play ! 
I'd give any thing to go to the play. I should 
like to go to the play and St. Paul's ! Mamma ! 
do you think six shirts are enough 1 I think I had 
better take eight. I am sure there must be room 
for eight. What fun it will be dining on the road I" 

It did indeed seem that Thursday never would 
come ; yet it came at last. The travellers were 
obliged to rise before the sun, and drive over to 
IVottingham to meet their coach ; so they bade their 
adieus the previous eve. As for Ferdinand, so 
fearful was he of losing the coach that he scarcely 
slept, and was never convinced that he was really 
in time until he found himself planted in breath- 
less agitation outside of the Dart light post-coach. 
It was the first time in his life that he had ever tra- 
velled outside of a coach. He felt all the excite- 
ment of expanding experience and advancing man- 
hood. They whirled along : at the end of every 
stage Ferdinand followed the example of his fellow- 
travellers and dismounted, and then with sparkling 
eyes hurried to Glastonbury, who was inside, to 



inquire how he sped. " Capital travelling, isn't 
it, sir ? Did the ten miles within the hour. You 
have no idea what a fellow our coachman is ; and 
the guard, such a fellow our guard ! — Don't wait 
here a moment. Can I get any thing for youl 
We dine at Millfield. What fun !" 

Away whirled the dashing Dart over the rich 
plains of our merry midland ; a quick and daz- 
zling vision of golden corn-liclds, and lawny pas- 
ture land ; farmhouses embowered in orchards and 
hamlets shaded by the straggling members of some 
vast and ancient forest. Then rose in the distance 
the dim blue towers or the graceful spire of some 
old cathedral, and soon the spreading causeways an- 
nounce their approach to some provincial capital 
The coachman flanks his leaders, who break into 
a gallop ; the guard sounds his triumphant bugle ; 
the coach bounds over the noble bridge that spans 
a stream covered with craft; public buildiwgs, 
guildhalls, and county jails, rise on each side. 
Rattling through many an inferior way, they at 
length emerge into the High Street, the observed 
of all observers, and mine host of the Red Lion or 
the White Hart, followed by all his waiters, ad- 
vances from his portal with a smile to receive the 
" gentlemen passengers." 

"The coach stops here half an hour, gentlemen : 
dinner quite ready !" 

'Tis a delightful sound. And what a dinner! 
What a profusion of substantial delicacies ! What 
mighty and Iris-tinted rounds of beef! What 
vast and marble-veined ribs ! What gelatinous 
veal pies ! What colossal hams ! Those are evi- 
dently prize cheeses ! And how invigorating is 
the perfume of those various and variegated 
pickles ! Then the bustle emulating the plenty ; 
the ringing of bells, the clash of thoroughfare, the 
summoning of ubiquitous waiters, and the all-per- 
vading feeling of omnipotence, from the guests, 
who order what they please, to the landlord, who 
can produce and execute every thing they can de- 
sire. 'Tis a wondrous sight ! Why should a 
man go and see the pyramids and cross the desert, 
when he has not beheld York Minster or travelled 
on the Road ! 

Our little Ferdinand, amid all this novelty, 
heartily enjoyed himself, and did ample justice to 
mine host's good cheer. They were soon whirling 
again along the road, but at sunset, Ferdinand, at 
the instance of Glastonbury, availed himself of his 
inside place, an-d, wearied by the air and the excite- 
ment of the day, he soon fell soundly asleep. 

Several hours had elapsed when, awaking from a 
confused dream, in which Armine and all he had 
lately seen were blended together; he found his 
fellow-travellers slumbering, and the mail dashing 
along through the illuminated streets of a great 
city. The streets were thickly thronged. Ferdi- 
nand stared at the magnificence of the shops blaz- 
ing with lights, and the multitude of men and 
vehicles moving in all directions. The guard 
sounded his bugle with treble energy, and the coach 
suddenly turned through an arched entrance into 
the court-yard of an old-fashioned inn. His fellow- 
passengers started, and rubbed their eyes. 

"So! we have arrived, I suppose;" grumbled 
one of these gentlemen, taking off his night-cap. 

" Yes, gentlemen, I am hajipy to say our journey 
is finished," said a more polite voice ; " and a very 
pleasant one I have found it. Porter, have uie 
goodness to call me a coach." 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



567 



" And one for me," added the grufT voice, 

" Mr. Glastonbury," wliisperod the awe-struck 
Ferdinand, "is this London !" 

"This is London; but we have yet two or three 
miles to 50 before we reach our quarters. I think 
we had better alight and look after our luggage. 
Gentlemen, good evening !" 

It was ten o'clock. Mr. Glastonbury hailed a 
coach, in which, having safely deposited their port- 
manteaus, lie and Ferdinand entered : but our 
young friend was so entirely overcome by his feel- 
ings and the genius of the place, that he was quite 
unable to make an observation. Each minute the 
streets seemed to grow more spacious and more 
brilliant, and the multitude more dense and more 
excited. Beautiful buildings, too, rose before him ; 
palaces, and churches, and streets, and squares of 
imposing architecture; to his inexperienced eye 
and unsophisticated spirit, their route appeared a 
never-ending triumph. To the hackney-coachman, 
however, who had no imagination, and who was 
quite satiated with metropolitan experience, it only 
appeared that he had an exceedingly good fare, and 
that he was jogging up from Bishopgate street to 
Charing Cross. 

When Jarvis, therefore, had safely deposited his 
charge at Morley's Hotel, in Cockspur street, and 
had extorted from them an extra shilling, in con- 
sideration of their evident rustication, he bent his 
course to the Opera House, for clouds were gather- 
ing, and, with the favour of Providence, there 
seemed a chance about midnight of picking up some 
helpless beau, or desperate cabless dandy, the 
choicest victim in a midnight shower of these pub- 
lic conveyances. 

The coflfee-room at Morley's was a new scene 
of amusement to Ferdinand, and he watched with 
great diversion the two evening papers portioned 
out among twelve eager quidnunc?!, and the evident 
anxiety which they endured, and the nice diploma- 
cies to which they resorted to oWtain the envied 
journals. The entrance of our two travellers, so 
alarmingly increasing the demand over the supply, 
at first seemed to attract considerable and not very 
friendly notice ; but when a malignant half-pay 
officer, in order to revenge himself for the restless 
watchfulness of his neighbour, a very political doc- 
tor of divinity, offered the journal, which he had 
long finished, to Glastonbury, and it was declined, 
the general alarm visibly diminished. Poor Mr. 
Glastonbury had never looked into a newspaper in 
his life, save the County Chronicle, to which he 
occasionally contributed a communication giving 
an account of the digging up of some old coins, 
signed Antiquarius; or of the exhumation of some 
fossil remains, to which he more boldly appended 
his initials. 

Ill spile of the strange clatter in the streets, Fer- 
dinand slept well, and the next morning, after an 
early breakfast, himself and his fellow-traveller set 
out on their peregrinations. Young and sanguine, 
full of health and enjoyment, innocent and happv, 
it was with dilBculty that Ferdinand could restrain 
his spirits, as he mingled in the bustle of the 
streets. It was a bright sunny morning, and, al- 
tliough the end of June, the town was yet quite 
full. 

"Is this Charing Cross, sir 1 — I wonder if we 
shall ever be able to get over. — Is this the fullest 
part of the town, sir? — What a fine day, sir ? — 
How lucky we arc in the weather? — We are lucky 



in every thing! — Whose house is that? — Northum- 
berland House ! — Is it the Duke of IVorthumber- 
land's ? Does he live there 1 How I should like 
to see it ! — Is it very fine? — Who is that ? — What 
is this 1 — The Admiralty ; O ! let me see, the Ad- 
miralty ! — The Horse Guards. — ! where, where ] 
Let us set our watches by the Horse Guards. The 
guard of our coach always sets his watch by the 
Horse Guards. — Mr. Glastonbury, which is the best 
clock, the Horse Guards or St. Paul's ! — Is that the 
Treasury 1 Can we go in 1 — That is Downing 
street, is it ? — I never heard of Downing street. — 
What do they do in Downing street? — Is this 
Charing Cross still, or is it Parliament street ? — 
Where does Charing Cross end, and where does 
Parliament street begin ? — By Jove, I see West- 
minster Abbey !" 

After visiting Westminster Abbey, and the two 
Houses of Parliament, Mr. Glastonbury, looking 
at his watch, said it was now time to call upon a 
friend of his who lived in St. James's Square. 
This was the nobleman with whom early in life 
Glastonbury had been connected, and with whom 
and whose family he had become so great a fa- 
vourite,, that, notwithstanding his retired life, they 
had never permitted the connexion entirely to sub- 
side. During the very few risits which he had 
made to the metropolis, he always called in St. 
James's Square, and his reception always assured 
him that his remembrance imparted pleasure. 

When Glastonbury sent up his name he was 
instantly admitted, and ushered up stairs. The 
room was very ftill, but it consisted only of a family 
party. The old dutchess, who was a most interest- 
ing personage, with fine gray hair, a clear blue eye, 
and a most soft voice, vi'as surrounded by her grand- 
children, who were at home for the midsummer 
holidays, and who had gathered together at her 
house this morning to consult upon amusements^ 
Among them was her grandson, the heir presump- 
tive of the house, a youth of the age of Ferdinand, 
and of a very prepossessing appearance. It was 
difficult to meet a more amiable and agreeable fa- 
mily, and nothing could exceed the kindness with 
which they all welcomed Glastonbury. The duke 
himself soon appeared in his morning gown. "My 
dear, dear Glastonbury," said the kind-hearted old 
gentleman, " I heard you were here, and I would 
come. Caroline will not let me enter her rooms in 
these rags, but to-day I am to be excused. This 
shall be a holiday for us all. Why, man, you bury 
yourself alive!" 

" Mr. Armine," said the dutchess, pointing to 
Ferdinand. 

" Mr. Armine, how do you do? Your grand- 
father and I were very well acquainted. I am 
proud and glad to know his grandson. I hope 
your father. Sir Katclilfe, and Lady Armine are 
quite well. Well, my dear Glastonbury, I hope 
you have come to stay a long, long time. You 
must dine with us every day, you must indeed. 
You know we arc very oldfashioned people ; wo 
do not go much into the world ; so you will find 
us at home every day ; and we will do what wo 
can to amuse your young friend. Why! I should 
think he was about the same age as Digby ? Is he 
at Eton ? His grandfather was ! I never shall 
forget the time he cut olT old Barnard's pirrtail. 
He was a wonderful man — Poor Sir Ferdinand' — 
He was indeed !" 

While his grace and Glastonbury maintainetl 



568 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



their conversation, Ferdinand conducted himself 
with so much spirit and propriety towards the rest 
of the party, an.d gave them such a Hvely and 
graceful narrative of all his travels up to town, and 
the wonders he had already witnessed, that they 
were quite delighted with him ; and, in short, from 
this moment, during his visit to London, he was 
scarcely ever out of their society, and every day 
became a greater favourite with them. His letters 
to his mother, for he wrote to her almost every day, 
recounted all their successful efllarts for his amuse- 
ment, and it seemed that he passed his mornings in 
a round of sight-seeing, and that he v^ent to the 
play every night of his life. Perhaps there never 
existed a human being who at this moment more 
thoroughly enjoyed life than Ferdinand Armine. 

In the mean time, while he thought only of 
amusement, ?/Ir. Glastonbury was not inattentive 
to his more important interests; for the truth is 
that this excellent man had introduced him to the 
family only with the hope of interesting the feel- 
ings of the duke in his behalf. His grace was a 
man of a very generous disposition. He sympa- 
thized with the recital of (jlastonbury, as he de- 
tailed to him the unfortunate situation of this youth, 
sprung from so illustrious a lineage, and yet cut 
off by a combination of unhappy circumstances, 
from almost all those natural sources whence he 
might have expected support and countenance. 
And when Glastonbury, seeing that the duke's 
heart was moved, added, that all he required for 
him, Ferdinand, was a commission in the army, for 
whic4i his parents were jirepared to advance the 
money, his grace instantly declared that he would 
exert all his influence to obtain their purpose. 

Mr. Glastonbury was, therefore, more gratified 
than surprised when, a few days after the conver- 
sation which we have mentioned, his noble friend 
informed him, with a smile, that he believed all 
might he arranged, provided his young charge could 
make it convenient to quit England at once. A 
vacancy had unexpectedly occurred in a regiment 
just ordered to Malta, and an ensigncy had been 
promised to Ferdinand Armine. Mr. Glastonbury 
gratefully closed with the oiler. He sacrificed a 
fourth part of his moderate independence in the 
purchase of the commission and the outfit of his 
young friend, and had the supreme satisfaction, ere 
the third week of their visit was completed, of for- 
warding a gazette to Armine, containing the ap- 
pointment of Ferdinand Armine as ensign in the 
Royal Fusileers. 



CHAPTER Vlir. 

A VISIT TO GLASTOXBURy's CHAHrHEH. 

It was arranged that Ferdinand should join his 
regiment by the next Meiliterranean packet, which 
^as not to quit Falmouth for a fortnight. Glaston- 
bury and himself, therefore, lost no time in bidding 
adieu to their kind friends in London, and hasten- 
ing to Armme. They arrived the day after the 
gazette. They found Sir RatclilTe waiting for them 
at the town, and the fond smile and cordial embrace 
with which he greeted Glastonbury, more than re- 
paid that good man for all his exertions. There 
was, notwithstanding, a perce[)tible degree of con- 
straint both on the part of the baronet and his for- 
jner tutor. It was very evident that Sir Ratcliife 



had something on his mind, of which he wished to 
disburden himself; and it was equally apparent 
that Glastonbury was very unwilling to afford him 
an ojiportunity. Under these rather awkward cir^ 
cumstances, it was perhaps fortunate that Ferdinand 
talked without ceasing, giving his father an account 
of all he had seen, done, and heard, and of ail the 

friends he had made, from the good Duke of , 

to that capital fellow, the guard of the coach. 

They were at the park gates: Lady Armine was 
there to meet them. The carriage stopped ; Ferdi- 
nand jumped out and embraced his mother. She 
kissed him, and ran forward and extended both her 
hands to Mr. Glastonbury. "Deeds, not words, 
must show her feelings," she said ; and the tears 
glittered in her beautiful eyes; Glastonbury, with 
a blush, pressed her hand to his lips. After dinner, 
during which Ferdinand recounted all his adven- 
tures. Lady Armine invited him, when she rose, to 
walk with her in the garden. It was then with an 
air of considerable confusion, clearing his throat, 
and tilling his glass at tlie same time, that Sir Rat- 
cliife said to his remaining guest, 

" My dear Glastonbury, you cannot suppose that 
I believe that the days of magic have returned. 
This commission — both Constance and myself feel, 
that is, we are certain — that you are at the bottom 
of it all. The commission is purchased. I could 
not expect the duke, deeply as I feel bis generous 
kindness, to purchase a commission for my son : I 
could not permit it. No, Glastonbury," and here 
Sir Ratclifle became more animated, "?/oz« could 
not permit it; my honour is safe in your hands 1" 
Sir Ratcliife paused for a reply. 

" On that score my conscience is very clear," 
replied Glastonbury. 

" It is then, it must be then as I suspect," rejoin- 
ed Sir Ratcliffe. " I am your debtor for this great 
service." 

" It is easy to count your obligations to me," 
said Glastonbury; "but mine to you and yours are 
in calou labile." 

" My dear Glastonbury," said Sir Ratclifle, push- 
ing his glass away, as he rose from his seat and 
walked up and down the room, "I may be proud, 
but I have no pride for you, I owe you too much — 
indeed, my dear friend, there is nothing that I 
would not accept from you, were it in your power 
to grant what you vi'ould desire. It is not pride, 
my dear Glastonbury, do not mistake me, it is not 
pride that prompts this explanation — but, but, had 
I your command of language, I would explain my- 
self more readily — but the truth is, I, I — I cannot 
permit that you should sufler for us, Glastonbury, I 
cannot indeed." 

Mr. Glastonbury looked at Sir Ratcliffe steadily; 
then rising from his seat, he took the baronet's arm, 
and without saying a word walked slowly towards 
the gates of the castle where he lodged, and which 
we have before described. When he had reached 
the steps of the tower, he withdrew his arm, and 
saying, "let me be pioneer," invited Sir R.itcliffo 
to follow him. They accordingly entered his 
chamber. 

It was a small room lined with shelves of books 
except in one spot, where was suspended a portrait 
of Lady Barbara, which she had beijueathed him 
in her will. The floor was covered with so many 
boxes and cases, that it was not very easy to steer 
a course when you had entered. Glastonbury 
however, beckoned to his companion to seat him- 



HENRIETTA TEMPLK. 



569 



8«lf in one of his two chairs, while he unlocked a 
small cabinet, from a drawer of which he brought 
forth a paper. 

" It is my will," said Glastonbury, handing it to 
Sir Ralclirt'e, who laid it down on the table. 

"Nay, I wish you, my dear friend, to peruse it, 
for it concerns yourself." 

" I would rather learn its contents from yourself, 
if you positively desire me," replied Sir Ratclilfe. 

"I have left every thing to our child," said Glas- 
tonbury ; for thus, when speaking to the father 
alone, he would often style the son. 

" .May it he long before he enjoys the bequest," 
said Sir Ratclifle, brushing away a tear, " long, very 
long." 

" As the Almighty pleases," said Glastonbury, 
crossiuiT himself with great devotion. " ]5ut living 
or dead, I look upon all as Ferdinand's, and hold 
myself but the steward of his inheritance, which I 
will never abuse." 

" O ! Glastonbury, no more of this, I pray ; you 
have wasted a precious life upon our forlorn race. 
Alas! how often and how keenly do I feel, that 
had it not been for the name of Armine, your great 
talents and goodness might have gained for you an 
enviable portion of earthly felicity ; yes, Glaston- 
bury, you have sacriliced yourself to us," 

" Would that I could I" said the old man, with 
brightening eyes and an unaccustomed energy of 
manner. " Would that I could ! would that any 
act of mine — I care not what — could revive the 
fortunes of the house of Armine. Honoured for- 
cvi;r be the name, which with me is associated with 
all that is great and glorious in man, and (here his 
voice faltered, and he turned away his face) exqui- 
site and enchanting in woman ! 

"No, Ratclilfe," he resumed, "by the memory 
of one I cannot name — by that blessed and sainted 
being from whom you derived your life, you will 
not, you cannot, deny this last favour I ask, I en- 
treat, I supplicate you to accord me — me, who 
have ever eaten of your bread, and whom your roof 
hath ever shrouded !" 

" My friend, I cannot speak," said Sir RatclilTe, 
throwing himself back in the chair, and covering 
his face with his right hand. " I know not what to 
say ; I know not what to feel." 

Glastonbury advanced and gently took his other 
hand. " Dear Sir Ratclilfe," he observed, in his 
usual calm, sweet voice, "if I have erred you will 
pardon me. I did believe that, after my long and 
intimate connexion with your house; after having 
for nearly f()rty years sympathized as deeply with 
all your fortunes as if, indeed, your noble blood 
flowed in these old veins; after having been 
honoured on your side with a friendship which has 
been the consolation and charm of iiiy existence — 
indeed, too great a blessing, I did believe, more es- 
pecially when I reminded myself of the unrestrained 
manner in which I had availed myself of the ad- 
vantagns of that friendship, I did believe — actuated 
by feelings which perhaps I cannot describe, and 
thoughts to which I cannot now cive utterance — 
that I might venture, without offence, upon this 
slight service. Ay, that the offering might be 
made in the spirit of the most respectful affection, 
and not altogether be devoid of favour in your 
sight." 

"Excellent, kind-hearted man!" said Sir Rat- 
cl-iffe, pressing the hand of Glastonbury in his 
own ; " I accept your offering in the spirit of per- 
72 



feet love. Believe me, dearest friend, it was no 
feeling of false pride that for a moment influenced 
me ; T only Jolt — " 

"That in venturing upon this humble service, I 
deprived myself of some portion of my means of 
livelihood ; you have mistaken. When I east my 
lot at .\rmirie, I sank a portion of my capital on mj 
life; so slender are my wants here, and so little 
does your dear lady permit me to desire, that, be- 
lieve me, I have never yet expended upon myself 
this apportioned income ; and, as for the rest, it is, 
as you have seen, destined for our Ferdinand. 
Yet a little time, and Adrian Glastonbury must be 
gathered to his fathers. Why, then, deprive him 
of the greatest gratification of his remaining years ? 
the consciousness that, to be really serviceable to 
those he loves, it is not necessary for him to cease 
to exist." 

" May you never repent your devotion to our 
house !" said Sir Ratclilfe, rising from his seat. 
"Time was we could give them who served us 
something better than thanks; but, at any rate, 
these come from the heart." 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE LAST DAT AXD THE LAST NIGHT. 

l-x the mean time, the approaching departure of 
Ferdinand was the great topic of interest at Ar- 
mine. It was settled that his father should accom- 
pany him to Falmouth, where he was to embark; 
and that they should pay a visit on their way to his 
grandfather, whose scat was situated in the west 
of England. This separation, now so near at 
hand, occasioned Lady Armine the deepest afllic- 
tion, but she struggled to suppress her emotion. 
Yet often, while apparently busied with the com 
mon occupations of the day, the tears trickled down 
her cheek; and often she rose from her restless 
seat, while surrounded by those slie loved, to set^k 
the solitude of her chamber, and indulge her over 
whelming sorrow. Nor was, indeed, Ferdinand 
less sensible of the bitterness of this separation. 
With all the excitement of his new prospects, and 
the feeling of approaching adventure and fancied 
independence, so flattering to inexperienced youth, 
he could not forget that his had been a very happy 
home. Nearly seventeen years of an innocent 
existence had passed, undisturbed by a single bad 
passion, and unsullied by a single action that he 
could rcsret. The river of his life had glided 
along, reflecting only a cloudless sky. But if he, 
indeed, had been dutiful and happy — if at this mo- 
ment of severe examination his conscience were 
indeed serene — he could not but feel how much 
this enviable state of mind was to be attributed to 
those who had, as it were, imbued his life with 
love; whose never-varyiiig affection had developed 
all the kindly feelings of his nature, had anticipated 
all his wants, and listened to all his wishes; had 
assisted him in dilTieulty, and guided him in doubt; 
had invited conlidence by kindness, and deserved it 
by sympathy; had robbed instruction of all its la^ 
hour, and discipline of all its harshness. 

It was the last day ; on the morrow he was to 
quit Armi le. He strolled about among the mould- 
ering chambers of the castle, and a host of thoughts 
and passions, like clouds in a stormy sky, coursed 
3b3 



570 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



over his hitherto serene and Hght-hearted breast. 
In this first great struggle of his Soul, sojiie symp- 
tems of his latent nature deveiojici] thrinsclves, 
and, amid the rifts of the mental teiii|)es;, occa- 
sionally he caught some glimpses of self-knowledge. 
Nature, that had endowed him with a fiery imagi- 
nation and a reckless courage, had tempered those 
dangerous, and hitherto those undeveloped and 
untried gifts, with a heart of infinite sensibility. 
Ferdinand Armine was, in truth, a singular blend- 
ing of the daring and the soft; and now, as he 
looked around him, and thought of his illustrious 
and fallen race, and especially of that extraordinary 
man, of whose splendid and ruinous career — that 
man's own creation — the surrounding pile seemed 
a fitting emblem, he asked himself if he had not 
inherited the energies with the name of his grand- 
sire, and if their exertion might not yet revive the 
glories of his line. He felt within him alike the 
power and the will: and vihile he indulged in 
magnificent reveries of fame, and glory, and heroic 
action, of which career, indeed, his approaching 
departure was to be the commencement, the asso- 
ciation of ideas led his recollection to those beings 
from whom he was about to depart. His fancy 
dropped like a bird of paradise in full wing, tum- 
bling exhausted in the sky; he thought of his 
imiocent and happy boyhood ; of his father's 
thoughtful benevolence, his sweet mother's gentle 
assiduities, and Glastonbury's devotion : and he 
demanded aloud, in a voice of misery, whether fate 
indeed could supply a lot more exquisite than to 
pass existence in these calm and beauteous bowers 
with such beloved companions. 

His name was called : it was his mother's voice. 
He dashed away a desperate tear, and came forth 
with a smiling face. His mother and father were 
walking together at a little distance. He joined 
them. 

"Ferdinand," said Lady Armine, with an air of 
affected gayety, " we have just been settling that 
you are to send me a gazelle from ?nalta." And in 
this strain, speaking of slight things, yet all in 
some degree touching upon the mournful incident 
of the morrow, did Lady Armine for some time 
converse, as if she were all this time trying the 
fortitude of her mind, and accustoming herself to 
a catastrophe which she was resolved to meet 
with fortitude. 

While they were walking together, Glastonbury, 
who was hurrying from his rooms to the Place, for 
the dinner hour was at hand, joined them, and they 
entered their home together. It was singular at 
dinner, too, in what excellent spirits everybody 
determined to be. The dinner, also, generally a 
very simple repast, was almost as elaborate as the 
demeanour of the guests, and, although no one felt 
inclined to cat, consisted of every dish and delicacy 
which was supposed to be a favourite with Ferdi- 
nand. Sir Ratclilfe, in general so grave, was to-day 
quite joyous, and produced a magnum of claret, 
which he had himself discovered in the old cellars, 
and of which even Glastonbury, an habitual water- 
drinker, ventured to partake. As for Lady Armine, 
she scarcely ever ceased talking ; she found a jest 
m every sentence, and seemed only uneasy I'hen 
there was silence, Ferdinand, of course, yielded 
himself to the apparent spirit of the party ; and, 
liad a stranger been present, he could only have 
supposed that they were celebrating some anniver- 
sary of domestic joy. It seemed rather a birthday 



feast than the last social meeting of those who had 
lived together so long, and loved each other so 
dearly. 

But, as the evening drew on, their hearts began to 
grow heavy, and every one was glad that the early 
departure of the travellers on the morrow was an 
excuse for speedily retiring. 

" No adieus to-night !" said Lady Armine with a 
gay air, as she scarcely returned the habitual cm- 
brace of her son. "We shall be all up to-morrow." 

So wishing his last good night, with a charged 
heart and faltering tongue, Ferdinand Armine 
took up his candle and retired to his chamber. He 
could not refrain from exercising an unusual scru- 
tiny when he had entered the room. He held up 
the light to the old accustomed walls, and threw a 
parting glance of aflection at the curtains. 'J'here 
was the glass vase which his mother had never 
omitted each day to fill with fresh flowers, and the 
counterpane that was her own handiwork. He 
kissed it; and, flinging off his clothes, was glad 
when he was surrounded by darkness, and buried 
in his bed. 

There was a gentle tap at his door. He started, 

"Are you in bed, my Ferdinand T' inquired his 
mother's voice. 

Ere he could reply he heard the door open, and 
he observed a tall white figure approaching him. 

Lady Armine, without speaking, knelt down by 
his bedside, and took him in her arms. She buried 
her face in his breast. He felt her tears upon his 
heart. He could not move; he could not speak. 
At length he sobbed aloud. 

"May our Father that is in heaven bless you, 
my darling child ; may He guard over you ; may 
He preserve you !" Very weak was her still solemn 
voice. "I would have spared you this, my darling. 
For you, not for myself, have I controlled my feel- 
ings. But I knew not the strength of a mother's 
love. Alas ! what mother has a child like thee 1 
O I Ferdinand, my first, my only-born — child of 
love, and joy, and happiness, that never cost me a 
thought of sorrow, so kind, so gentle, and so duti- 
ful ! — must we, O ! must we indeed part? 

"It is too cruel," continued Lady Armine, kiss- 
ing with a thousand kisses her weeping child. 
" What have I done to deserve such misery as this 1 
Ferdinand, beloved Ferdinand, I shall die." 

" I will not go, mother, I will not go," wildly ex- 
claimed the boy, disengaging himself from her em- 
brace, and starting up in his bed. " Mother, I 
cannot go. No, no, it never can be good to leave 
a home like this." 

" Hush ! hush ! my darling. What words are 
these ? How unkind, how wicked is it of me to 
say all this ! Would that I had not come ! I only 
meant to listen at your door a minute, and hear 
you move, perhaps to hear you speak — and like a 
fool — how naughty of me ! — never, never shall I 
forgive myself — like a miserable fool I entered." 

"My own, own mother — what shall I say? — 
what shall I do ! I love you, mother, with all my 
heart, and soul, and spirit's strength; I love you, 
mother. There is no mother loved as you are 
loved !" 

" 'Tis that that makes me mad. I know it. 0! 
why are you not like other children, Ferdinand ] 
When your uncle left U5, my father said 'Good- 
bye,' and shook his hand, and he, hi scarcely kissed 
us, he was so glad to leave his home ; but you- -To- 
morrow — no, not to-morrow. Can it be to-morrow !" 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



571 



'' Mother, let me get up and call my father, and 
tell him I will not go." 

" Good God ! what words are these 1 Not go ! 
'Tis all your hope to go ; all ours, dear child, 
M'liat would your I'alher say were he to hear me 
speak thus ] O ! that I had not entered ! What 
a«fool I am !" 

" Dearest, dearest mother, believe me we shall 
soon meet." 

"Shall we soon meet! God! how joyous will 
be the day !" 

" And I — I will write to you by every ship." 

" O ! never fail, Ferdinand, never fail." 

" .\nd send you a gazelle, and you shall call it 
by my name, dear mother." 

"Darling child!" 

" You know I have often stayed a month at 
grandpapa's, and once six weeks. Why ! eight 
times six weeks, and I shall be home again." 

"Home ! home again ! eight times six weeks — 
A year, nearly a year ! It seems eternity. Winter, 
and spring, and summer, and winter again — all to 
pass away. And for seventeen years he has scarcely 
been out of my sight. O ! my idol, my beloved, 
my darling Ferdinand, I catniot believe it ; I cannot 
believe that we are to part." 

" Mother, dearest mother, think of my father, 
dearest ; think how much his hopes are placed on 
me — think, dearest mother, how much I have to do. 
All now depends on me, you know. I must restore 
our house." 

" O ! Ferdinand, I dare not express the thoughts 
that rise upon me ; yet I would say that, had I 
but my child, I could live in peace, how or where I 
care not." 

" Dearest mother, you unman me." 

" It is very wicked. I am a fool — I never, no ! 
never shall I pardon myself for this night, Ferdi- 
nand." 

"Sweet mother, I beseech you calm yourself. 
Believe me we shall indeed meet very soon, and, 
somehow or other, a little bird whispers to me we 
shall yet be very happy." 

" But will you be the same Ferdinand to me as 
before 1 Ay ! there it is, my child. You will be a 
man when you come back, and be ashamed to love 
your mother. Promise me now," said Lady Ar- 
mine with extraordinary energy, " promise me, 
Ferdinand, you will always love me. Do not let 
them make you ashamed of loving me. They will 
joke, and jest, and ridicule all home affections. 
You are very young, sweet love, very, very young, 
and very inexperienced and susceptible. Do not 
let them spoil your frank and beautiful nature. Do 
not let them lead you astray. Kcmember Armine, 
sweetest dear, dear Armine, and those who live 
there. Trust me, ! yes, indeed believe me, dar- 
ling, you will never find friends in this world like 
those you leave at Armine." 

" I know it," exclaimed Ferdinand, with stream- 
ing eyes; "God be my witness how deeply I feel 
that truth. If I forget thee and them, dear mother, 
may God indeed forget me." 

" .My darling, darling Ferdinand," said Lady .Ar- 
mine, in a calm tone, "I am better now. I hardly 
am sorry that I did come now. It will be a conso- 
lation to me in your absence to remember all you 
have saiu. Good night, my beloved child, my dar- 
ling love, good nisiht. I shall not come down to- 
morrow, dear. We will not meet again — I will say 
qpod-bye to you from the window. Be happy, 0! 



be happy, my dear Ferdinand, and as; you say, in- 
deed, we shall soon meet again. Eight-and-forty 
weeks ! Why what are eight-and-forty weeks ! It 
is not quite a year. Courage, my sweet boy ! let 
u-s keep up each other's spirits, love. Who knows 
what may yet come from this your first venture 
in the world ? I am full of hope. I trust you 
will find all that you want. I packed up every 
thing myself. Whenever you want any thing 
write to your mother. Mind you have eight pack- 
ages; I have written them down on a card, and 
placed it on the hall table. And take the greatest 
care of old Sir Ferdinand's sword. lam very super 
stitious about that sword, and while you have it I 
am sure you will succeed. I have ever thought 
that, had he taken it with him to France, all would 
have gone right with him. God bless, God Al- 
mighty bless you, child. Be of good heart. I will 
write you every thing that takes place, and, as you 
say, we shall sooii meet. Indeed after to-night," 
she added in a mournful tone, " we have naught 
else to think of but of meeting. I fear it is very 
late. Your father will be surprised at my absence." 
She rose from his bed and walked up and down 
the room several times in silence; then again ap- 
proaching him, she folded him in her arms and in- 
stantly quitted the chamber, without again speak- 
ing. 



CHAPTER X. 

the advantage of being a fat* urite 
ghattiison. 

The exhausted Ferdinand found consolation in 
sleep. When he woke the dawn was just break- 
ing. He dressed and went forth to look, for the 
last time, on his hereditary woods. The air was 
cold, but the sky was perfectly clear, and the beams 
of the rising sun soon spread over the blue heaven. 
How fresh, and glad, and sparkling was the sur- 
rounding scene ! With what enjo^'ment did he 
inhale the soft and renovating breeze. The dew 
quivered on the grass, and the carol of the vt-aken- 
ing birds, roused from their slumbers by the spread- 
ing warmth, resounded from the groves. From 
the green knoll on which he stood, he beheld the 
clustering village of Armine, a little agricultural 
settlement, formed of the peasants alone who li > 1 
on the estate. The smoke began to rise in blue 
curls from the cottage chimneys, and the church 
clock struck the hour of five. It seemed to Fer- 
dinand that those labourers were far happier than 
he, since the setting sun would find them still at 
Armine : happy, happy Armine ! 

The sound of carriage-wheels aroused him from 
his revery. The fatal moment had arrived. He 
hastened to the gate according to his promise, to 
bid farewell to Glastonbury. The good old man 
was up. He pressed his pupil to his bosom and 
blessed him with a choking voice. 

" Dearest and kindest friend !" murmured Fer- 
dinand. 

Glastonbury placed around his neck a small 
golden crucifix that had belonged to Lady Barbara. 
"Wear it next your heart, my child," said he: "it 
will remind you of your God, and of us all." 
Ferdinand quitted the tower with a thousand bless- 
ings. 

When he came in sight of the Place he saw his 



572 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



father standing by the carnage, which was aheaJy 
packed. Ferdinand ran into tlie house to get the 
card which had been left on the hall table for him 
by his mother. He ran over the list with the old 
and faithful domestic, and shook hands with him. 
Nothing now remained. All was ready. His fa- 
ther was seated. Ferdinand stood a moment in 
khought. 

" Let me run up to my mother, sir V 

" You had better not, my child," replied Sir 
Ratcliffe, " she does not expect you. Come, come 
along." 

So he slowly seated himself, with his eyes fixed 
on the window of his mother's chamber; and, as 
the carriage drove ofl", the window opened, and a 
hand waved a white handkerchief. He saw no 
more ; but as he saw it, he clenched his hand in 
agony. 

Hovv different was this journey to London from 
his last ] He scarcely spoke a word. Nothing 
interested him but his own feelings. The guard 
and the coachman, and the bustle of the inn, and 
the passing spectacles of the road, appeared a col- 
lection of impertinences. All of a sudden it seemed 
that his boyish feelings had deserted him. He was 
glad when they arrived in London, and glad that 
they were to stay in it only a single day. Sir Rat- 
cliffe and his son called upon the duke ; but, as 
they had anticipated, the family had quitted town. 
Our travellers put up at Hatchett's, and the follow- 
ing night started for Exeter in the Devonport mail. 
Ferdinand arrived at the western metropolis with- 
out having interchanged with his father scarcely a 
hundred sentences. At Exeter, after a night of 
most welcome rest, they took a post-chaise, and 
proceeded by a cross-road to Grandison. 

When Lord Grandison, who as yet perfectly un- 
acquainted with the revolutions in the Armine 
family, had clearly comprehended that his grand- 
son had obtained a commission vs'ithout either 
troubling him for his interest, or putting him in the 
disagreeable predicament of refusing his money, 
there were no bounds to the extravagant testimo- 
nials of his affection, both towards his son-in-law 
and his grandson. He seemed, indeed, quite proud 
of such relations ; he patted Sir Ratcliffe on his 
back, asked a thousand questions about his darling 
Constance, and hugged and slobbered over Ferdi- 
nand, as if he were a child of live years old. He 
informed all his guests daily (and the house was 
very full) that Lady Armine was his favourite 
daughter, and Sir RatclilFe his favourite son-in-law, 
and Ferdinand especially his favourite grandchild. 
He insisted upon Sir Ratcliffe always sitting at 
the head of his table, and always placed Ferdinand 
on his own right hand. He asked his butler aloud 
at dinner why he had not given a particular kind of 
Burgundy, because Sir Ratcliffe Armine was here. 
" Darbois," said the old nobleman, "have not I 
lold you that that Clos de Vougoct is always to be 
kept for Sir Ratcliffe Armine 1 It is his favourite 
wine. Clos de Vougoet directly to Sir Ratcliffe Ar- 
mine. I do not think, my dear madam, (turning to 
a fair neighbour,) that I have yet had the pleasure of 
introducing you to my son-in-law, my favourite 
son-in-law. Sir Rateliffi? Armine. — He married 
my daughter Constance, my favourite daugh- 
ter Constance. — Only here for a few days, a 
very, very few days indeed. — Quite a flying 
visit. — I wish I could see the whole family of- 
tener and longer. — Passing through to Falmouth 



with his son, this young gentleman on my right 
my grandson, my favourite grandson, Ferdinand. 
— Just got his commission. — Ordered for Malta im- 
mediately. — He is in the Fusileers, the Royal 
Fusileers. — Very difficult, my dear madam, in. 
these days to obtain a commission, especially £( 
commission in the Roj'al Fusileers. — Very great 
interest required, very great interest indeed. — But 
the Arminesare a most ancient family, very highly 
connected — very highly connected ; and, between 

you and me, the Duke of would do any thing 

for them. — ^Come, come. Captain Armine, take a 
glass of wine with your old grandfather." 

" How attached the old gentleman appears to be 
to his favourite grandson," whispered the lady to 
her neighbour. 

" Delightful ! yes !" was the reply ; '' I believe 
he is the favourite grandson." 

In short, the old gentleman got so excited by the 
universal admiration lavished on his favour te 
grandson, that he finally insisted on seeing the 
young hero in his regimentals ; and when Ferdi- 
nand took his leave, after a great many whimpered 
blessings, his domestic feelings were worked up to 
such a pitch of enthusiasm, that he absolutely 
presented his grandson with a hundred-pound note. 
" Thank you, my dear grandpapa," said the 
astonished Ferdinand, who really did not expect 
more than fifty — perhaps even a moiety of that 
more moderate sum ; " thank you, my dear grand- 
papa; I am very much obliged to you, indeed." 

" I wish I could do more for you ; I do, indeed," 
said Lord Grandison ; " but nobody ever thinks of 
paying his rent now. You are my grandson, my 
favourite grandson, my dear fiivonrite daughter's 
only child. And you are an officer in his majesty's 
service — an officer in the Royal Fusileers — only 
think of that! It is the most unexpected thing 
that ever happened to me. To see you so well and 
so unexpectedly provided for, my dear child, has 
taken a very great load off my mind ; it has indeed. 
You have no idea of a parent's anxiety in these 
matters ; you have not indeed, especially of a 
grandfather. You will someday, I warrant you," 
continued the noble grandfather, with an expres- 
sion between a giggle and a leer ; " but do not be 
wild, my dear Ferdinand, do not be too wild, at 
least. Young blood must have its way ; but be 
cautious ; now, do ; be cautious, my dear child. 
Do not get into any scrapes ; at least do not get 
into any very serious scrapes; and, whatever hap- 
pens to you," and here his lordship assumed a very 
serious, and even a solemn tone, " remember you 
have friends ; remember, my dear boy, you have a 
grandfather, and that you, my dear Ferdinand, are 
his favourite grandson." 

This passing visit to Grandison rather rallied the 
spirits of our travellers. When they ;urived at 
Falmouth, they found, however, that the packet, 
which waited for governnaent despatches, was not 
yet to sail. Sir Ratcliffe scarcely knew whether 
lie ought to grieve or to rejoice at the reprieve ; but 
he determined to be gay. So Ferdinand and him- 
self passed their mornings, in visiting the mines, 
Pendennis Castle, and the other lions of the neigh- 
bourhood ; and returned in the evening to their 
cheerful hotel, with good appetites for their agree- 
able banquet, the mutton of Dartmoor and the cream 
of Devon. 

At length, however, the hour of separation ap- 
proached ; a message awaited them at the inn, 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



573 



on their return from one of their rambles, that Fer- 
dinand must be on board at an early hour on the 
morrow. That evening the conversation between 
Sir Ratclill'i; and his son was of a graver nature 
than they usually indulged in. He spoke to him 
in confulence of his allliirs. Dark hints, indeed, 
liad before reached Ferdinand ; nor, although his 
parents had ever spared his feelings, could his in- 
telligent mind have altogether refrained from guess- 
ing much that liad never been formally communi- 
cated. Yet the truth was worse even than he had 
anticipated. Ferdinand, however, was young and 
sanguine. He encouraged his father with his 
hopes, and supported him by his sympathy. He 
expressed to !:<ir RatclitVe his confidence that the 
generosity of his grandfather would prevent him at 
present from becoming a burden to his own parent, 
and he inwardly resolved that no possible cir- 
cumstances should never induce him to abuse the 
benevolence of Sir Ratclilfc. 

The moment of separation arrived. Sir Rat- 
cliffe pressed to his bosom his only, his loving, and 
his beloved child. He poured over Ferdinand the 
deepest, the most fervid blessing that a father ever 
granted to a son. But, with all this pious consola- 
tion, it was a moment of agony. 



BOOK II. 



CHAPTER I. 

fAUTLY nETnOSPECTITE, XET VERT NECESSARY 
TO BE PERUSED. 

The courteous reader will have the kindness to 
understand that an interval of nearly five years had 
elapsed between the event which formed the sub- 
ject of our last chapter and the recall to England 
of the regiment in which Captain Armine now 
commanded a company. This period of time had 
passed away not unfruitful of events in the expe- 
rience of that family, in whose fate and feelings I 
have attempted to excite the interest of the reader. 
In this interval Ferdinand Armine had paid one 
short visit to his native land ; a visit which had 
certainly been accelerated, if not absolutely occa- 
sioned, by the untimely death of his cousin Augus- 
tus, the presumptive heir of Grandison. This un- 
foreseen event produced a very great revolution in 
the prospects of the family of Armine; for although 
the title and entailed estates of Grandison devolved 
to & very distant branch, the personal property of 
the old lord was of great amount; and, as he had 
no male heir now living, conjectures as to its pro- 
bable dispositions were now rife among all those 
who could possibly become interested in it. What- 
ever arrangement the old lord might decide upon, 
it seemed nearly certain that the Armine family 
must be greatly benefited. Some persons even 
went so far as to express their conviction that every 
thing would be left to Mr. Armine, who everybody 
now discovered to have always been a particular 
favourite with his grandfather. At all events. Sir 
RatcUfTe, who ever maintained upon the subject a 
becoming silence, thought it as well that his son 
should remind his grandfather personally of his 
existence ; and it was at his father's suggestion 
that Ferdinand had obtained a short leave of ab- 
sence, at the lirst opportunity, to pay a hurried 
visit to Grandison and his grandfather. 



The old lord yielded him a reception which 
might have flattered the most daring hopes. He 
embraced Ferdinand, and pressed him to his heart 
a thousand times; he gave him his blessing in the 
most formal manner every morning and evening; 
and assured everybody that he now was not only 
his favourite, but his only grandson. He did not 
even hesitate to affect a growing dislike for his own 
seat, because it was not in his power to leave it to 
Ferdinand ; and he endeavoured -to console that 
fortunate youth for this indispensable deprivation 
by mysterious intimations that he would, perhaps, 
find quite enough to do with his money in complet- 
ing Armine castle, and maintaining its becoming 
splendour. The sanguine Ferdinand returned to 
Malta with the conviction that he was his grand- 
father's heir; and even Sir Rateliffe was almost dis- 
posed to believe that his son's expectations were 
not without some show of probability, when he 
found that Lord Grandison had absolutely furnished 
him with the funds for the purchase of his com- 
pany. 

Ferdinand was fond of his profession. He had 
entered it, indeed, under the most favourable cir- 
cumstances. He had joined a crack regiment in a 
crack garrison. Malta is certainly a most delight- 
ful station. Its city, Valctta, equals in its noble 
architecture, if it even do not exceed, any capital 
in Europe; and although it must be confessed that 
the surrounding region is little better than a rock, 
the vicinity, nevertheless, of Barbary, of Italy, and 
of Sicily, presents exhaustless resources to the lovers 
of the highest order of natural beauty. If that fair 
Valetta, with its streets of palaces, its picturesque 
fort and magnificent church, only crowned some 
green and azure island of the Ionian Sea, Corfu, 
for instance, I really think that the ideal of land- 
scape would be realized. 

To Ferdinand, who was inexperienced in the 
world, the dissipation of Malta, too, was delightful. 
It must be confessed that, under all circumstances, 
the first burst of emancipation from domestic routine 
hath in it something very fascinating. However 
you may be indulged at home, it is impossible to 
break the train of childish associations — it is impos- 
sible to escape from the feeling of dependence and 
the habit of submission. Charming hour when you 
first order your own servants and ride your own 
horses, instead of your father's! It is delightful 
even to kick about our own furniture ; and there 
is something manly and magnanimous in paying 
our own taxes. Young, lively, kind, accomplished, 
good-looking, and well-bred, Ferdinand Armine 
had in him all the elements of popularity ; and the 
novelty of popularity quite intoxicated a youth who 
had passed his life in a rural seclusion, where he 
had been appreciated, but not huzzaed. Ferdinand 
was not only popular, but proud of being popular. 
He was popular with the governor, he was popu- 
lar with ins colonel, he was popular with his mess, 
he was popular throughout the garrison. Never 
was a person so popular as Ferdinand Armine. He 
was the best rider among them, and the deadliest 
shot; and he soon became an oracle at the billiard- 
tahle, and a hero in the racket-court. His refined 
education, however, fortunately preserved him from 
the fate of many other lively youths ; he did not de- 
generate into a mere hero of sports and brawls, the 
genius of male revels, the arbiter of roistering sup- 
pers, and the Comus of a club. His bo^ ish feeljnga 
bad their play ; be soon exuded the wanton beatoc 



674 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



'-y*^. 



which a pubHc school would have served as a 
safety valve. He returned to his books, his music, 
and his pencil. He became more quiet, but was not 
Jess liked. If he lost some companions, he gained 
many friends ; and, on the whole, the most boister- 
ous wassaillers were proud of the accomplishments 
of their comrade ; and often an invitation to a mess 
dinner was accompanied by a hint that Armine 
dined there, and that there was a chance of hearing 
him sing. Ferdinand now became as popular with 
the governor's lady as with the governor himself, 
was quite idolized by his colonel's wife, while not 
a party throughout the island was considered per- 
fect without the presence of Mr, Armine. 

Excited by his situation, Ferdinand was soon 
tempted to incur expenses which his income did 
not justify. The facility of credit afibrded him not 
a moment to pause ; every thing he wanted was 
furnished him ; and, until the regiment quitted the 
garrison, he was well aware that a settlement of ac- 
counts was never even desired. Amid this impru- 
dence he was firm, however, in his resolution never 
to trespass on the resources of his father. It was 
with difficulty that he even brought himself to draw 
for the allowance which Sir RatclilFe insisted on 
making him; and he would gladly have saved his 
father from making even this advance, by vague 
intimations of the bounty of Lord Grandison, had he 
feared not this conduct might have led to suspicious 
and disagreeable inquiries. It cannot be denied that 
his debts occasionally caused him anxiety, but they 
were not considerable ; he quieted his conscience 
by the belief that, if he were pressed, his grand- 
father could scarcely refuse to discharge a few hun- 
dred pounds for his favourite grandson ; and, at all 
events, he felt that the ultimate resource of selling 
his commission was still reserved for him. If these 
vague prospects did not drive away compunction, 
the qualms of conscience were generally allayed in 
the evening assembly, in which his vanity was 
gratified. At length he paid his first visit to Eng- j 
land. That was a happy meeting. His kind 
father, his dear, dear mother, and the faithful Glas- 
tonbury, experienced some of the most transporting 
moments of their existence, when they beheld, with 
admiring gaze, the hero who returned to them. 
Their eyes were never satiated with beholding him ; 
they hung upon his accents. Then came the tri- 
umphant visit to Grandison ; and then Ferdinand 
returned to Malta, in the full conviction that he was 
the heir of fifteen thousand a-year. 

Among many other, there is one characteristic 
of capitals in which Valetta is not deficient: the 
facility with which young heirs apparent, presump- 
tive, or expectant, can obtain any accommodation 
they desire. The terms — never mind the terms — 
who ever thinks of them ? As for Ferdinand Ar- 
mine, who, as the only son of an old baronet, and 
the supposed future inheritor of Armine Park, had 
always been looked upon l)y tradesmen with a gra- 
cious eye, he found that his popularity in this re- 
spect was not at all diminished by his visit to 
England, and its supposed consequences, slight 
expressions, uttered on his return in the confidence 
of convivial companionship, were repeated, niisre- 
jtresented, exaggerated, and circulated in all quar- 
ters. We like those whom we love to be fortunate. 
Everybody rejoices in the good luck of a popular 
character ; and soon it was generally understood 
that Ferdinand Armine had become next in the 
entail of thirty thousand a-year and a peerage. 



Moreover, he was not long to wait for his inheritance. 
'I'he usurers pricked up their ears, and such 
numerous proffers of accommodation and assistance 
were made to the fortunate Mr. Armine, that he 
really found it quite impossible to refuse them, or 
to reject the loans that were almost forced on hia 
acceptance. 

Ferdinand Armine had passed the Rubicon. He 
was in debt. If youth but knew the fatal misery 
that they are entailing on themselves the moment 
they accept a pecuniary credit to which they are 
not entitled, how they would start in their career'' 
how pale they would turn! how they would trem- 
ble, and clasp their hands in agony at the preci- 
pice on which they are disporting ! , Debt is the 
prolific mother of folly and of crime; it taints the 
course of life in all its streams. Hence so many un- 
happy marriages, so many prostituted pens, and 
venal politicians! It hath a small beginning, but a 
giant's growth and strength. When we make the 
monster, we make our master, who haunts us at all 
hours, and shakes his wbip of scorpions forever in 
our sight. The slave hath no overseer so severe. 
Faustus, when he signed the bond with blood, did 
not secure a doom more terrific. But when we are 
young, we must enjoy ourselves. True; and there 
are few things more gloomy than the recollection 
of a youth that has not been enjoyed. What pros- 
perity of manhood, what splendour of old age, can 
compensate for it? Wealth is power; and in 
youth, of all seasons of life, we require power, be- 
cause we can enjoy every thing that we can com- 
mand. Whnt, then, is to be done 1 I leave the 
question to the schoolmen, because I am convinced 
that to moralize with the inexperienced availeth 
nothing. 

The conduct of men depends upon their temper- 
ament, not upon a bunch of musty maxims. No 
one had been educated with more care than Ferdi- 
nand Armine; in no heart had stricter precepts of 
moral conduct ever been instilled. But he was 
lively and impetuous, with a fiery imagination, vio- 
lent passions, and a daring soul. Sanguine he was 
as the day ; he could not believe in the night of 
sorrow, and the impenetrable gloom that attends a 
career that has failed. The world was all before 
him ; and he dashed at it like a young charger in 
his first strife, confident that he must rush to victory, 
and never dreaming of death. 

Thus would I attempt to account for the extreme 
imprudence of his conduct on his return from Eng- 
land. He was confident in his future fortunes ; he 
was excited by the applause of the men, and the 
admiration of the women; he determined to gratify, 
even to satiety, his excited and restless vanity, he 
broke into profuse exnenditure; he purchased a 
yacht; he engaged a villa; his racing horses and 
his servants exceeded all other establishments ex- 
cept the governor's in breeding, in splendour, and 
in number. Occasionally wearied with the mono- 
tony of Malta, he obtained a short leave of absence, 
and passed a few weeks at Naples, Palermo, and 
Rome, where he glittered in the most brilliant cir- 
cles, and whence he returned laden with choice 
specimens of art and luxury, and followed by the 
report of strange and flattering adventures. Finally, 
he was the prime patron of the Maltese opera, and 
brought over a celebrated Prima Donna from San 
Carlos in his own vessel. 

In the midst of his career, Ferdinand received 
intelligence of the death of Lord Grandison. For 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



575 



tunately, when he received it, he was alone; there 
was no onp, therefore, to witness his blank dismay 
when he discovered that, after all, he was not his 
grandfather's heir! After a vast number of the 
most trilling leijacics to his daughters, and their 
husbands, and their children, and all his favourite 
friends. Lord Grandison left the whole of his per- 
sonal property to his granddaughter Katherine, the 
only remaining child of his son, who had died early 
in life, and the sister of the lately deceased Augus- 
tus. 

What was to be done now 1 His mother's san- 
guine mind — fur Lady Armine broke to him the 
fatal intelligence — already seemed to anticipate the 
only remedy f()r this "unjust will." It was a 
remedy delicately intimated, but the intimation fell 
upon a fine and ready car. Yes ! he must marry; 
he must marry his cousin ; he must marry Kathe- 
rine Grandison. Ferdinand looked around him at 
his magnificent rooms; the damask hangingjp of 
Tunis, the tall mirrors from Marseilles, the inlaid 
tables, the marble statues, and the alabaster vases 
that he had purchased at Florence and at Kome, 
and the delicate mats that ho had himself imported 
from Algiers. lie looked around and he shrugged 
his shoulders — " All this must be paid," thought 
he; "and, alas! how much more!" And then 
came across his mind a recollection of his father 
and his cares, and innocent Armine, and dear Glas- 
tonbury, and his sacrifice. Ferdinand shook his 
head and sighed. 

"How have I repaid them!" thought he. "Thank 
God they know nothing. Thank God they have 
only to bear their own disappointments and their 
own privations; but it is in vain to moralize. The 
future, not the past, must be my motto. To retreat 
is impossible; I may yet advance and conquer. 
Katherine Grandison ; only think of my Utile 
cousin Kate for a wife ! They say that it is not 
the easiest task in the world to fan a lively flame 
in the bosom of a cousin. The love of cousins is 
proverbially not of a very romantic character. 'Tis 
well I have not seen her much in my life, and very 
little of late. Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. 
Will she dare to des[)ise mel" He glanced at the 
mirror. The inspection was not unsalisfactorj'. 
Plunged in profound meditation, he paced the 
room. 



CHAPTER n. 

IX WniCII CAPTAiy ATIMINE ACHIF.TES WITH HA- 
riDITY A KKSCLT WHICH ALWATS HEaUIKES 
GREAT DELIBERATION. 

It so happened that the regiment in which 
Captain Armine had the honour of commanding a 
company, was at this time under orders of immedi- 
ate recall to England ; and within a month of his re- 
ceipt of the fatal intelligence of his being, as he styled 
it, disinherited, he was on his way to his native 
land. This speedy departure was fortunate, be- 
cause it permitted him to retire before the death of 
Lord Grandison became generally known, and 
consequently commented upon and inquired into. 
Previous to quitting the garrison, Ferdinand had 
Bettled his affairs for the time without the slightest 
diftlculfy. as he was still able to raise any money 
that he required. 



On arriving at Falmouth, Ferdinand learnt that 
his father and mother were at Batii, on a visit to 
his maiden aunt, Miss Grandison, with whom his 
cousin now resided. As the regiment was quar- 
tered at Exeter, he was enabled in a very few days 
to obtain leave of absence, and join them. In the 
first rapture of meeting all disappointment was for- 
gotten, and in the course of a day or two, when 
this sentiment had somewhat subsided, Ferdinand 
perceived that the shock which his parents must 
have necessarily experienced, was already con- 
siderably softened by the prospect in which they 
secretly indulged, and which various circumstances 
combined in inducing them to believe was by no 
means a visionary one. 

His cousin Katherine was about his own age; 
mild, elegant, and very pretty. Being very fair, 
she looked extremely well in her deep mourning. 
She was not remarkable for the liveliness of her 
mind, yet not devoid of observation, although easily 
influenced by those whom she loved, and with 
whom she lived. Her maiden aunt evidently exer- 
cised a powerful control over her conduct and 
opinions : and Lady Armine was a favourite sister 
of this maiden aunt. Without therefore apparently 
directing her will, there was no lack of etlbrt from 
this quarter to predispose Katherine in favour of 
her cousin. She heard so much of her cousin 
Ferdinand, of his beauty, and his goodness, and his 
accomplishments, that she had looked forward to 
his arrival with feelings of no ordinary interest. 
And, indeed, if the opinions and sentiments of those 
with whom she lived could influence, there was no 
need of any artifice to predispose her in favour of 
her cousin. Sir Ratclifle and Lady Armine were 
wrapped up in their son. They seemed scarcely 
to have another idea, feeling, or thought in the 
world, but his existence and his felicity; and al- 
though their good sense had ever preserved them 
from the silly habit of uttering his panegyric in his 
presence, they amply compensated for this painful 
restraint when he was away. Then he was ever 
the handsomest, the cleverest, the most accomplish- 
ed, and the most kind-hearted and virtuous of his 
sex. Fortunate the parents blessed with such a 
son ! thrice fortunate the wife blessed with such a 
husband ! 

It was, therefore, with no ordinary emotion that 
Katherine Grandison heard that this perfect cousin 
Ferdinand had at length arrived. She had seen 
little of him even in his boyish days, and even then 
he was rather a hero in their Lilliputian circle. 

Ferdinand Armine was always looked up to at 
Grandison, and always spoken of by her grand- 
father as a very fine fellow indeed ; a wonderfully 
fine fellow, his favourite grandson, Ferdinand Ar- 
mine ; and now he had arrived. His knock was 
heard at the door, his step was on the stairs, the 
door opened, and certainly his first appearance did 
not disappoint his cousin Kate. So handsome, so 
easy, so gentle, and so cordial ; they were all the 
best friends in a moment. Then he embraced his 
father with such fervour, and kissed his mother 
with such fondness; it was very evident that he 
had an excellent heart. His arrival, indeed, was a 
revolution. Their mourninsi days seemed at once 
to disappear; and although they of course entered 
society very little, and never frequented any public 
amusement, it seemed to Katherine thnt all of a 
sudden she lived in a round of delightful Erayety 
Ferdinand was so amusing and so accomplislted ! 



576 



1> 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



He sang with her, he plaj^ed with her ; he was 
always projecting long summer rides, and long 
summer walks. Then his conversation was so dif- 
ferent to every thing to which she had ever listened. 
He had seen so many things and so many persons; 
every thing that was strange, and everybody that 
was famous. His opinions were so original, his 
illustrations so apt and lively, his anecdotes so in- 
exhaustible and sparkling ! Poor, inexperienced, 
innocent Katherine ! Her cousin in four-and- 
twenty hours found it quite impossible to fall in 
love with her ; and so he determined to make her 
fall in love with him. He quite succeeded. She 
adored him. She did not believe that there was 
any one in the world so handsome, so good, so 
clever ! No one, indeed, who knew Ferdinand 
Armine, could deny that he was a rare being ; but, 
had there been any acute and unprejudiced ob- 
servers who had known him in his younger and 
happier hours, they would perhaps have remarked 
some diflerence in his character and conduct, and 
not a favourable one. He was indeed more bril- 
liant, but not quite so interesting as in old days ; 
far more dazzling, but not quite so apt to charm. 
No one could deny his lively talents and his per- 
fect breeding, but there was a restlessness almut 
him, an excited and exaggerated style, which might 
have made some suspect that his demeanour was 
an effort, and that under a superficial glitter, by 
which so many are deceived, there was no little 
deficiency of the genuine and sincere. Katherine 
Grandison, however, was not one of those profound 
observers. She was easily captivated. Ferdinand, 
who really did not feel sufficient emotion to venture 
upon a scene, made his proposals to her when they 
were riding in a green lane ; the sun just setting, 
and the evening star glittering through a vista. 
The lady blushed, and wept, and sobbed, and hid 
her fair and streaming face, but the result was as 
satisfactory as our hero could desire. The young 
equestrians kept their friends in the Crescent at 
least two hours for dinner, and then had no appe- 
tite for the repast when they had arrived. Never- 
theless the maiden aunt, although a very particular 
personage, made this day no complaint, and was 
evidently far from being dissatisfied with anybody 
or any thintr. As for Ferdinand, he called for a 
tumbler of Champagne, and secretly drank his own 
health, as the luckiest fellow of his acquaintance, 
with a pretty, amiable, and high-bred wife, with all 
his debts paid, and the house of Armine restored. 



CHAPTER HI. 

IN^ WHICH FERDI3!fAND HETUHNS TO AIlMIJfE. 

It was settled that a year must elapse from the 
death of Lord Grandison before the young couple 
could be miited, a reprieve which did not occasion 
Ferdinand any very acute grief In the mean time 
the Grandisons were to pass at least the autumn at 
Armine, and thither the united families proposed 
Boon to direct their progress. Ferdinand, who had 
been nearly two months at Bath, and was a little 
wearied of courtship, contrived to quit that city 
before his friends, on the plea of visiting London, 
to arrange about selling his commission; for it was 
agreed that he should quit the army. 

On bis arrival in London, having spoken to his 



agent, and finding town quite empty, he set ofT im. 
mediately for Armine, in order that he might have 
the pleasure of being there a few days without the 
society of his intended; run through the woods on 
the ajiproaching first of September ; and, especially, 
embrace his dear Glastonbury. For it must not 
be supposed that Ferdinand had forgotten for a 
moment this invaluable friend; on the contrary, he 
had written to him several times since his arrival ; 
always assuring him that nothing but important 
business could prevent him from instantly paying 
him his respects. 

It was with feelings of no common emotion, it 
was with feelings even of agitation, that Ferdinand 
beheld the woods of his ancient home rise in the 
distance, and soon the towers and turrets of Ar- 
mine Castle. Those venerable bowers, that proud 
and lordly house, were not then to pass away from 
their old and famous line ] He had redeemed the 
heritage of his great ancestry ; he looked with un- 
mingled complacency on the magnificent landscape, 
once to him a source of as much anxiety as affec- 
tion. What a change in the destiny of the Ar- 
mines ! Their glory restored ; his own devoted 
and domestic hearth, once the prey of so much 
care and gloom, crowned with ease, and happiness, 
and joy ; on all sides a career of splendour and 
felicity. And Ae had done all this! What a pro- 
phet was his mother ! She had ever indulged the 
fond conviction that her beloved son would be their 
restorer. How wise and pious was the undeviat- 
ing confidence of kind old Glastonbury in their 
fate ! With what pure, what heartfelt delight, 
would that faithful friend listen to his extraordinary 
communication ! 

His carriage dashed through the park gates as 
if the driver were sensible of his master's pride and 
exultation. Glastonbury was ready to welcome 
him, standing in the flower-garden, which he had 
made so rich and beautiful, and which had been 
the charm and consolation of many of their hum- 
bler hours. 

" My dear, dear father," exclaimed Ferdinand, 
embracing him, for thus he ever styled his old tutor. 

But Glastonbury could not speak ; the tears 
quivered in his eyes and trickled down his faded 
cheek. Ferdinand led him into the house. 

" How well you look, dear father," continued 
Ferdinand; "you really look younger and heartier 
than ever. You received all my letters, I am sure; 
and yours — how kind of you to remember and to 
write to me ! I never forgot you, my dear, dear 
friend. I never forgot you. Do you know I am 
the happiest fellow in the world ] I have the 
greatest news in the world to tell my Glastonbury ! 
and we owe every thing to you, every thing. 
What would Sir RatclifTe have been without you 1 
what should I have been 1 Fancy the best news 
you can, dear friend, and it is not as good as I have 
got to tell. You will rejoice, you will be delighted ! 
We shall furnish a castle ! by Jove, we shall fur- 
nish a castle! we shall, indeed, and you shall build 
it ! No more gloom ; no more care. The Ar- 
mines shall hold their heads up again, by Jove they 
shall ! Dearest, dearest of men, I dare say you 
think me mad. I am mad ; mad with joy. How 
that Virginian creeper has grown ! I have brought 
you such lots of plants, my father ! a complete 
Sicilian Hortus Siccus. Ah, John, faithful John! 
give me your hand. How is your wife? Take 
care of my pistol-case. Ask Louis ; he knows al. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



577 



about every thing. Well, my dear, clear Glaston- 
bury, and how have you been ] how is the old 
tower 1 how are the old books, and the old staff, 
and old arms, and the old every thing 1 dear, dear, 
Glastonbury !" 

While the carriage was unpacking, and the din- 
ner table prepared, the friends walked in the gar- 
den, and from thence strolled towards the tower, 
where ihcy remained some time pacing up and 
down the heechen avenue. It was very evident, on 
their return, that Ferdinand had comuiunicated his 
great intelligence. The countenance of Glaston- 
bury was quite radiant with delight. Indeed, al- 
though he had dined, he accepted with readiness 
Ferdinand's invitation to repeat the ceremony ; 
nay, he qualYed more than one glass of wine : and, 
I believe, even drank tiie health of ever)- member 
of the united families of At mine and Grandison. 
It was late, very late, before the companions parted, 
and retired for the night; and I think, before they 
bade each other good night, they must have talked 
over every circumstance that had occurred in their 
experience since the birth of Ferdinand. 



CHAPTER IV. 

IN WHICH SOME LIGHT IS TUIIOWX OX THE TITLE 
OF THIS WORK. 

How delicious, after a long, long absence, to 
walk on a sunny morning, and find ourselves at 
home ! Ferdinand could scarcely credit that he 
was really again «t Armine. He started up in his 
bed, and rubbed his eyes, and stared at the unac- 
customed, yet familiar sights, and, for a moment, 
Malta, and the Royal Fusilcers, Bath and his be- 
Irothed, were all a dream; and then he remembered 
the visit of his dear mother to this very room on 
the eve of his first departure. He had returned ; 
in safety he had returned, and in happiness, to ac- 
complish all her hopes, and to reward her for all 
her solicitude. Never felt any one more content 
than Ferdinand Armine — more content and more 
grateful. 

He rose and opened the casement ; a rich and 
exhilarating perfume filled the chamber; he looked 
with a feeling of delight and pride over the broad 
and beautiful park ; the tall trees rising and fling- 
ing their taller shadows over the bright and dewy 
turf, and the last mists clearing away from the dis- 
tint woods, and blending wiih the spotless sky. 
Every thing was sweet and still, save, indeed, the 
carol of the birds, or the tinkle of some restless 
bell-wether. It was a rich autumnal morn. And 
yet, with all the excitement of his new views in 
life, and the blissful consciousness of the happiness 
of those he loved, he coul3 not but feel that a great 
change had come over his spirit since the davs he 
was wont to ramble in this old haunt of boyhood. 
His innocence was gone. Life was no longer that 
deep unbroken trance of duty and of love from 
which he had been roused to so much care; and if 
not remorse, at least to so much compunction. He 
had no secrets then. Existence was not then a 
sirliterfuge, but a calm and candid state of serene 
enjoyment. Feelings then were not compromised 
for interests ; and then it was the excellent that 
vrgis studied, not the expedient. " Yet such I sup- 
73 



pose is life," murmured Ferdinand; " we moralize 
when it is too late; nor is there any thing more 
silly than to regret. One event makes another: 
what we anticipate seldom occurs ; what we least 
expect generally happens; and time can oidy prove 
which is most for onr advantage. And surely I 
am thi? last person who should look grave. Our 
ancient house rises from its ruins; the beings I love 
, most in the world are not only happy, but indebted 
' to me for their happiness, and I — I mj'sclf, with 
! every gift of fortune suddenly thrown at my feet — 
what more can I desire 1 Am I not satisfied? 
Why do I even ask the question! I am sure I 
] know not. It rises like a devil in my thoughts, 
and sjjoils every thing. The girl is young, noble, 
and fair — and loves nie'. And her — I love her — at 
least I suppose I love her. I love her at any rate 
as much as I love, or ever did love, woman. There 
is no great sacrifice, then, on my part; there should 
be none ; there is none ; unless, indeed, it be that 
a man does not like to give up without a struggle 
all his chance of romance and rapture. 

" I know not how it is, but there are moments I 
almost wish that I had no father and no mother; 
ay ! not a single friend or relative in the world, and 
that Armine was sunk into the very centre of the 
earth. If I stood alone in the world, mcthinks I 
might find a place fiiat suits me; — now every thing 
seems ordained for me, as it were, beforehand. My 
spirit has had no play. Something whispers me 
that, with all its flush prosperity, this is neither 
wise nor well. God knows tliat I am not heartless, 
and would be grateful ; and yet, if life can afford 
me no deeper sympathy than I have yet expe- 
rienced, I cannot but hold it, even with all its sweet 
affections, as little better than a dull delusion." 

While Ferdinand was thus moralizing at the 
casement, Glastonbury appeared beneath ; and his 
appearance dissipated in an instant this gathering 
gloom. " Let us breakfast together," proposed 
Ferdinand. " I have breakfasted these two hours," 
replied the hermit of the gate. " I hope that on 
the first night of your return to Armine you have 
proved auspicious dreams." 

"My bed and I are old companions," said Fer- 
dinand ; " and v^'e agreed very well. I tell you 
what, my dear Glastonbury, we will have a stroll 
together this morning, and talk over our plans of 
last night. Go into the library and look over my 
sketch-books. You will find them on my pistol- 
case, and J will be with you anon." 

In due time the friends commenced their ramble. 
Ferdinand soon became excited by Glastonbury's 
various suggestions for the completion of the castle; 
and as for the old man himself, between his archi- 
I tectural creation and the restoration of the family, 
to which he had been so long devoted, he was in 
1 a rapture of enthusiasm, which alTorded an amus- 
ing contrast to his usual meek and subdued de- 
j meanour. 

I " Your grandfather was a great man," said Glab- 
i tonburv, who in old days seldom ventured to mcn- 

I tion the name of the famous Sir Ferdinand : " there 
is no doubt he was a very great man. He had 
great ideas. How he would glory in our present 

' prospects ! "I'is strange what a strong confidence 

I I have ever had in the destiny of your house. 1 
! felt sure that Providence would not (!»"- 

' There is no doubt we must have a port* 

I " Decidedly a portcullis," said Ferdini 

3C \ 



^. 



b78 



D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



shall make all the drawings yourself, my dear Glas- 
tonbury, and supervise every thing. We will not 
have a single anachronism. It shall be perfect." 

" Perfect," echoed Glastonbury; "really perfect! 
It shall be a perfect Gothic castle. I have such 
treasures for the work. All the labours of my life 
have tended to this object. I have all the embla- 
zonings of your house since the conquest. There 
shall be three hundred shields in the hall. I will 
paint them myself. ! there is no place in the 
world like Armine !" 

" JVothing," said Ferdinand ; " I have seen a 
gieat deal, but, after all, there is nothing like Ar- 
mine." 

"Had we been born to this splendour," said 
Glastonbury, "we should have thought little of it. 
We have been mildly and wisely chastened. I 
cannot sufficiently admire the wisdom of Provi- 
dence, which has tempered, by such a wise dispen- 
sation, the too eager blood of your race." 

" I should be sorry to pull down the old Place," 
said Ferdinand. 

" It nuist not be," said Glastonbury ; " we have 
lived there happily, though humbly." 

" I would we could move it to another part of 
the park, like the house of Loretto," said Ferdi- 
nand with a smile. 

" W^e can cover it with ivy," observed Glaston- 
bury, looking somewhat grave. 

The morning stole away in these agreeable plans 
and prospects. At length the friends parted, agree- 
ing to meet again at dinner. Glastonbury repaired 
to his tower, and Ferdinand, taking his gun, saun- 
tered into the surrounding wilderness. 

But he felt no inclination for sport. The con- 
versation with Glastonbury had raised a thousand 
thoughts over which he longed to brood. His life 
had been a scene of such constant excitement, 
since his return to England, that he had enjoyed 
little opportunity of indulging in calm self-commu- 
nion ; and now that he was at Armine, and alone, 
the contrast between his past and his present situa- 
tion struck him so forcibly, that he could not refrain 
from falling into a revery upon his fortunes. It is 
wonderful — all wonderful — very, very wonderful. 
There seemed, indeed, as Glastonbury affirmed, a 
providential dispensation in the whole transaction. 
'J'lie fall of his family — the heroic, and, as it now 
appeared, prescient lirmness with which his father 
had clung, in all their deprivations, to his unpro- 
ductive patrimony — his own education — the ex- 
tinction of his mother's house — his very follies, 
once to him a cause of so much unhappiness, but 
which it now seemed were all the time compelling 
him, as it were, to his jtrosperity; — all these, and a 
thousand other traits and circumstances, flitted over 
liis mind, and were each in turn the subject of his 
manifold meditation. Willing was he to credit that 
destiny had reserved for him the character of restorer: 
that duty, indeed, he had accepted, and yet — 

He looked around him as if to see what devil 
was whispering in his ear. He was alone. No one 
was there or near. Around him rose the silent 
bowers, and scarcely the voice of a bird or the hum 
of an insect disturbed the deep tranquillity. Buta 
cloud seemed tc:,ijf;pt on the fair and pensive brow 
of Ferdinand / jine. He threw himself on the 
turf, leaning hi .cad on one arm, and with the 
other plucking wild flowers, which he as hastily, 
almost as fretfi; /, flung away. 

" Conceal it c^s I will," he exclaimed, "I am a 



victim ; disguise them as I may, all the considera- 
tions are worldly. There is, there must be, some- 
thing better in this world than power, and wealth, 
and rank; and surely there must be felicity more 
rapturous even than securing the happiness of a 
parent. Ah ! dreams in which I have so oft and 
so fondly indulged, are yet, indeed, after all, but 
fantastical and airy visions 1 Is love, indeed, a de- 
lusion, or am I marked out from men alone to be 
exempted from its delicious bondage 1 It must be a 
delusion. All laugh at it, all jest about it, all agree 
in stigmatizing it the vanity of vanities. And does 
my experience contiadict this harsh but common 
fame ] Alas ! what have I seen or known to give 
the lie to this ill-report? No one — nothing. Some 
women I have met more beautiful, assuredly, than 
Kate, and many, many less fair; and some have 
crossed my path with a wild and brilliant grace, 
that has for a moment dazzled my sight, and, per- 
haps, for a moment lured me from my way. But 
these shooting stars have but glittered transiently 
in my heaven, and only made me, by their evanes- 
cent brilliancy, more sensible of its gloom. Let 
me believe then, ! let me of all men then believe, 
that the forms that inspire the sculptor and the 
painter have no models in nature ; that that combi- 
nation of beauty and grace, of fascinating intelli- 
gence and fond devotion, over which men brood in 
the soft hours of their young loneliness, is but the 
promise of a better world and not the charm of this 
one. 

" But, what terror in that truth ! what despair ! 
what madness ! Yes ! at this moment of severest 
scrutiny, how profoundly I feel that life without 
love is worse than death ! How vain and void, how 
flat and fruitless, appear all those splendid accidents 
of existence for which men struggle, without this 
essential and pervading charm ! V hat a world 
without a sun ! Yes ! without this 'ranscendent 
sympathy, riches and rank, and even power and 
fame, seem to me at best but jewels set in a coronet 
of lead ! 

"And who knows whether that extraordinary 
being, of whose magnificent yet ruinous career this 
castle is in truth a fitting emblem, I say who knows 
whether the secret of his wild and restless course is 
not hidden in this same sad lack of love ? Perhaps, 
while the world, the silly superficial world, marvel- 
led and moralized of his wanton life, and poured 
forth their anathemas against his heartless selfish- 
ness, perchance he all the time was sighing for 
some soft bosom whereon to pour his overwhelm- 
ing passion — even as I am ! 

" O ! nature ! why art thou beautiful ? My heart 
requires not, imagination cannot paint, a sweeter 
or a fairer scene than these surrounding bowers. 
This azure vault of heaven, this golden sunshine, 
this deep and blending shade, these rare and fra^ 
grant shrubs, yon grove of green and tallest pines, 
and the bright gliding of this swan-crowned lake — 
my soul is charmed with all this beauty and this 
sweetness ! I feel no disappointment here ; my mind 
does not here outrun reality ; here there is no cause 
to mourn over ungratified hopes and fanciful desires; 
Is it then my destiny that I am to be baffled only 
in the dearest desires of my heart?" 

At this moment the loud and agitated barking of 
his dogs at some little distance roused Ferdinand 
from his revery. He called them to him, and soon 
one of them obeyed his summons, but instantly re- 
turned to his companion with such significant ge«- 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



579 



ftires, panting and j-elpinjr, that Ferdinand supposed 
that Basto was caught perhaps in sonie trap ; so, 
taking up his gun, he proceeded to the dog's rescue. 
To his great surprise, as lie was about to emerge 
from a berceau on to a plot of turf, in the centre of 
which grew a very large cedar, he beheld a lady in 
a riding-habit standing before the tree, and evident- 
ly admiring its beautiful proportions. 

Her countenance was raised and motionless. It 
seemed to him that it was more radiant than the 
sunshine. He gazed with rapture on the dazzling 
brilliancy of her complexion, the delicate regularity 
of her features, and the large violet-tinted eyes, 
fringed with the longest and the darkest lashes that 
he had ever beheld. From her position her hat had 
fallen to the very back of her head, revealing her 
lofty and pellucid brow, and the dark and lustrous 
locks that were braided over her tem|)les. The 
whole countenance combined that brilliant health 
and that classic beauty which wc associate with 
the idea of some nymph tripping over the dew- 
bespangled meads of Ida, or glancing amid the hal- 
lowed groves of Greece. Although the lady could 
scarcely have seen eighteen summers, her stature 
was above the common height ; but language can- 
not describe the startling symmetry of her superb 
figure. 

There is no love but love at first sight. This is 
the transcendent and surpassing oflspring of sheer 
and unpolluted sympathy. All other is the illegiti- 
mate result of observation, of reflection, of compro- 
mise, of comparison, of expediency. The passions 
that endure flash like the lightning : they scorch 
the soul, but it is warmed forever. Miserable man 
whose love rises by degrees upon the frigid morn- 
ing of his mind ! Some hours indeed of warmth 
and lustre may perchance fall to his lot; some mo- 
ments of meridian splendour, in which he basks in 
what he deems eternal sunshine. But then how often 
overcast by the clouds of care, how often dusked by 
the blight of misery and misfortune ! And certain 
as the gradual rise of such affection is its gradual 
decline, and melancholy set. Then, in the chill 
dim twilight of his soul, he execrates custom; be- 
cause he has madly expected that feelings could be 
habitual that were not homogeneous, and because 
he has been guided by the observation of sense, and 
not by the inspiration of sympathy. 

Amid the gloom and travail of existence suddenly 
to behold a beautiful being, and, as instantaneously, 
to feel an overwhelming conviction that with that 
fair form forever our destiny must be entwined; 
that there is no more joy but in her joy, no sor- 
row but when she grieves; that in her sight of 
love, in her smile of fondness, hereafter is all bliss; 
to feel our flaunty ambition fade away like a shrivel- 
led gourd before her visions ; to feel fame a juggle 
and posterity a lie ; and to be prepared at once, for 
tliis great object, to forfeit and fling away all former 
hopes, ties, schemes, views; to violate in her 
favour every duty of society ; — this is a lover, and 
til is is love! Magnificent, sublime, divine senti- 
ment! An immortal flame burns in the breast of 
that man who adores and is adored. He is an ethe- 
real being, The accidents of earth touch him not. 
Kevolutions of empires, changes of creed, mutations 
of opinion, arc to him but the clouds and meteors 
of a stormy sky. The schemes and struggles of 
mankind are, in his thinking, but the anxieties of 
pigmies, and the fantastical achievements of apes. 
Nothing can subdue him. He laughs alike at loss 



of fortune, loss of friends, loss of character. The 
deeds and thought of men are to him equally indif- 
ferent. He does not mingle in their paths of callous 
bustle, or hold himself responsible to the airy im- 
postures before which they bow down. He is a 
mariner, who, in the sea of life, keeps his gaze 
fixedly on a single star; and, if that do not shii' 
he lets go the rudder, and glories when his bar^^-o 
descends into the bottomless gulf. 

Yes! it was this mighty passion that now raged 
in the heart of Ferdinand Armine, a.s, pale, tremb- 
ling, panting, he withdrew a few paces from the 
overwhelming spectacle, and leaned against a tree 
in a chaos of emotion. What had he seen 1 What 
ravishing vision had risen upon his sight 1 What 
did he feel ] What wild, vvhat delicious, what 
maddening impulse now pervaded his frame 1 A 
storm seemed raging in his soul — a mighty wind, 
dispelling in its course the sullen clouds and vapours 
of long years. He was, indeed, as one possessed, 
waving his agitated arm to heaven, and stamping 
his restless foot upon the uncongenial earth. Silent 
he was, indeed, for he was speechless ; though the 
big drop that quivered on his brow, and the slight 
foam that played upon his lip, proved the difficult 
triumph of passion over expression. But, as the 
wind clears the heaven, passion eventually tran- 
quillizes the soul. The tumult of the mind gradu- 
ally subsided ; the flitting memories, the scudding 
thoughts, that for a moment had coursed about in 
such wild order, vanished and melted away, and a 
feeling of bright serenity succeeded, a sense of 
beauty and of joy, and of hovering and circumam- 
bient happiness. 

He advanced, he gazed again ; the lady was still 
there. Changed, indeed, her position; her front 
was towards him. She had gathered a flower, and 
was examining its beauty. 

" Henrietta!" exclaimed a manly voice from the 
adjoining wood. Before she could answer, a stran- 
ger came forward, a man of middle age, but of an 
appearance remarkably prepossessing. He was 
tall and dignified, fair, with a very aquiline nose. 
One of Ferdinand's dogs followed him barking. 

" I cannot find the gardener anywhere," said the 
stranger; " I think we had better remount." 

" Ah, mc ! what a pity," exclaimed the lady. 

" Let me be your guide," said Ferdinand, a-' 
vancing. 

The lady rather started ; the gentleman, not at 
all discomposed, welcomed Ferdinand with great 
elegance, and said, " I feel that wc are intruders, 
sir. But we were informed by the woman at the 
lodge that the family were not here present, and 
that we should find her husband in the grounds." 

"The family arc not at Armine," replied Ferdi- 
nand ; " I am sure, however, Sir Hatclitrc would be 
most happy for you to walk about the grounds as 
much as you please ; and as I am well acquainted 
with them, I should feel delighted to be your guide." 

"You are really too courteous, sir," replied the 
gentleman ; and his beautiful companion rewarded 
Ferdinand with a smile like a sunbc-n, that played 
about her countenance till it finally settled into two 
exquisite dimples, and revealed to him rows of 
teeth that, for a moment, he I eved to be even 
the most beautiful feature of th: irpassing visage. 

They sauntered along, every i developing new 
beauties in their progress, and .citing from his 
companions renewed expressions " rapture. The 
dim bowers, the shining glades, the tali rare trs«c, 



580 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



the luxuriant shrubs, the silent and sequestered 
lake, in turn enchanted them, until, at length, Fer- 
dinand, who had led them with experienced taste 
through all the most striking points of the plai- 
sance, brought them before the walls of the castle. 

" And here is Armine Castle," he said ; " it is 
little better than a shell, and yet contains something 
which you might like to see." 

" O ! by all means," exclaimed the lady. 

" But we are spoiling your sport," suggested the 
gentleman. 

"lean always kill partridges," replied Ferdinand, 
laving down his gun ; " but I cannot always find 
agreeable companions." 

So saying, he opened the massy portal of the 
castle, and they entered the hall. It was a lofty 
chamber, of dimensions large enough to feast a 
thousand vassals, with a dais and a rich Gothic 
screen, and a gallery for the musicians. The walls 
were hung with arms and armour admirably ar- 
ranged ; but the parti-coloured marble floor was so 
covered with piled-up cases of furniture, that the 
general effect of the scene was not only greatly 
marred, but it was even difficult in some parts to 
trace a path. 

" Here," said Ferdinand, jumping upon a huge 
case, and running to the wall, " here is the standard 
of Ralph D'Ermyn,who came over with the Con- 
queror, and founded the family in England. Here 
is the sword of William D'Armyn, who signed 
Magna Charta. Here is the complete coat armour 
of the second Ralph, who died before Ascalon. 
This case contains a diamond-hilted sword, given 
by the empress to the great Sir Ferdinand, for de- 
feating the Turks ; and here is a Mameluke sabre, 
given to the same Sir Ferdinand by the sultan, for 
defeating the empress." 

" ! I have heard so much of that great Sir 
Ferdinand," said the lady, " I think he must have 
been the most interesting character that ever ex- 
isted." 

" He was a marvellous being," answered her 
guide, with a peculiar look, " and yet I know not 
whether his descendants have not cause to rue his 
genius." 

" O ! never, never !" said the lady ; " what is 
wealth to genius 1 How much prouder, were I 
an Armine, should I be of such an ancestor, than 
of a thousand others, even if they had left me this 
castle as complete as he wished it to be !" 

" Well, as to that," replied Ferdinand, "Ibelieve 
I am somewhat of your opinion ; though I fear he 
lived in too late an age for such order of minds. It 
would have been better for him, perhaps, if he had 
succeeded in becoming King of Poland." 

" I hope there is a portrait of him," said the 
lady; " there is nothing I long so much to see. I 
feel quite in love with the great Sir Ferdinand." 

"I rather think there is a portrait," replied her 
companion, somewhat dryly. " We will try to find 
it out. Do not you think I make an excellent 
cicerone ?" 

" Indeed, most excellent," replied the lady. 

" I perceive you are master of your subject," re- 
plied the gentleman, thus affording Ferdinand an 
easy opportunity of telling them who he was. The 
hint, however, was not accepted. 

" And now," said Ferdinand, " we will ascend 
the staircase." 

Accordingly they mounted a large spiral stair- 
case, which indeed filled the space of a round 



tower, and was lighted from the top by a lantern 
of rich coloured glass, on which were emblazoned 
the arms of the family. Then they entered the 
vestibule, — an apartment spacious enough for a 
saloon ; which, however, was not fitted up in the 
Gothic style, but of which the painted ceiling, the 
gilded panels, and iniaid floor, were more suitable 
indeed to a French palace. The brilliant doors 
of this vestibule opened in many directions upon 
lo7ig suites of state-chambers, which indeed merit- 
ed the description of shells. They were nothing 
more : of many the flooring was not even laid 
down ; the walls of all were rough and plastered. 

"Ah !" said the lady, "what a pity it is not 
finished !" 

" It is indeed desolate," observed Ferdinand, 
" but here perhaps is something more to your taste." 
So saying, he opened another door, and ushered 
them into the picture gallery. 

It was a superb chamber, nearly two hundred 
feet in length, and contained only portraits of the 
fomily, or pictures of their achievements. It was 
of a pale green colour, lighted from the top ; and 
the floor, of oak and ebony, was partially covered 
with a single Persian carpet, of the most fanciful 
pattern and brilliant die, a present from the sultan 
to the great Sir Ferdinand. The earlier annals of 
the family were illustrated by a series of paintings, 
by modern masters, representing the battle of Has- 
tings, the siege of Ascalon, the meeting at Runny- 
mede, the various inv-iwions of France, and some 
of the most striking incidents in the wars of the 
Roses, in all of which a valiant Armyn promi- 
nently figured. At length they stood before the 
first contemporary portrait of the Armyn family, 
one of Cardinal Stephen Armyn, by an Italian 
master. The great dignitary was legate of the 
pope in the time of the seventh Henry, and in his 
scarlet robes and ivory chair, looked like a papal 
Jupiter, not unworthy himself of wielding the 
thunder of the Vatican. From him the series of 
the family portraits was unbroken ; and it was very 
interesting to trace, in this excellently arranged 
collection, the history of national costume. Hol- 
bein had commemorated the Lords Tewkesbury 
rich in velvet, and golden chains, and jewels. The 
statesmen of Elizabeth and James, and their beau- 
tiful and gorgeous dames, followed ; and then came 
many a gallant cavalier by Vandyke. One admi- 
rable picture contained Lord Armine and his brave 
brothers, seated together in a tent round a drum, 
on which his lordship was apparently planning the 
operations of the cam-paign. Then followed a 
long series of unmemorable baronets, and their 
more interesting wives and daughters, touched by 
the pencil of Kneller, of Lely, or of Hudson, 
squires in wigs and scarlet jackets, and powdered 
dames in hoops and farthingales. 

They stood before the crowning efTort of the 
room, the masterpiece of Reynolds. It represented 
a full-length portrait of a young man, apparently 
just past his minority. The side of the figure was 
alone exhibited, and the face glanced at the spec- 
tator over the shoulder, in a favourite position of 
Vandyke. It was a countenance of ideal beauty. 
A profusion of dark brown cuds was dashed aside 
from a lofty forehead of dazzling brilliancy. The 
fiice was perfectly oval ; the nose, though small, 
was high and aquiline, and exhibited a remarkable 
dilation of the nostril ; the curling lip was shaded 
by a very delicate mustachio ; and the general 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



BTpression, indeed, of the mouth and of the large 
gray eyes, would have l)eeii porliaps arrogant and 
imperious, had not the extraordinary beauty of the 
whole countenance rendered it fascinating. 

It war. indeed a picture to gaze upon and to re- 
turn to ; one of those visages which, after having 
once beheld, haunt us at all hours, and flit across 
our mind's eye unexpected and unbidden. So 
great indeed was the effect that it produced upon 
the present visiters to the gallery, that they stood 
before it for some minutes in silence; the scrutiniz- 
ing glance of the gentleman indeed was more than 
once diverted from the portrait to the countenance 
of his conductor, and the silence was eventually 
broken by our hero. 

" And what think you," he inquired, " of the fa- 
mous Sir Ferdinand]" 

The lady started, looked at him, withdrew her 
glance, and appeared somewhat confused. Her 
com[)anion replied, " I think, sir, I cannot err in 
believing that I am indebted for much courtesy to 
his descendant." 

"I believe," said Ferdinand, laughing, " that I 
should not have much trouble in proving my pedi- 
gree. I am generally considered an ugly hkencss 
of my grandfather." 

The gentleman smiled, and then said, " I hardly 
know whether I can style myself your neighbour, 
for I live nearly ten miles distant. It would, how- 
ever, afford me sincere gratification to see you at 
Ducie Bower. I cannot welcome you in a castle. 
My name is Temple," he continued, offering his 
card to Ferdinand. " I need not now introduce 
you to my daughter. I was not unaware that Sir 
Ratcliffe Armine had a son, but I understood that 
he was abroad." 

" I have returned to England within these two 
months," replied Ferdinand, " and to Armine with- 
in these two days. I deem it fortunate that my re- 
turn has afforded me an opportunity of welcoming 
you and Miss Temple. But you must not talk of 
our castle, for that you know is our folly. Pray 
come now and visit our older and humbler dwelling ; 
and take some refreshment after your long ride." 

This offer was declined, hiit with great courtesy. 
They quitted the castle, and M/. Temple was about 
to direct his steps towards the lodge, where he had 
left hi'i own and his daughter's horses ; but Ferdi- 
nand persuaded them to return through the park, 
which he proved to them very satisfactorily must 
be the nearest way. He even asked permission to 
accompany them ; and. while his groom was sad- 
dling his horse, he led them to the old Place, and 
the flower-garden. 

" You must be very fatigued. Miss Temple. I wish 
that I could persuade you to enter and rest yourself" 

" Indeed, no : I love flowers too much to leave 
them." 

" Here is one that has the recommendation of 
novelty as well as beauty," said Ferdinand, pluck- 
ing a strange rose, and presenting it to her. "I 
sent it to my mother from Barbary." 
" You live amidst beaut}'." 
" I think that I never remember Armine looking 
so well as to-day." 

" A silvan scene requires sunshine," replied 
Miss Temple. " We have, indeed, been most for- 
tunate in our visit." 

" It is something brighter than the sunshine that 
makes it so fair," replied Ferdinand; but at tlus 
moment the horses appeared. 



CHAPTER V. 

IX ■Wllica CAPTAIX AHMINE IS TEIIV ABSENT 
DURING DINNER. 

" You are well mounted," said Mr. Temple to 
Ferdinand. 

" 'Tis a barb — I brought it over with me." 

"'Tis a beautiful creature," said Miss Temple. 

" Hear that, Selim," said Ferdinand; "prick up 
thine ears, my steed. I perceive that you are an 
accomplished horsewoman, Miss Temple. You 
know our country, I dare say, well 1" 

" I wish I knew it better. This is only the 
second summer that we have passed at Ducie." 

" By-the-by ; I suppose you know my landlord, 
Captain Armine ]" said Mr. Temple. 

'*No," said Ferdinand; "I do not know a single 
person in the county. I have myself scarcely been 
at Armine for these five years, and my father and 
mother do not visit any one." 

" What a beautiful oak !" exclaimed Miss Tem- 
ple, desirous of turning the conversation. 

" It has the reputation of being planted by Sir 
Francis Walsingham," said Ferdinand. " An an- 
cestor of mine married his daughter. He was the 
father of Sir Walsingham, the portrait in the gal- 
lery with the white stick. You remember it?" 

" Perfectly : that beautiful portrait ! It must be 
at all events a very old tree." 

"There are few things more pleasing to me than, 
an ancient place," said Mr. Temple. 

" Doubly pleasing when in possession of an an 
cient family," added his daughter. 

" I fear such feelings are fast wearing away," 
said Ferdinand. 

" There will be a reaction," said Mr. Temple. 

" They cannot destroy the poetry of time," said 
the lady. 

" I hope I have no very inveterate prejudices," 
said Ferdinand ; " but I should be sorry to see 
Armine in any other hands than our own, I con- 
fess." 

"I never would enter the park again," said Miss 
Temple. 

"As far as worldly considerations are concerned," 
continued Ferdinand, "it would, perhaps, be much 
better for us if we were to part with it." 

" It must, indeed, be a costly place to keep up," 
said Mr. Temple. 

" Why, as far as that is concerned," said Ferdi- 
nand, " we let the kine rove and the sheep browse 
where our fathers hunted the stag and flew their 
falcons. I think if they were to rise from their 
graves, they would be ashamed of us." 

" Nay !" said Miss Temple, " I think yonder 
cattle are very picturesque. But the truth is, any 
thing woi.ld look well in such a park as this. 
There is such a variety of prospect." 

The park of Armine, indeed, differed very ma- 
terially from those vamped-up sheep-walks and 
ambitious paddocks which are now honoured with 
the title. It was, in truth, the old chase, and little 
shorn of its original proportions. It was many 
miles in circumference, abounding in hill and dale, 
and offering nmch variety of appearance. Sometimes 
it was studded with ancient timber, single trees of 
extraordinary growth, and rich clumps that seemed 
coeval with the foundation of the family. Tracts 
of wild champaign succeed these, covered with 
gorse and fern. Then came stately avenues of 
3c3 



5^82 



D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. 



eycamore or Spanish chestnut, fragments of stately 
woods, that in old days, doubtless, reached the 
vicinity of the mansion house. And these were 
in turn succeeded by modern coverts. 

At length our party reached the gate whence 
Ferdinand had calculated that they should quit the 
park. He would willingly have accompanied them. 
He bade them farewell with regret, which was sof- 
tened by the hope expressed by all of a speedy 
meeting. 

" I wish, Captain Armine," said Miss Temple, 
" we had your turf to canter home upon. Now, 
mind you do not get locked up in the picture gal- 
lery, by mistake, and forget to come to Diicie." 

" That is, indeed, impossible," said Ferdinand. 

" By-the-by, Captain Armine," said Mr. Temple, 
"ceremony should scarcely subsist between country 
neighbours, and certainly we have given you no 
cause to complain of our reserve. As you are 
alone at Armine, perhaps you would come over 
and dine with us to-morrow. If you can manage 
to come early, we will see whether we may not 
contrive to kill a bird together; and pray remember 
we can give you a bed, which I think, all things 
considered, it would be but wise to accept." 

"I accept every thing," said Ferdinand, smiling; 
"all your oilers. Good morning, my dearest sir; 
good morning. Miss Temple." 

" Miss Temple, indeed !" exclaimed Ferdinand, 
when he had watched them out of sight. " Ex- 
quisite, enchanting, adored being ! Without thee, 
what is existence 1 How dull, how blank does 
every thing even now seem ! It is as if the sun 
had just set. 0! that form ! that radiant counte- 
nance! that musical and thrilling voice! Those 
tones still vibrate on my ear, or I should deem it 
all a vision ! Will to-morrow ever come 1 O ! 
that I could express to you, my love, my over- 
whelming, my absorbing, my burning passion ! 
Beautiful, beautiful Henrietta ! Thou hast a name, 
methinks, I ever loved. Where am I ? — what do 
I say 1 — what wild, what maddening words are 
these ? Am I not Ferdinand Armine, the be- 
trothed — the victim 1 Even now methinks I hear 
the chariot wheels of my bride. God ! if she be 
there — if she indeed be at Armine on my return — 
I'll not see her — I'll not speak to them — I'll fly. 
I'll cast to the winds all tics and duties — I will not 
be dragged to the altar, a miserable sacrifice, to re- 
deem, by my forfeited felicity, the worldly fortunes 
of my race. 0! Armine, Armine — she would not 
enter thy walls again, if other blood but mine 
swayed thy fair demesne : and I, shall I give thee 
another mistress, Armine'' It would indeed be 
treason ! Without her I cannot live. Without 
her form bounds over this turf, and glances in these 
arbours, I never wish to view them. All the in- 
ducements to make the wretched sacrifice once 
meditated then vanish; for Armine without her is 
a desert — a tomb — a hell. I am free then. Ex- 
cellent logician ! But this woman — I am bound 
to her. Bound 1 The word makes me tremble. 
I shiver: I hear the clank of my fetters. Am I, 
indeed, bound ] Ay! in honour, honour and love. 
A contest! Pah! The idol must yield to the 
divinity !" 

With these wild words and wilder thoughts 
bursting from his lips and dashing through his 
mind ; his course as irregular, and as reckless as 
his fancies; now fiercely galloping, now breaking 
into a sudden halt, Ferdinand at length arrived at 



home ; and his quick eye perceived, in a moment» 
that the dreaded arrival had not taken place. Glas- 
tonbury was in the flower-garden, on one knee be- 
fore a vase, over which he was training a creeper. 
He looked up as he heard the approach of Ferdi- 
nand. His presence and benignant smile in some 
degree stilled the fierce emotions of his pupil. 
Ferdinand felt that the system of dissimulation 
must now commence ; besides, he was always care- 
ful to be most kind to Glastonbury. He would not 
allow that any attack of spleen, or even illness, 
could ever justify a careless look or expression to 
that dear friend. 

"I hope, my dear father," said Ferdinand, "I am 
punctual to our hour!" 

" The sun-dial tells me," said Glastonbury, "that 
you have arrived to the moment; and I rather 
think that yonder approaches a summons to our 
repast. I hope you have passed your morning 
agreeably V 

" If all days would pass as sweet, my father, I 
should indeed l)e blessed." 

" I, too, have had a fine morning of it. You 
must come to-morrow, and see my grand embla- 
zonry of the Ratcliffe and Armine coats ; I mean 
it for the gallery." With these words they entered 
the Place. 

" You do not eat, my child," said Glastonbury to 
his companion. 

" I have taken too long a ride, perhaps," said 
Ferdinand ; who, indeed, was much too excited to 
have an appetite, and so abstracted that any one 
hut Glastonbury would have long before detected 
his absence. 

" I have changed my hour to-day," continued 
Glastonbury, "for the pleasure of dining with you; 
and I think to-morrow you had better change your 
hour, and dine with me." 

" By-the-by, my dear father, you, who know 
every thing, do you happen to know a gentleman 
of the name of Temple in this neighbourhood!" 

" I think I heard that Mr. Ducie had let the 
Bower to a gentleman of that name." 
"Do you know who he is?" 
" I never asked ; for I feel no interest except 
about proprietors, because they enter into my 
County History. But I think I once heard that 
this Mr. Temple had been our minister at some 
foreign court. You give me a fine dinner, and eat 
nothing yourself. This pigeon is very savoury." 

"I will trouble you. I think there once was a 
Henrietta Armine, my father 1" 

" The beautiful creature !" said Glastonbury, 
laying down his knife and fork ; "she died young 
She was a daughter of Lord Armine, and the 
Queen, Henrietta Maria, was her god-mother. It 
grieves me much that we have no portrait of her. 
She was very fair, her eyes of a sweet light blue." 
"O, no ! dark, my father; dark and deep as the 
violet." 

" My child, the letter-writer, who mentions her 
death, describes them as light blue. I know of no 
other record of her beauty." 

" I wish they had been dark," said Ferdinand, 
recovering himself; "However, I am glad there 
was a Henrietta Armine; 'tis a beautiful name." 

" I think that Armine makes any name sound 
well," said Glastonbury. "No more wine, indeed, 
my child. Nay ! if I must," continued he with a 
benevolent smile, "I will drink to the health of 
Miss Grandison !" 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



583 



" Ah !" almost shrieked Ferdinand. 

"My child, what is the matter?" inquired Glas- 
tonbury 

"A gnat, a fly, a wasp; somcthinar stung me. 
O ! pah ! — it is Ijcttcr now," saiti Ferdinand. 

"Try some remedy," said Glastonbury; "let me 
fetch my oil of lilies. 'Tis a specific." 

" O ! no ; 'tis notliing ; nothing indeed. A fly, 
only a fly ; nothing more ; only a venomous fly. 
Sharp i0if moment ; nothing more." 

Th^^dinIler was over : they retired to the library. 
Ferdinand walked about the room restless and 
moody.^tAt length he bethought himself of the 
piano, and atlecting an anxiety to hear some old 
favourite compositions of Glastonbury, he contrived 
to occupy his companion. In time, however, his 
old tutor invited him to take his violoncello and 
join him in a concerto. Ferdinand, of course, 
complied with this invitation, but the result was 
not very satisfactory. After a series of blunders, 
which were the natural result of his thoughts be- 
ing occupied on other objects, he was obliged to 
plead a hcadach, and was glad when he could 
escape to his chamber. 

Rest, however, no longer awaited him on his 
old pillow. It was at first delightful to escape from 
the restraint upon his revery which he had lately 
experienced. He leaned for an hour over his 
empty fire-place in mute abstraction. The cold, 
however, in time drove him to bed, but he could 
not sleep. His eyes indeed were closed, but the 
vision of Henrietta Temple was not less apparent 
to him. He recalled every feature of her coun- 
tenance, every trait of her conduct, every word in- 
deed that she had expressed. The whole series of 
her observations, from the moment he had first 
seen her, until the moment they had parted, were 
accurately repeated, her very tones considered, and 
her verj' attitudes pondered over. Many were 
the hours that he heard strike : he grew restless 
and feverish. Sleep would not be commanded. 
He jumped out of bed, he opened the casement, he 
beheld in the moonlight the Barbary rose-tree of 
which he had presented her a flower. This con- 
soling spectacle assured him that he had not been, 
as he had almost imagined, the victim of a dream. 
He knelt down and invoked all heavenly and 
earthly blessings on Henrietta Temple and his love. 
The night air, and the earnest invocation together, 
cooled his brain, and nature soon delivered him ex- 
hausted to repose. 



CHAPTER VI. 

IX wincn CAPTAix armink pats nis first tisit 
TO nucir.. 

Yes ! it is the morning. Is it possible 1 Shall 
he again behold her ? That form of surpassing 
lK?auty, that bright, that dazzling countenance, 
li^ain are they to bless his entranced vision. Shall 
he speak to her again 7 That musical and thrilling 
voice, shall it again sound and echo in his enrap- 
tured earl 

Ferdinand had reached Armine so many days 
before his calculated arrival, that he did not expect 
his family, and the Grandisons, to arrive for at 
least a week. What a respite did he not now feel 
this delay : if ever he could venture to think of 



the subject at all. He drove it indeed from hia 
thoughts. The fascinating present completely en- 
grossed his existence. He waited until the post 
arrived. It brought no letters ; letters now so 
dreaded ! He jumped Upon his horse and galloped 
towards Ducie. 

Now while our hero directs his course towards 
the mansion of his beloved, the reader will perhaps 
not be displeased to learn something more of the 
lady and her father than Ferdinand gleaned from 
the scanty knowledge of Glastonbury. Mr. Tem- 
ple was the younger son of a younger branch of a 
noble family. He inherited no patrimony, but had 
been educated for the diplomatic service, and the 
influence of his family had early obtained him very 
distinguished appointments. He was envoy to 
a German court, when a change of ministry occa- 
sioned his recall, and he retired after a long career 
of able and assiduous service, comforted by a pen- 
sion and glorified by a privy-councillorship. He 
was an acute and accomplished man, practised in 
the world, with great self-control, yet devoted to 
his daughter, the only otispring of a wife whom he 
had lost early and loved much. Deprived at a 
very tender age of that parent of whom she would 
have become peculiarly the charge, Henrietta Tem- 
ple found in the devotion of her father all that con- 
solation of which her forlorn state was susceptible. 
She was not delivered over to the custody of a go- 
verness, or to the even less sympathetic supervi- 
sion of relations. Mr. Temple never permitted 
his daughter to be separated from him ; he che- 
rished her life and he directed* her education. Re- 
sident in a city which arrogates to itself, not with- 
out justice, the title of the German Athens, his 
pupil availed herself of all those advantages which 
were offered to her by the instruction of the most 
skilful professors. Few persons were more ac- 
complished than Henrietta Temple, even at an ear- 
ly age, but her rare accomplishments were not her 
most remarkable characteristics. Nature, who had 
accorded to her that extraordinary beauty which 
we have attempted to describe, had endowed her 
with great talents, and a soul of sublime temper. 
It was often remarked of Henrietta Temple — and 
the circumstance may doubtless be in some degree 
accounted for by the little interference and influ- 
ence of women in her education — that she never 
was a girl. She expanded at once from a charm- 
ing child into a magnificent woman. She had en- 
tered life very early, and had presided at her fa- 
ther's table for a year before his recall from his 
mission. Few women, in so short a period, had 
received so much homage: but she listened to 
compliments with a careless, though courteous ear, 
and received more ardent aspirations with a smile. 
The men, who were puzzled, voted her cold and 
heartless; but men should remember that fineness 
of taste, as well as apathy of temperament, jnay 
account for an unsuccessful suit. Assuredly Hen- 
rietta Temple was not deficient in feeling. She 
entertained for her father sentiments almost of idol- 
atry ; and those more intimate or dependent ac- 
quaintances best qualifii'd to form an o[)inion of 
her character, spoke of her always as a soul gush 
ing with tenderness. Notwithstanding their mu- 
tual devotion to each other, there were not many 
pointsof resemblance between the characters of Mr. 
Temple and his daughter — for she was remarked for 
a frankness of demeanour and a simplicity, yet 
strength of thought which remarkably contrasted 



684 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



with the artificial manners, and the conventional 
opinions and conversations of her sire. A mind 
at once thoughtful and energetic, permitted Henri- 
etta Temple to form her own judgments ; and an 
artless candour, which her father never could era- 
dicate from her habits, generally impelled her to ex- 
press them. It was, indeed, impossible, even for 
him long to find fault with these ebullitions, how- 
ever the diplomatist might deplore them ; for na- 
ture had so imbued the existence of this being with 
that indefinable charm which we call grace, that it 
was not in your power to behold her a moment 
without being enchanted. A glance, a movement, 
a sunny smile, a word of thrilling music, and all 
that was left to you was to adore. There was, in- 
deed, in Henrietta Temple that rare and extraordi- 
nary combination of intellectual strength, and 
physical softness, which marks out the woman ca- 
pable of exercising an irresistible influence over 
mankind. In tlie good old days, she might have 
occasioned a siege of Troy or a battle of Actium. 
She was one of those women who make nations 
mad, and for whom a man of genius would willingly 
peril the empire of the world ! 

So at least deemed Ferdinand Armine as he can- 
tered through the park, talking to himself, apostro- 
phizing the woods, and shouting his passion to 
the winds. It was scarcely noon when he reached 
Ducie Bovver. This was a Pallatlian pavilion, situat- 
ed in the midst of the most beautiful gardens, and 
surrounded by green hills. The sun shone brightly, 
the sky was without a cloud ; it appeared to him 
that he had never beheld a more elegant and spark- 
ling scene. It was a temple worthy of the divinity it 
enshrined. A fagade of four Ionic columns fronted 
an octagonal hall, adorned with statues, which led 
into a saloon of considerable size and exquisite 
proportion, Ferdinand thought that he had never 
in his life entered so brilliant a chamber. The 
lofty walls were covered with an Indian paper of 
vivid fancy, and adorned with several pictures, 
which his practised eye assured him were of great 
merit. The room, without being inconveniently 
crowded, was amply stored with furniture, every 
article of vt-hich bespoke a refined and luxurious 
taste ; easy chairs of all descriptions, most inviting 
couches, cabinets of choice inlay, and grotesque 
tables covered with articles of virtu; all those 
charming infinite nothings, which a person of taste 
might some time back have easily collected during 
a long residence on the Continent. A large lamp of 
Dresden china was suspended from the painted and 
gilded ceiling. The three tall windows opened on 
the gardens, and admitted a perfume so rich and 
various, that Ferdinand could easily believe the 
fair mistress, as she told him, was indeed a lover of 
flowers. A light bridge in the distant wood, that 
bounded the furthest lawn, indicated that a stream 
was at hand. What with the beauty of the cham- 
ber, the richness of the exterior scene, and the 
bright sun that painted every object with its magical 
colouiing and made every thing appear even 
more fair and brilliant, Ferdinand stood for some 
moments quite entranced. A door opened, and 
Mr. Temple came forward and welcomed him with 
great cordiality. 

After they had passed a half hour in looking at 
the pictures and in conversation to which they 
gave rise, Mr. Temple, proposing an adjournment 
to luncheon, opened a door exactly opposite to the 
one by which he had entered, and conducted Fer- 



dinand into a dining-room, of which the suitable 
decoration wonderfully pleased his taste. A sub- 
dued tint pervaded every part of the chamber: the 
ceiling was painted in gray tinted frescos of a 
classical and festive character, and the side table, 
which stood in a recess supported by four magni- 
ficent columns, was adorned with very choice 
Etruscan vases. The air of repose and stillness 
which distinguished this apartment, was heighten- 
ed by the vast conservatory into which it led, blaz- 
ing with light and beauty, rows of orSj^^ trees in 
bloom, clusters of exotic plants of radiant tint, the 
sound of a fountain, and gorgeous fori^s of tropic 
birds. 

" How beautiful !" exclaimed Ferdinand, 
" 'Tis pretty," said Mr. Temple, carving a pasty, 
" but we are very humble people, and cannot vie 
with the lords of Gothic castles." 

" It appears to me," said Ferdinand, " that 
Ducie Bower is the most exquisite place I ever be- 
held." 

" If you had seen it two years ago, you would 
have thought differently," said Mr. Temple; "I 
assure ymi I dreaded becoming its tenant. Henri- 
etta is entitled to all the praise, as she took upon 
herself the whole responsibility. There is not on 
the banks of the Brenta a more dingy and desolate 
villa than Ducie appeared when we first came ; and 
as for the gardens, they were a perfect wilderness. 
She made every thing. It was one vast desolate 
and neglected lawn, used as a sheep-walk when 
we arrived. As for the ceilings, I was almost 
tempted to whitewash them, and yet you see they 
have cleaned wonderfully; and after all it only re- 
quired a little taste and labour. I have not laid 
out much money here. I built the conservatory, 
to be sure. Henrietta could not live without a 
conservatory." 

" Miss Temple is quite right," pronounced Fer- 
dinand. " It is impossible to live without a con- 
servatory." 

At this moment the heroine of their conversation 
entered the room, and Ferdinand turned pale as 
death. She extended to him her hand with a most 
graceful smile ; as he touched it, he trembled from 
head to foot. 

" You were not fatigued, I hope, by your ride. 
Miss Temple," at length he contrived to say. 

"0, no! not in the least! I am an experienced 
horsewoman. Papa and I take the longest rides 
together." 

As for eatmg with Henrietta Temple in the 
room, Ferdinand found that quite impossible. The 
moment she appeared, his appetite vanished. Anx- 
ious to speak, yet deprived of his accustomed fluency, 
he began to praise Ducie, 

"You must see it," said Miss Temple; "shall 
we walk round the grounds 1" 

"My dear Henrietta," said her father, "I dare 
say Captain Armine is at this moment sufliciently 
tired ; besides, when he moves, he will like, per- 
haps, to take his gun ; you forget he is a sportsman, 
and that he cannot waste his morning in talking to 
ladies and picking flowers." 

" O! indeed, sir, I assiife you," said Ferdinand, 
" there is nothing I like so much as talking to ladies, 
and picking flowers; that is to say, when the 
ladies have as fine taste as Miss Temple, and the 
flowers are as beautiful as those at Ducie," 

" Well, you shall sec my conservatory. Captain 
Armine," said Miss Temple ; " and you shall go 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



585 



cnJ kill partridges afterwards." So saying, she en- 
tered the conservatory, and Ferdinand followed her, 
leaving Mr. Temple to his pasty. 

" These orange groves remind me of Palermo," 
said Ferdinand. 

".\h!" said Miss Temple, "I have never been 
in the sweet south !" 

" You srem to me a person born to live in a 
Sicilian pataee," said Ferdinand; "to wander in 
pcrfumey[^ groves, and to glance in a moonlight 
warmer than this sun." 

" I see you pay compliments," said Miss Temple, 
looking at him archly, and meeting a glance serious 
and soft. 

" Believe me, not to you." 

" What do you think of this flower 1" said Miss 
Temple, turning away rather quickly, and iiointing 
to a strange plant. " It is the most singular thing 
in the world ; but if it be tended by any other per- 
son than myself, it withers. Is it not droll ]" 
" I think not," said Ferdinand. 
" I excuse you for your incredulity ; no one does 
believe *it ; no one can ; and yet it is quite true. 
Our gardener gave it up in despair. I wonder what 
it can be." 

" I think it must be some enchanted prince," 
said Ferdinand. 

"O! if I thought so, how I should long for a 
wand to emancipate him !" said Miss Temple. 

" I would break your wand if you had one," said 
Ferdinand. 
" Why ?" said Miss Temple. 
"O! I don't know," said Ferdinand, "I sup- 
pose because I believe you are sufficiently enchant- 
ing without one." 

" I am bound to consider that most excellent 
logic," said Miss Temple. 

"Do you admire my fountain and my birds?" 
she continued, after a short pause. " After Armine, 
Ducie appears a little tawdry toy." 

" Ducie is Paradise," said Ferdinand. " I should 
like to pass my life in this conservatory." 

" As an enchanted prince, I suppose," said Miss 
Temple. 

" Exactly," said Captain Armine ; "I would wil- 
lingly this instant become a flower, if I were sure 
Miss Temple would cherish my existence." 

" Cut otf your tendrils, and drown you with a 
watering pot," said Miss Temple; "you really arc 
very Sicilian in your conversation. Captain Ar- 
mine." 

" Come," said Mr. Temple, who now joined 
them, " if you really should like to take a stroll 
round the ground*, I will order the keeper to meet 
us at the cottage " 

" A very excellent proposition," said Miss Tem- 
ple. 

" But yod must get a bonnet, Henrietta — I must 
forbid your going out uncovered." 

" No, p(i[)a, this will do," said Miss Temple, 
taking a handkerchief, twisting it round her head, 
and tying it under her chin. 

" You look like an old woman, Henrietta," said 
her fatiier, smiling. —^^ 

" I shall not say what you look like, Miss Tem- 
ple," said Captain Armine, with a glance of admi- 
ration, " lest you should think that I was this time 
even talking Sicilian." 

" I reward you for your forbearance with a rose," 
said Miss Temple, plucking a flower. "It is a re- 
turn for vour beautiful present of yesterday." 
74 



Ferdinand pressed the gift to his lips. 

They went forth ; they stepped into a paradise, 
where the sweetest flowers seemed grouped in every 
combination of the choicest forms — baskets, and 
vases, and beds of inlhiite fancy. A thousand bees 
and butterflies filled the air with their glancing 
shapes and cheerful music, and the birds from the 
neighbouring groves joined in the chorus of melody. 
The wood walks through which they now rambled, 
admitted at intervals glimpses of the ornate land- 
scape, and occasionally the view extended beyond 
the enclosed limits, and exhibited the clustering 
and embowered roofs of the neighbouring village, 
or some woody hill studded with a farmhouse, oi^' 
a distant spire. As for Ferdinand, he strolled along, 
full of beautiful thoughts and thrilling fancies, in a 
dreamy state which had banished all recollection 
or consciousness but of the present. He was hap- 
py; positively, perfectly, supremely happy. He was 
happy for the first time in his life. He had no con- 
ception that life could aflbrd such bliss as now filled 
his being. What a chain of miserable, tame facti- 
tious sensations seemed the whole course of his 
past existence. Even the joys of yesterday were 
nothing to these; Armine was associated with too 
much of the commonplace and the gloomy to 
realize the ideal in which he now revelled. But 
now all circumstances contributed to enchant him. 
The novelty, the beauty of the scene, harmoniously 
blended with his passion. The sun seemed to him 
a more brilliant sun than the orb that illumined 
Armine; the sky more clear, more pure, more 
odorous. There seemed a magic sympathy in the 
trees, and every flower reminded him of its mis- 
tress. And then he looked around and beheld her. 
Was he positively awake ! Was he in England ? 
Was he in the same globe in which he had hitherto 
moved and acted] What was this entrancing 
form that moved before him 1 Was it indeed a 
woman 1 

O ! dea cerl6 ! 

That voice, too, now wilder than the wildest bird, 
now low, and hushed, yet always sweet — where 
was he, what did he listen to, what did he behold, 
what did he feel ? The presence of her father alone 
restrained him from falling on his knees and ex- 
pressing to her his adoration. 

At length our friends arrived at a picturesque 
and iv3'-grown cottage, where the keeper with their 
guns and dogs awaited Mr. Temple and his guest 
Ferdinand, although a keen sportsman, beheld the 
spectacle with dismay. He execrated, at the same 
time, the existence of partridges, and the invention 
of gunpowder. To resist his fate, however, was 
impossible ; he took his gun and turned to bid his 
hostess adieu. 

"I do not like to quit Paradise at all," he said ia 
alow voice; "must I go?" 

"0 ! certainly," said Miss Temple. " It will do 
you a great deal of good. Take care you do not 
shoot papa, for, somehow or other, you really ap- 
pear to be very absent to-day." 

The caution of Miss Temple, although given in 
jest, was not altogether without some foundation, 
Captain Armine did contrive not to kill her father, 
but that was all. Never did any one, especially foi 
the first hour, shoot more wildly. In time, however, 
Ferdinand sufliciently rallied to recover his reputa- 
tion with the keeper, who from his first observation 
began to wink his eye to his son, an attendant bush- 
beater, and occasionally even thrust his tongue in 



586 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



side his clieek — a significant gesture perfectly 
understood by the imp. " For the life of me, Sam," 
he afterwards profi)undly observed, "I couldn't 
make out this here captain by no manner of 
means whatsomevcr. At first I thought as how he 
■was going to put the muzzle to his shoulder. Hang 
me, if ever I see sich a gentleman. He missed 
every thing; and at last if he didn't hit the longest 
flying shots without taking aim. Hang me, if ever 
I see sich a gentleman. He hit every thing. That 
ere captain puzzled me, surely." 

The party at dinner was increased by a neigh- 
bouring squire and his wife, and the rector of the 
parish. Ferdinand was placed at the right hand of 
Miss Temple. The more he beheld her, the more 
beautiful she seemed. He detected every moment 
some charm before unobserved. It seemed to him 
that he never was in such agreeable society, though, 
sooth to say, the conversation was not of a very 
brilliant character. Mr. Temple recounted the 
sport of the morning to the squire, whose ears kin- 
dled at a congenial subject, and every preserve in 
the county was then discussed, with some episodes 
on poaching. The rector, an old gentleman, who 
had dined in old days at Armine Place, reminded 
Ferdinand of the agreeable circumstance, sanguine, 
perhaps, that the invitation might lead to a renewal 
of his acquaintance with that hospitable board. He 
was painfully profuse in his description of the pub- 
lic days of the famous Sir Ferdinand. From the 
service of plate to the thirty servants in livery, no- 
thing was omitted. 

"Our friend deals in Arabian tales," whispered 
Ferdinand to Miss Temple ; "you can be a witness 
that we live quietly enough now." 

"I shall certainly never forget my visit to Ar- 
mine," replied Miss Temple ; " it was one of the 
most agreeable days of my life." 

" And that is saying a great deal, for I think your 
life must have abounded in agreeable days." 

" I cannot, indeed, lay any claim to that misery 
which makes many people interesting," said Miss 
Temple; " I am a very commonplace person, for I 
have been always happy." 

When the ladies withdrew, there appeared but 
little inclination on the part of the squire and the 
rector to follow their example; and Captain Ar- 
mine, therefore, soon left Mr. Temple to his fate, 
and escaped to the drawing-room. He glided to a 
seat on an ottoman, by the side of his hostess, and 
listened in silence to the conversation. What a 
conversation ! At any other time, under any other 
circumstances, Ferdinand would have been teazcd 
and wearied with its commonplace current ; all the 
dull detail of country tattle, in which the squire's 
lady was a proficient, and with which Miss Tem- 
ple was too highly bred not to appear to sympathize 
— and yet the conversation, to Ferdinand, appeared 
quite charming. Every accent of Henrietta's 
sounded like wit; and when she bent her head in 
assent to her companion's obvious deductions, there 
was about each movement a grace so ineffable, 
that Ferdinand could have sat in silence and lis- 
tened, entranced, forever; and, occasionally, too, 
she turned to Captain Armine, and appealed on 
some point to his knowledge or his taste. It seemed 
to him that he had never listened to sounds so 
sweetly thrilling as her voice. It was a birdlike 
burst of music, that well became the sparkling sun- 
shine of her 1 iolet eyes, ^ 

His late companions entered. Ferdinand rose 



from his seat; the windows of the saloon were open; 
he stepped forth into the garden. He felt the ne- 
cessity of being a moment alone. He proceeded a 
few paces beyond the ken of man, and ihen lean- 
ing on a statue, and burying his face in his arm, 
he gave way to irresistible emotion. What wild 
thoughts dashed through his impetuous soul at that 
instant, it is ditficult to conjecture. Perhaps it was 
passion that inspired that convulsive revery ; per- 
chance it might have been remorse. Ilid he aban- 
don himself to those novel sentiments which in a 
few brief hours had changed all his aspirations, and 
coloured his whole existence; or was he tortured 
by that dark and perplexing future, from which his 
imagination in vain struggled to extricate him 1 

He was roused from his revery, brief but tumul- 
tuous, by the note of music, and then by the sound 
of a human voice. The stag detecting the hunts- 
man's horn could not have started with more wild 
emotion. But one fair organ could send forth that 
voice. -He approached, he listened ; the voice of 
Henrietta Temple floated to him on the air, breath- 
ing with a thousand odours. In a moment he was 
at her side. The s(juire's lady was standing by 
her; the gentlemen, for a moment arrested from a 
political discussion, formed a group in a distant 
part of the room, the rector occasionally venturing 
in a practised whisper to enforce a disturbed argu- 
ment. Ferdinand glided in unobserved by the fair 
performer. Miss Temple not only possessed a 
voice of rare tone and compass, but this delightful 
gift of nature had been cultivated with refined art. 
Ferdinand, himself a musician, and passionately 
devoted to vocal melody, 'listened with unexagge 
rated rapture. 

" O ! beautiful !" exclaimed he, as the songstress 
ceased. 

"Captain Armine I" cried Miss Temple, looking 
round with a wild, bewitching smile. " I thought 
you were meditating in the twilight." 

" Your voice summoned me." 

"You care for musici" 

"For little else." 

"You singi" 

" I hum." 

" Try this." 

" With you 1" 

Ferdinand Armine was not unworthy of singing 
with Henrietta Temple. His mother had been his 
able instructress in the art even in his childhood, 
and bis frequent residence at Naples and other 
parts of the south, had afforded him ample oppor- 
tunities of perfecting a talent thus early cultivated 
But to-night the love of something beyond his ar* 
inspired the voice of Ferdinand. Singing with 
Henrietta Temple, he poured forth to her in safety 
all the passion which raged in his soul. The 
squire's lady looked confused ; Henrietta herself 
grew pale ; the politicians ceased even to whisper, 
and advanced from their corner to the instrument, 
and when the duet was terminated, Mr. Temple 
offered his sincere congratulations to his guest, 
Henrietta also turned with some words of com- 
mendation to Ferdinand; but the words were faint 
and confused, and finally re(iuesting Captain Ar- 
mine to favour them by singing alone, she rose 
and vacated her seat. 

Ferdinand took up the guitar; and accompanied 
himself to a Neapolitan air. It was gay and fes- 
tive, a rilornella which might summon your mis- 
tress to dance in the moonlight. And then, aniid 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



587 



many congratulations, he offered the guitar to Miss 
Temiilc. 

'• No one will listen to a simple melody after any 
thing so brilliant," said Miss Temple, as she touch- 
ed a string, and, after a slight prelude, sang these 
words: — 

THE DESERTED. 

I. 
Yes! wpppins is madness, 
Away with this ii^ar, 
" Let no sign of sadiifss 
BetiJiy ihe wild aiit'iiish I fear. 
Whpii wp nieel liiin lo-nighl, 

Be mute UiPn my lieari! 
And my smile be as bright, 
As if we were never lo pari. 

II. 

Girl ! give me the mirror 

Thai said I was fair; 
Alas! falal prri>r, 
This picuire reveals my dpspair. 
Smiles no longer can pass. 

O'er this faded lirow, 
4nd I shiver ihis glass, 
l/lke his love and his fragile vow I 

"The music," said Ferdinand, full of enthusiasm, 
" is — " 

" Henrietta's," replied her father. 

"And the words'? — " 

" \\'erc found in my canary's cage," said Hen- 
rietta Temple, rising and putting an end to the 
conversation. 



CHAPTER Vir. 

IX WHICH CAPTAIX AHMIXE INDULGES IX A 
IIEVEIIX. 

The squire's carriage was announced, and then 
came his lady's shawl. How happy was Ferdi- 
nand, when he recailected that he was to remain 
at Ducie. Remain at Durie! Remain under the 
same roof as Henrietta Temple. What bliss I — 
what ravishing bliss! All his life — and his had 
not been a monotonous one — it seemed that all his 
life could not afford a situation so adventurous and 
so sweet as this. Now they have gone. The 
squire and his lady, and the worthy rector who 
recollected Armine so well — they have all departed, 
all the adieus are uttered ; after this little and una- 
voidable bustle, silence reigns in the saloon of Ducie. 
Ferdinand walked to the window. The moon was 
up ; the air was sweet and hushed ; the landscape 
clear though soft. O ! what would he not have 
given to have strolled in that garden with Henrietta 
Temple, to liave poured forth his whole soul to 
her, to have told her how wondrous fair she was, 
how wildly bewitching, and how he loved her, 
how he sighed to bind his fate with hers, and live 
forever in the brilliant atmosphere of her grace and 
beauty. 

"Good night. Captain Armine," said Henrietta 
Temple. 

He turned hastily round, he blushed, he grew 

ii'. There she stood, in one hand a light, the 
oiher extended to her father's guest. He pressed 
her hand, he sighed, he looked confused ; then 
suddenly lotting go her hand, he walked quickly 
towards the door of the saloon, which he opened 
that she might retire. 

"'J'hc happiest day of my life has ended," he 
muttered. 



"You are so easily content, then, that I think 
you must always be happy." 

" I fear I am not as easily content as you ima- 
gine." 

She has gone. Hours, many and long hours, 
must elapse before he sees her again, before he 
again listens to that music, watches that airy grace, 
and meets the bright flashing of that fascinating 
eye. What misery was there in this ideal How 
little had he seemed hitherto to prize the joy of 
being her companion. He cursed the hours which 
had been wasted away from her in the morning's 
sport; he blamed himself that he had not even 
sooner quitted the dining-room, or that he had left 
the saloon for a moment, to commune with his own 
thoughts in the garden. With difficulty he re- 
strained himself from reopening the door, to listen 
for the distant sound of her footsteps, or catch, per- 
haps, along some corridor, the fading echo of her 
voice. But Ferdinand was not alone — iMr. Tem- 
ple still remained. That gentleman raised his face 
from the newspaper, as Captain Armine advanced 
to him ; and, after some observations about the 
day's sport, and a hope that he would repeat his 
trial of the Ducie preserves to-morrow, proposed 
their retirement. Ferdinand of course assented, 
and, in a moment, he was ascending \\M\ his host 
the noble and Italian staircase ; and he then was 
ushered from the vestibule into his room. 

His previous visit to this chamber had been so 
hurried, that he had only made a general observa- 
tion on its appearance. Little inclined to slumber, 
he now examined it more critically. In a recess 
was a French bed of simple furniture. On the 
walls, which were covered with a rustic paper, 
were suspended several drawings, representing 
views in Saxon Switzerland. They were so bold 
and spirited that they arrested attention : but the 
quick eye of Ferdinand instantly detected the 
initials of the artist in the corner. They were let- 
ters that made his heart tremble, as he gazed with 
admiring fondness on her performances. Before a 
sofa, covered with a cliintz of a corresponding pat- 
tern with the paper of the walls, was placed a small 
French table, on which were writing materials; 
and his toilet table and his mantelpiece were pro- 
fusely ornamented with rare flowers; on all sides 
were symptoms of female taste and feminine con- 
sideration. 

Ferdinand carefully withdrew from his coat the 
flower that Henrietta had given him in the morn- 
ing, and which he had worn the whole day. He 
kissed it; he kissed it more than once ; he pressed 
its somewhat faded form to his lips with cautious 
delicacy ; then tending it with the utmost care, he 
placed it in a vase of water, which holding in his 
hand, he threw himself into an easy chair, with his 
eyes flxed on the gift he most valued in the world. 
An hour passed, and Ferdinand Armine remain- 
ed fixed in the same position. But no one who 
beheld that beautiful and pensive countenance, and 
the dreamy softness of that large gray eye, could 
for a moment conceive that his thoughts were less 
sweet than the object on which they appeared to 
gaze. No distant recollections disturbed him now, 
no memory of the past, no fear of the future. The 
delicious present monopolized his existence. The 
ties of duty, the claims of domestic affection, the 
worldly considerations that by a cruel dispensation 
had seemed, as it were, to taint even b.is innocent 
and careless boyhood, even the urgent appeals of 



588 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



his critical and perilous situation — all, all were for- 
gotten in one intense delirium of absorbing love. 

Anon he rose from his seat, and paced his room 
for some minutes, with his eyes fixed on the ground. 
Then throwing off his clothes, and taking the 
flower from the vase, which he previously placed 
on the table, he deposited it in his bosom. " Beau- 
tiful, beloved flower," exclaimed he ; " thus, thus 
will I win and wear your mistress !" 



; CHAPTER VIII. 

A STRANGE DUEAM. 

Restless are the dreams of the lover that is 
young. Ferdinand Armine started awake from 
the agony of a terrible slumber. He had been 
walking in a garden with Henrietta Temple — her 
hand was clasped in his — her eyes fixed on the 
ground, as he whispered most delicious words. His 
face was flushed, his speech panting and low. 
Gently he wound his vacant arm around her grace- 
ful form ; she looked up, her speaking eyes met 
his, and their trembling lips seemed about to cling 
into a — 

When Id ! the splendour of the garden faded, 
and all seemed changed and dim : instead of the 
beautiful arched walks, in which a moment before 
they appeared to wander, it was beneath the 
vaulted roof of some temple that they now moved ; 
instead of the bed of glowing flowers from which 
he was about to pluck an oflbring for her bosom, 
an altar rose, from the centre of which upsprang a 
quick and lurid tongue of fire. The dreamer gazed 
upon his companion, and her form was tinted with 
the dusky hue of the flame, and she held to her 
countenance a scarf, as if oppressed by the unna- 
tural heat. Great fear suddenly came over him. 
With haste, yet with delicacy, he himself with- 
drew the scarf from the face of his companion, and 

this movement revealed the visage of Miss 

Grandison. 

Ferdinand Armine awoke and started u[) in his 
bed. Before him still appeared the unexpected 
figure. He jumped out of the bed — he gazed upon 
the form with staring eyes and open mouth. She 
was there — assuredly she was there : it was Kathe- 
rine — Katherine his betrothed — sad and reproach- 
ful. The figure faded before him ; he advanced 
with outstretched hand ; in his desperation he de- 
termined to clutch the escaping form ; and he 
found in his grasp his dressing-gown, which he 
had thrown over the back of a c'rair. 

"A dream, and but a dream, after all," he mut- 
tered to himself ; " and yet a strange one." 

His brow was heated ; he opened the casement. 
It was still night ; the moon had vanished, but the 
stars were still shining. He recalled with an ef- 
fort the scene with which he had become acquainted 
yesterday for the first time. Before him, serene 
and still, rose the bowers of Ducie. And their 
mistress ] That angelic form whose hand he had 
clasped in his dream, was not then merely a shadow. 
She breathed, she lived, and under the same roof 
Henrietta Temple was at this moment under the 
same roof as himself ; and what were her slumbers? 
Were they wild as his own, or sweet and innocent 
as herself! Did his form flit over her closed vision 
at this charmed hour, as hers had visited his ? 
Had it been scared away by an apparition as awful ] j 



Bore any one to her the same relation as Kathe- 
rine Grandison to him 1 A fearful surmise, that 
had occurred to him now for the first time, and 
which it seemed could never again quit his brain. 
The stars faded away — the breath of morn was 
abroad — the chant of birds arose. Exhausted in 
body and in mind, Ferdinand Armine flung him- 
self upon his bed, and soon was lost in slumbe''8 
undisturbed as the tomb. 



CHAPTER IX. 

WHICH I HOPE MAT PKOVE AS AGEEEABLE TO THE 
READEIl AS TO OUB HEUO. 

Ferdinand's servant, whom he had despatched 
the previous evening to Armine, returned early in 
tlie morning with his master's letters ; one from his 
mother, and one from Miss Grandison. They were 
all to arrive at the Place on the day after the mor- 
row. Ferdinand opened these epistles with a 
trembling hand. The siglit of Katherine's, his 
Katherine's liandwriting was almost as terrible as 
his dream. It recalled to him, with a dreadful re- 
ality, his actual situation, which he had driven from 
his thoughts. He had quitted his family, his family 
who were so devoted to him, and whom he so 
loved, happy, nay, triumphant, a pledged and re- 
joicing bridegroom. What had occurred during 
the last eight-and-forty hours seemed completely to 
have changed all his feelings, all his wislies, all his 
views, all his hopes ! He had in that interval met 
a single human being, a wom:ui, a girl, a young 
and innocent girl ; he had looked upon a girl and 
listened to her voice, and his soul was as changed 
as the earth by the sunrise. As lying in his bed he 
read these letters, and mused over their contents, 
and all the thoughts that tliey suggested, the 
strangeness of life, the mystery of human nature, 
were painfully impressed upon him. His melan- 
choly father, his fond and confiding mother, the 
devoted Glastonbury, all the mortifying cir- 
cumstances of his illustrious race, rose in painful 
succession before him. Nor could he forget his 
own wretched follies and that fatal visit to Bath, 
of which the consequences clanked upon his me- 
mory like a degrading and disgraceful fetter. The 
burthen of existence seemed intolerable. That 
domestic love, which had so solaced his existence, 
recalled now only the most painful associations. 
In the wilderness of his thoughts, he wished him- 
self alone in the world, to struggle with his fate 
and mould his fortunes. He felt himself a slave 
and a sacrifice. He cursed Armine, his ancient 
house, and his broken fortunes. He felt that death 
was preferable to life without Henrietta Temple 
But even supposing that he could extricate himself 
from his rash engagement ; even admitting that ali 
worldly considerations might be thrown aside, thai 
the pride of his father, and his mother's love, and 
Glastonbury's pure hopes might all be outraged ; 
what chance, what hope, was there of obtaining 
ills great object 1 What was he — what was he, 
Ferdinand Armine, free as the air from the claims 
of Miss Grandison, with all sense of duty rooted out 
of his once sensitive bosom, and existing only for 
the gratification of his own wild fancies 1 A beg- 
gar, worse than a beggar, without a home, without 
the possibility of a home to oiler »Jie lady of his 
passion ; nay, not even secure that the harsh pro 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



5S9 



ees3 of the law might not instantly claim its victim, 
and he himself be hurried from the altar to the jail ! 

Moody and melancholy, he repaired to the sa- 
loon, he beheld Henrietta Temple, and the cloud 
left his brow and lightness came to his heart. 
Never had she looked so beautiful, so fresh and 
bright, so like a fair flower with the dew upon its 
leaves. Her voice penetrated his soul, her sunny 
smile warmed his breast. Her father greeted him 
too with kindness, and inquired after his slumbers, 
which he assured Mr. Temple had been satisfac- 
tory. 

" I find," continued Mr. Temple, " that the post 
has brought me some business to-day which, I 
fear, claims the morning to transact. But I hope 
you will not forget your promise to try again our 
preserves. I fear they are not very rich ; but we 
poor tenants of the soil can scarcely vie with you 
lords of the land. The keeper will be ready when- 
ever you summon him." 

Ferdinand muttered something about trouble 
and intrusion, and the expected arrival of his family, 
but Mi^s Temple pressed him to accept the olTer 
with so much expression that refusal was impossible. 

After breakfast Mr. Temple retired to his library, 
and Ferdinand found himself alone for the first 
time with Henrietta Temple. 

She was copying a miniature of Charles the 
First. Ferdinand looked over her shoulder. 

" A melancholy countenance !" he observed, 

" It is a favourite one of mine," she replied. 

" Yet you are always gay V 

" Always." 

" I envy you. Miss Temple." 

" What, are you melancholy 1" 

" I have every cause." 

" Indeed, I should have thought the reverse." 

" I look upon myself as the most unfortunate of 
human beings," replied Ferdinand. 

He spoke so seriously, in a tone of such deep 
and bitter feeling, that Miss Temple could not resist 
looking up at her companion. His countenance 
was indeed most gloomy. 

" You surprise me," said Miss Temple ; " I think 
that few people ought to be unhappy, and I rather 
suspect fewer are than we imagine." 

" All I wish is," replied he, " that the battle of 
Newbury had witnessed the extinction of our fa- 
mily as well as our peerage." 

" A peerage, and such a peerage as yours, is a 
fine thing," said Henrietta Temple, " a very fine 
thing ; but I would not grieve, if I were you, for 
that; I would sooner be an Armine without a coro- 
net, than many a brow I wot of, with." 

" You misconceived a silly phrase," rejoined 
Ferdinand. " I was not thinking of the loss of 
our coronet, though that is only part of the system. 
Our family I am sure are fated. Birth without ho- 
nour, estates without fortune, life without happi- 
ness, that is our lot." 

"As for the first," said Miss Temple, "the ho- 
nourable are always honoured ; money, in spite of 
what they say, I feel is not the greatest thing in 
the world ; and as for misery, I confess I do not 
verj- readily believe in the misery of youth." 

" May you never prove it," replied Ferdinand ; 
" may you novpr be, as I am, the victim of family 
prolligacy and family pride." So saying, he turn- 
ed away, and taking up a book, for a few minutes 
seemed wrajiped in his reflections. 

He suddenly resumed the conversation in a more 



cheerful tone. Holding a volume of Petrarch in 
his hand, he touched lightly, but with grace, on 
Italian poetry ; then diverged into his travels, re- 
counted an adventure with sprightliness, and re- 
plied to Miss Temple's lively remarks with gayety 
and readiness. The morning advanced ; .Miss 
Temple closed her portfolio, and visited her flowers, 
inviting him to follow her. Her invitation was 
scarcely necessary : his movements were regulated 
by hers ; he was as faithful to her as her shadow. 
From the conservatory they entered the garden. 
Ferdinand was as fond of gardens as his mistress. 
She praised the flower-garden of Armine. He 
gave her some account of its principal creator. 
The character of Glastonbury highly interested 
Miss Temple. Love is confidential; it has no fear 
of ridicule ; Ferdinand entered with freedom, and 
yet with grace, into family details, from which, at 
another time and to another person, he would ha%'e 
been the first to shrink. The imagination of Miss 
Temple was greatly interested by his simple, and, 
to her, aflecting account of this ancient line living 
in their hereditary solitude, with all their noble pride 
and haughty poverty. The scene, the circumstances, 
were all such as please a maiden's fancy ; and 
he, the natural hero of this singular history, seemed 
deficient in none of those heroic qualities which 
the wildest spirit of romance might require for the 
completion of its spell. Beautiful as his ancestors, 
and, she was sure, as brave, young, sjiirited, grace- 
ful, and accomplished; a gay and daring spirit 
blended with the mournful melody of his voice, 
and occasionally contrasted with the somewhat sub- 
dued and chastened character of his demeanour. 

" Well, do not despair," said Henrietta Temple 
" riches did not make Sir Ferdinand happy. I feel 
confident the house will yet flourish." 

" I have no confidence," replied Ferdinand ; " I 
feel the straggle with our fite to be fruitless. Once, 
indeed, I felt like you; there was a time when I 
took even a fancied pride in all the follies of my 
grandfather. But that is past; I have Uved to 
execrate his memory " 

"Hush! hush!" 

" Yes, to execrate his memory ; I repeat, to exe- 
crate his memory ; his follies stand between ma 
and my happiness." 

" Indeed I see not that." 

" May you never ! I cannot disguise from my- 
self that I am a slave, and a wretched one, and that 
his career has entailed this curse of servitude upon 
me. But away with this! You must think me, 
Miss Temple, the most egotistict.1 of human beings, 
and yet, to do myself justice, I scarcely ever re- 
member having spoken of myself so nmch before." 

" Will you walk with me," said Miss Temple, 
after a moment's silence; "you seem little inclined 
to avail yourself of my father's invitation to soli- 
tary sport. But I cannot stay at home, for I have 
visits to pay, although I fear you will consider them 
rather dull ones." 

" Why so 1" 

" My visits are to cottages." 

" I love nothing better. I used ever to be my 
mother's companion on such occasions." 

So, crossing the lawn, they entered a beautiful 
wood of considerable extent, which formed the 
boundary of the grounds, and after some time 
passed in most agreeable conversation, emerged 
upon a common of no ordinary extent or beauty, 
for it was thickly studded in some parts with lofty 
3D 



&90 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



timber, while in others the furze and fern gave rich- 
ness and variety to the vast wilderness of verdant 
turf, scarcely marked except by the light hoof of 
Miss Temple's palfrey. 

" It is not so grand as Armine Park," said Miss 
Temple ; " but we are proud of our common." 

The thin gray smoke that rose in different direc- 
tions, was a beacon to the charitable visits of Miss 
Temple. It was evident that she was a visiter both 
habitual and beloved. Each cottage door was fami- 
liar to her entrance. The children smiled at her 
approach ; their mothers rose and courtesied with 
affectionate respect. How many names and how 
many wants had she to remember; yet nothing 
was forgotten ! Some were rewarded for industry, 
some were admonished not to be idle; but all were 
treated with an engaging suavity more efScacious 
than gifts or punishments. The aged were solaced 
by her visits ; the sick forgot their pains : and as 
she listened with sympathizing patience to long 
narratives of rheumatic griefs, it seemed her pre- 
sence in each old chair, her tender inquiries and 
sanguine hopes, brought even more comfort than 
her plenteous promises of succour from the Bower 
in the shape of arrowroot and gruel, port wine and 
flannel petticoats. 

This scene of sweet simplicity brought back old 
days and old places to the memory of Ferdinand 
Armine. He thought of the time when he was a 
happy boy at his innocent home ; his mother's 
boy, the child she so loved and looked after, when 
a cloud upon her brow brought a tear into his eye, 
and when a kiss from her lips was his most dear 
and desired reward. The last night he had passed 
at Armine, before his fust departure, rose up to his 
recollection ; all his mother's passionate fondness, 
all her wild fear that the day might come when her 
child would not love her as dearly as he did then. 
That time had come. But a few hours back — ay ! 
but a few hours back — and he had sighed to be 
alone in the world, and had felt those domestic ties 
which had been the joy of his existence, a burden, 
and a curse. A tear stole down his cheek ; he 
stepped forth from the cottage to conceal his emo- 
tion. He seated himself on the trunk of a tree, a 
few paces withdrawn ; he looked upon the setting 
sun that gilded the distant landscape with its rich 
yet pensive light. The scenes of the last five years 
flitted across his mind's eye in fleet succession ; his 
dissipation, his vanity, his desperate folly, his hol- 
low worldliness. Why, O ! why had he ever left 
his unpolluted home ] Why could he not have 
lived and died in that silvan paradise 1 Why, O ! 
why was it impossible to admit his beautiful com- 
panion into that sweet and serene society ? Why 
should his love for her make his heart a rebel to 
his hearth? Money, horrible money ! It seemed 
to him that the contiguous cottage and the labour 
of his hands with her, were preferable to palaces 
and crowds of retainers without her inspiring pre- 
sence. And why not screw his courage to the 
sticking-point, and commune in confidence with 
his parents 1 They loved him ; yes, they idolized 
him ! For him, for him alone, they sought the 
restoration of their house and fortunes. Why, 
Henrietta Temple was a treasure richer than any 
his ancestors had counted. Let them look on her, 
let them listen to her, let them breathe as he had 
done in her enchantment; and could they wonder, 
could they murmur at his conduct? Would they 
not, O ! would they not rathei admire, extol it ! 



But then, his debts, his infernal, his overwhelming 
debts. All the rest might be ficed. His desperate 
engagement might be broken, his family might be 
reconciled to obscurity and poverty : but, ruin ! 
what was to grapple with his impending ruin 1 
Now his folly stung him, now the scorpion entered 
his soul. It was not the profligacy of his ancestor, 
it was not the pride of his family then, that stood 
between him and his love ; it was his own culpable 
and heartless career ! He covered his face with 
his hands ; something touched him lightly, it was 
the parasol of Miss Temple. 

" I am afraid," she said, " that my visits have 
wearied you ; but you have been very kind and 
good." 

He rose rapidly with a slight blush. " Indeed," 
he replied, "I have passed a most delightful morn- 
ing, and I was only regretting that life consisted of 
any thing else but cottages and yourself." 

They were late ; they heard the first dinner-bell 
at Ducie as they re-entered the wood, "We must 
hurry on," said Miss Temple ; " dinner is the only 
subject on which papa is a tyrant. What a sun- 
set ! I wonder if Lady Armine will return on 
Saturday. When she returns, I hope you will 
make her call upon us, for I want to copy all the 
pictures in your gallery." 

" If they were not heirlooms, I would give them 
you," said Ferdinand ; " but as it is, there is onjy 
one way by which I can manage it." 

" What way 1" inquired Miss Temple, very in- 
nocently. 

" I forget," replied Ferdinand with a peculiar 
smile. Miss Temple seemed to comprehend a littlo 
more clearly, and looked a little confused. 



CHAPTER X. 

AN EVENING STROLL. 

In spite of his perilous situation, an indefinable 
sensation of happiness pervaded the soul of Ferdi- 
nand Armine, as he made his hurried toilet, and 
hastened to the domestic board of Ducie, where he 
was now the solitary guest. His eye caught Miss 
Temple's as he entered the room. It seemed to 
beam upon him with interest and kindness. His 
courteous and agreeable host welcomed him with 
polished warmth. It seemed that a feeling of inti- 
macy was already established among them, and he 
fancied himself already looked upon as an habitual 
memiier of their circle. All dark thoughts are 
driven away. He was gay and pleasant, and duly 
maintained with Mr. Temple that conversation in 
which his host excelled. Miss Temple spoke little, 
but listened with evident interest to her father and 
Ferdinand. She seemed to delight in their society, 
and to be gratified by Captain Armine's evident 
sense of her father's agreeable qualities. 

When dinner was over, they all rose together, 
and repaired to the saloon. 

" I wish Mr. Glastonbury were here," said Miss 
Temple, as Ferdinand opened the instrument. 
" You must bring him, some day, and then our 
concert will be perfect." 

Ferdinand smiled, but the name of Glastonbury 
made him shudder. His countenance changed at 
the future plans of Miss Temple. " Some day," 
indeed, when he might also take the oj'^ortuni'jr 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



591 



of introducing his betrothed ! But the voice of 
Ht'iirielta Temple drove all care from his bosom ; 
he abandoned himself to the intoxicating present. 
She sang alone; and then they sang together; and, 
as he arranged her books, or selected her theme, 
a thousand instances of the interest with which 
she inspired him developed themselves. Once he 
touched her hand, and he pressed his own, unseen, 
to his lips. 

Though the room was lit up, the windows were 
open and admitted the moonlight. The beautiful 
saloon was full of fragrance and of melody ; the 
fairest of women dazzled Ferdinand with her pre- 
sence ; his heart was full; his senses ravished ; his 
hopes were high. Could there be such a demon 
as care in such a paradise? Could sorrow ever 
enter here 7 Was it possible that these bright 
hails and odorous bowers could be polluted by the 
miserable considerations that reigned too often su- 
preme in his unhappy breast 1 An enchanted 
scene had suddenly risen from the earth for his 
delight and fascination. Could he be unha|)[>y'? 
Why, if all went darker even than he sometitnes 
feared, that man had not lived in vain who had be- 
held Henrietta Temple! All the troubles of the 
world were folly here ; this was fairyland, and he, 
some knight who had fallen from a gloomy globe 
upon some starry regions flashing with perennial 
lustre. 

The hours flew on ; the servants brought in that 
liaht banquet whose entrance in the country seems 
the only method of reminding our guests that there 
is a morrow. 

"'Tisthe last night," said Ferdinand, smiling, 
with a sigh. "One more song; only one more. 
Mr. Temple, be indulgent ; it is the last night. I 
feel, ' he added, in a lower tone, to Henrietta, " I 
feel exactly as I did when I left Armine for the first 
time." 

"Because you are going to return to it ? That 
is wilful !" 

" Wilful or not, I would that I might never see 
it again." 

" For my part, Armine is to me the very land 
of romance." 
" It is strange." 

" No spot on earth ever impressed me more. It 

is the finest combination of art, and nature, and 

poetical associations I know ; it is indeed unique." 

" I do not like to difler with you on any subject." 

"We should be dull companions, I fear, if we 

agreed upon every thing." 

"I cannot think it." 

" Papa," said Miss Temple, "one little stroll upon 
the lawn ; one little, little stroll. The moon is so 
bright ; and autumn, this year, has brought us as yet 
no dew." And as she spoke, she took up her scarf and 
wound it round her head. "There," she said, "I 
look like the portrait of the Turkish page in Armine 
gallery ; don't IV' 

There was a playful grace about Henrietta Tem- 
ple, awik! and brilliant simplicity, which was the 
nvore charming, because it was blended with pecu- 
liarly high breeding. No person in ordinary society 
was more calm, or enjoyed a more complete solf- 
possession ; yet no one, in the more intimate rela- ! 
tions of life, indulged more in those little unstudied ' 
bursts of nature, which seemed almost to remind' 
one of the playful child rather than the polished , 
woman ; and which, under such circimistances, ' 
are infioite.y captivating. As for Ferdinand Ar- ' 



mine, he looked upon the Turkish page with a 
countenance beaming with admiration; he wished 
it was Turkey wherein he then beheld her, or any 
other strange land, where he could have placed her 
on his courser, and galloped away in pursuit of a 
fortune wild as his soul. 

They walked in the garden, the arms of Henrietta 
Temple linked between her father's and Captain 
Armine's. Though the year was in decay, sum- 
mer had lent this night to autumn, it was so soft 
and sweet. The moonbeam fell brightly upon 
Ducie Bower, and the illumined saloon contrasted 
effectively with the natural splendour of the exte- 
rior scene. Mr. Temple reminded Henrietta of a 
brilliant fete which had been given at a Saxon pa- 
lace, and which some circumstances of similarity 
recalled to his recollection. Ferdinand could no' 
speak, but found himself unconsciously pressing 
Henrietta Temple's arm to his heart. 'l"he Saxon 
palace brought back to Miss Teiiiple a wild melody 
which had been sung in the gardens on that night. 
She asked her father if he recollected it, and hum- 
med the air as she made the inquiry. Her gentio 
murmur soon expanded into song. It was one of 
those wild and natural lyrics that spring up in 
mountainous countries, and which seem to mimic 
the prolonged echoes that in such regions greet the 
ear of the pastor and the huntsman. 

! why did this night ever have an end ! 



CHAPTER XL 

A MOUNING WALK. 

It was solitude that brought despair to Ferdi- 
nand Armine. The moment he was alone his real 
situation thrust itself upon him ; the moment that 
he had quitted the presence of Henrietta Temple, 
he was as a man under the influence of music when 
the orchestra suddenly stops. The source of all his 
inspiration failed him; this last night at Ducie was 
dreadful. Sleep was out of question ; he did not 
aflect even the mimicry of retiring, but paced up 
and down his room the whole night, or flung him- 
self, when exhausted, upon a restless sofa. Occa- 
sionally he varied these UKmotonous occupations, 
by pressing his lips to the drawings which bore her 
name; then, relapsing into a profound rcvery, he 
sought some solace in recalling the scenes of the 
morning, all her movements, every word she had 
uttered, every look which had illumined his soul. 
In vain he endeavoured to find consolation in the 
fond belief that he was not altogether without in- 
terest in her eyes. Even the conviction that his 
passion was returned, in the situation in which 
he was plunged, would, however flattering, be rather 
a source of tresh anxiety and perplexity. He took 
a volume from the single shelf of books that was 
slimg against the wall ; it was a volume of Corinne. 
The fervid eloquence of the poetess sublimated 
his passion : and, without disturbing the tone of 
his excited mind, relieved in some degree its ten- 
sion, by busying his imagination with otiier, though 
similar, emotions. As he read, his mind became 
more calm and his feelings deeper, and, by the time 
his lam]) grew ghastly in the purple light of morn- 
ing that now entered his chamber, his soul seemed 
so stilled, that he closed the volume, and though 
sleep was impossible, he remained nevertheles* 
calm and absorbed. 



592 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



When the first sountls assured him that some 
were stirring in the house, he quitted his room, 
after some difficulty found a maid-servant by whose 
aid he succeeded in getting into the garden. He 
took his way to the common where he had observed, 
the preceding day, a fine sheet of water. The sun 
had not risen more than an hour ; it was a fresh 
and ruddy morn. The cottagers were just abroad. 
The air ot the plain invigorated him, and the singing 
of the birds, and all those rural sounds, that rise 
with the husbandman, brought to his mind a won- 
derful degree of freshness and serenity. Occa- 
sionally he heard the gun of an early sportsman, to 
him at all times an animating sound; but when he 
had plunged into the water, and found himself strug- 
gling with that inspiring element, all sorrow seemed 
to leave him. His heated brow became cool and 
clear — his aching limbs vigorous and elastic — his 
jaded soul full of hope and joy. He lingered in the 
liquid and vivifying world, playing with the stream, 
for he was an expert and practised swimmer; and 
often, after nights of southern dissipation, had re- 
curred to this natural bath for health and renovation. 
The sun had now risen far above the horizon ; 
the village clock had long struck seven ; Ferdinand 
was three miles from Ducie Bower. It was time 
to return, yet he loitered on his way, the air was so 
sweet and fresh, the scene so pretty, and his mind, 
in comparison with his recent feelings, so calm, and 
even happy. Just as he emerged from the woods, 
and entered the grounds of Ducie, he met Miss 
Temple. She stared, and she had cause. Ferdi- 
nand, indeed, presented rather an unusual figure ; 
his head uncovered, his hair matted, and his coun- 
tenance glowing with his exercise, but his figure 
clothed in the identical evening dress in which he 
had bid her a tender good night. 

" Captain Armine !" exclaimed Miss Temple, 
"you are an early riser, I see." 

Ferdinand looked a little confused. " The truth 
is," he replied, "I have not risen at all. I could not 
sleep ; why, I know not ; the evening, I suppose, 
was too happy for so commonplace a termination ; 
so I escaped from mj' room as soon as I could do so 
without disturbing your household; and I have 
been bathing, which refreshes me always more than 
slumber." 

" Well, I could not resign my sleep, were it only 
for the sake of my dreams." 

" Pleasant I trust they were. ' Rosy dreams and 
slumbers light' are for ladies as fiiir as you." 

"I am grateful that I always fulfil the poet's 
wish ; and what is more, I wake only to gather roses 
—see here!" 
She extended to him a flower. 
" I deserve it," said Ferdinand, " for I have not 
neglected your first gift," and he offered her the 
rose she had given him the first day of his visit. 
<' 'Tis shrivelled," he added, " but still very sweet — 
at least to me." 

" It is mine now," said Henrietta Temple. 
" Ah ! you will throw it away." 
"Do you thitdc me, then,, so insensible to gal- 
lantry so delicate V 

"It cannot be to you what it is to me," replied 
Ferdinand. 

'• It is a memorial," said Miss Temple. 
" Of what, and of whom 1" inquired Ferdi- 
nand. 

" Of friendship and a friend." 

" 'Tis something to be Miss Temple's friend." | 



" I am glad you think so. I believe I am very vain, 
but certainly I like to be — liked." 

" Then you can always gain your wish without 
an effort." 

"Now I think we are very good friends," said 
Miss Temple, " considering we have known each 
other so short a time. But then papa likes you so 
much," 

" I am honoured as well as gratified by the kind 
ly disposition of so agreeable a person as Mr. Tern 
pie. I can assure his daughter that the feeling is 
mutual. Your father's opinion influences you ''" 

" In every thing. He has been so kind a father, 
that it would be worse than ingratitude to be less 
than devoted to him." 

" Mr. Temple is a very enviable person." 
"But Captain Armine knows the delight of a 
parent who loves him. I love my father as you lovs 
your mother," 

" I have, however, lived to feel that no person's 
opinion could influence me in every thing; I have 
lived to find that even filial love — and God knows 
mine was powerful enough — is, after all, but a pal- 
lid moonlight beam, compared with " 

" See ! my father kisses his hand to us from the 
window. Let us run and meet him. 



CHAPTER XIL 

CONTAINING AN OMINOUS INCIDENT. 

The last adieus are bidden ; Ferdinand is on his 
road to Armine, flying from the woman whom he 
adores, to meet the woman to whom he is betrothed. 
He reined in his horse as he entered the park. As 
he slowly approached his home, he could not avoid 
feeling that, after so long an absence, he had not 
treated Glastonbury with the kindness and conside- 
ration he merited. While he was torturing his 
invention for an excuse forhisconduct, he observed 
his old tutor in the distance; and riding up and 
dismounting, he joined that faithful friend. Whether 
it be that love and falsehood are, under any cir- 
cumstances, inseparable, Ferdinand Armine, whose 
frankness was proverbial, found himself involved 
in a long and confused narrative of a visit to a 
friend, whom he had unexpectedly met, whom he 
had known abroad, and to whom he was under the 
greatest obligations. He even affected to regret this 
temporary estrangement from Armine after so long 
a separation, and to rejoice at his escape. No names 
were mentioned, and the unsuspicious Glastonbury, 
delighted again to be his companion, inconvenienced 
him with no cross-examination. But this was only 
the commencement of the system of degrading de- 
ception which awaited him. 

Willingly would Ferdinand have devoted all his 
time and feelings to his companion ; but in vain 
he struggled with the absorbing passion of his soul. 
He dwelt in silence upon the memory of the last 
three days, the most eventful period of his exist- 
ence. He was moody and absent, silent when he 
should have spoken, wandering when he should 
have listened, hazarding random observations in- 
stead of conversing, or breaking into hurried and 
inappropriate comments; so that to any worldly 
critic of his conduct he would have appeared at 
the same time both dull and excited. At length ho 
made a desperate effort to accompany Glastonburj 
to the picture gallery, and Usten to his plans. The 



HENRIETTA 'J' E M P L E. 



69$ 



«cene. indeed, was not ungrateful to him, for it was 
associated with llie existence and the conversation 
of the lady of his heart: he stood entranced before 
the picture of the Turkish page, and lamented to 
Glastonbury, a thousand times, that there was no 
portrait of ifenrictta Armine. 

"I would sooner have a portrait of Henrietta 
Armine. than the whole gallery together," said 
Ferdinand. 

tilastonbury stared. 

" I wonder if there ever will be a portrait of 
Henrietta Armine. Come, now, my dear Glaston- 
bury," he continued, with an air of remarkable 
excitement, " let us have a wager upon it. What 
are the odds? Will there ever be a portrait of 
Henrietta Armine? I am quite fantastic to-day. 
You are smilint; at me. Now do you know, if I 
had a wish certain to be gratified, it should be to 
add a portrait of Henrietta Armine to our gallery ?" 
"She died very young," remarked (Jiastonbury. 
" But my Henrietta Armine should not die 
young," said Ferdinand. " She should live, 
breathe, snrile — she — " 

Glastonbury looked very confused. 
So strange is love, that this kind of veiled allu- 
sion to bis secret passion relieved and gratiliod the 
overcharged bosom of Ferdinand. He pursued the 
subject with enjoyment. Anyl)ody but Glaston- 
bury might have thought that he had lost his 
senses, he laughed so loud, and talked so fast about 
a subject which seemed almost nonsensical ; but 
the good Glastonbury ascribed these ebullitions to 
the wanton spirit of youth, and smiled out of sym- 
pathy, though he knew not why, except that his 
pupil appeared happy. 

At length they quitted the gallery; Glastonbury 
resumed bis labours in the ball, where he was copy- 
ing an escutcheon ; and, after hovering a short time 
restlessly around his tutor, now escaping into the 
garden that he might muse over Henrietta Temple 
undisturbed, and now returning for a few minutes 
to his companion, lest the good Glastonbury should 
feel mortified by his neglect, Ferdinand broke away 
altogether, and wandered far into the plaisance. 

He came to the green and shady spot where he 
had first beheld her. There rose the cedar, spread- 
ing its dark form in solitary grandeur, and holdinjr, 
as it were, its state among its subject woods. It 
was the same scene, almost the same hour: but 
where was she 1 He waited for her form to rise, 
and yet it came not. He shouted Henrietta Tem- 
ple, yet no fair vision blessed his. expectant sight. 
Was it all a dream? Had he been but Ivinc; be- 
neath these branches in a rapturous trance, and had 
be only woke to the sbivcrinsi dulness of reality ] 
What evidence was there of the existence of such a 
being as Henrietta Temple 1 If such a being did not 
exist, of what value was life ? After a glimpse of 
paradise, could he breathe again in this tame and 
frigid world? Where was Ducio? V/here were its 
immortal bowers, those roses of supernatural fra- 
grance, and the celestial melody of its halls ? That 
garden, wherein be wandered and huni» upon her 
accents; that wood, among whose shadowy l>onn;hs 
she glided like an antelope ; that pensive twilight, 
on which be bad gazed with such subdued emo- 
tion; that moonliccht walk, when her voice Hoated, 
like Ariel's, in the purple sky : were these ail 
phantoms ? Could it be that tliis morn, this very 
morn he had beheld Henrietta Temple, had con- 
75 



versed with her alone, had bidden her a soft adieu? 
What — was it this day that she had given him tho 
rose ? 

He threw himself upon the turf, and gazed upon 
the flower. The flower was young and beautiful 
as herself, and just expanding into perfect life. 
To the fantastic brain of love there seemed a 
resemblance between ibis rose and her who had 
culled it. Its stem was tall, its countenance was 
brilliant, an aromatic essence pervaded its being. 
As he held it in bis hand, a bee came hovering 
round its charms, eager to revel in its h-agrant 
loveliness. More than once bad Ferdinand driven 
the bee away, when suddenly it succeeded in alight- 
ing on the rose. Jealous of his rose, Ferdinand, 
in bis haste, shook the flower, and the fragile head 
fell from the stem ! 

A feeling of deep melancholy came over him, 
with which he found it in vain to struggle, and 
which he could not analyze. He rose, and press- 
ing the flower to his heart, he walked away and 
rejoined (ilastonbury, whose task was nearly ac- 
complished. Ferdinand seated himself upon one 
of the higli cases which had been stowed away in 
the hall, folding his arms, swinging his legs, and 
whistling the German air which Miss Temple had 
sung the preceding night. 

'• That is a wild and pretty air," said Glastonbury, 
who was devoted to music. " I never heard it be- 
fore. You travellers pick up choice things. Where 
did you find it ?" 

" I am sure I cannot tell, my dear Glastonbury; 
I have been asking myself the same question the 
whole morning. Sometimes I think I dreamt it." 

"A few more such dreams would make you a 
rare composer," observed Glastonbury, smiling. 

" Ah ! my dear Glastonbury, talking of music, I 
know a musician, such a musician, a musician whom 
I should like to introduce you to above all persons 
in the world." 

" You always loved music, dear Ferdinand ; 'tis 
in the blood. You come from a musical stock on 
your mother's side. Is Miss Grandison musical ?" 

" Yes — no — that is to say, I forget — some com- 
monplace accomplishment in the art, she has, I 
believe ; but I was not thinking of that sort of thing ; 
I was thinking of the lady who taught me this air." 

"A lady!" said Glastonbury; "the German la- 
dies are highly cultivated." 

" Yes ! the Germans, and the women especially, 
have a remarkably line musical taste," rejoined 
Ferdinand, recovering from his blunder. 

" I like the Germans very much," said Glaston- 
bury, "and I admire that air." 

" ! my dear Glastonbury, you shall hear it 
sun<j by moonlight." 

"Indeed !" said Glastonbury. 

"Yes; if you could only hear her sing it by 
moonlight, I venture to say, my dear Glastonbury, 
that you would confess that all you had ever heani, 
or seen, or imagined, of enchanted spirits floatina: 
in the air, and filling the air with supernatural 
symphonies, was realized." 

"Indoed!"said Glastonbury, "a most accomplish- 
ed performer, no doubt ! Was she professional ?" 

"Who !" inquired Ferdinand. 

" Your songstress." 

" Professional ! O ! ah ! yes ! No ! she was 
not a professional singer, but she was fit to be one ; 
and that is an excellent idea, too ; for I would sooner, 
2d-Z 



594 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



after all, te a professional singer, and live by my 
art, than marry against my inclination, or not marry 
according to it." 

"Marry!" said Glastonbury, rather astonished; 
"what, is she going to be married against her will ] 
Poor devoted thing !" 

" Devoted, indeed !" said Ferdinand ; " there is 
no greater curse on earth." 

Glastonbury shook his head. 

" The affections should not be forced," the old 
man added ; " our feelings are our own property, 
often our best." 

Ferdinand fell into a fit of abstraction ; then, 
suddenly turning round, he said, " Is it possible that 
I have been away from Armine only two days. 
Do you know it really seems to me a year !" 

" You are very kind to say so, my Ferdinand," 
•aid Glastonbury. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

IN WHICH CAPTAIN AIIMINE FINnS BEASOJf TO 
BELIEVE IN THE EXISTENCE OF FAIUIES. 

It is difficult to describe the restlessness of Fer- 
dinand Armine. His solitary dinner was an excuse 
for quitting Glastonbury : but to eat is as impossi- 
ble as to sleep, to a man who is really in love. He 
took a spoonful of soup, and then jumping up from 
his chair, he walked up and down the room, think- 
ing of Henrietta Temple. Then to-morrow occur- 
red to him, and that other lady that to-morrow was 
to bring. He drowned the thought in a bumper 
of claret. Wine, mighty wine ! thou best and 
surest consolation ! What care can withstand thy 
inspiring influence 1 from what scrape canst thou 
not, for a moment, extricate the victim 1 Who 
can deny that our spiritual nature in some degree 
depends upon our corporeal condition 1 A man 
without a breakfast is not a hero ; a hero well fed 
is full of audacious invention. Every thing de- 
pends upon the circulation. Let but the blood 
flow freely, and a man of imagination is never with- 
out resources. A fine pulse is a talisman ; a 
charmed life ; a balance at our banker's. It is good 
luck; it is eternity; it is wealth. Nothing can 
withstand us; nothing injure us; it is inexhausti- 
ble riches. So felt Ferdinand Armine, though on 
the verge of a moral precipice. To-morrow ! what 
of to-morrow 1 Did to-morrow daunt him 1 Not 
a jot. He would wrestle with to-morrow, laden as 
it might be with curses, and dash it to the earth. 
It should not be a day ; he would blot it out of the 
calendar of time ; he would eflect a moral eclipse 
of its influence. He loved Henrietta Temple. She 
should be his. Who could prevent him 1 Was 
he not an Armine] Was he not the near de- 
scendant of that bold man who passed his whole 
life in the voluptuous indulgence of his unrestrain- 
ed volition 1 Bravo ! he willed it and it should 
be done. Every thing yields to determination. 
What a fool I what a miserable craven fool had he 
been to have frightened himself with the flimsy 
shadows of petty worldly cares ! He was born to 
follow his own pleasure; it was supreme; it was 
absolute ; he was a despot ; he set every thing and 
everybody at defiance ; and, filling a huge tumbler 
to the health of the great Sir Ferdinand, he reeled 
to bed, glorious as an emperor. 



On the whole, Ferdinand had not committed 
so great an indiscretion as the reader, of course 
shocked, might at first imagine. For the first time 
for some days he slept, and slept soundly. Next 
to wine, a renovating slumber perhaps puts us in 
the best humour with our destiny. Ferdinand 
awoke refreshed and sanguine, full of inventive 
life, which soon developed itself in a flow of most 
improbable conclusions. His most rational scheme, 
however, appeared to consist in winning Henrietta 
Temple, and turning pirate, or engaging in the ser- 
vice of some distant and disturbed state. Why 
might he not free Greece, or revolutionize Spain, or 
conquer the Brazils 1 Others had embarked ia 
these bold enterprises ; men not more desperate 
than himself, and not better qualified for the career. 
Young, courageous, a warrior by profession, with 
a name of traditionary glory throughout the courts 
of Christendom, perhaps even remembered in Asia, 
he seemed just the individual to carve out a glo- 
rious heritage with his sword. And as for his pa- 
rents, they were not in the vale of years ; let them 
dream on in easy obscurity, and maintain them- 
selves at Armine until he returned to redeem his 
hereditary domain. All that was requisite was the 
concurrence of his adored mistress. Perhaps, after 
all his foolish fears, and all his petty anxiety, he 
might live to replace upon her brow the ancient 
coronet of Tewkesbury ! Why not 1 The world 
is strange ; nothing happens that we anticipate : 
when apparently stifled by the commonplace, we 
are on the brink of stepping into the adventurous. 
If he married Miss Grandison, his career was 
closed : a most unnatural conclusion for one so 
young and bold. It was evident that he must 
marry Henrietta Temple; and then] Why, then 
something would happen totally unexpected and 
unforeseen. Who could doubt it] Not he ! 

He rose, he mounted his horse, and galloped 
over to Ducie Common. Its very aspect melted 
his heart. He called at the cottages he had visited 
two days before. Without inquiring after Miss 
Temple, he contrived to hear a thousand circum- 
stances relating to her which interested and charmed 
him. In the distance rose the woods of Ducie ; he 
gazed upon them as if he could never withdraw 
his sight from their deep and silent forms. O, 
that sweet Bower ! Why was there any other 
world but Ducie ] All his brave projects of war, 
and conquest, and imperial plunder seemed dull 
and vain now. He sickened at the thought of ac- 
tion. He sighed ,to gather roses, to listen to songs 
sweeter than the nightingale, and wander forever 
in moonlit groves. 

He turned his horse's head ; slowly and sorrow- 
fully he directed his course to Armine. Had they 
arrived ] The stern presence of reality was too 
much for all his slight and glittering visions. What 
was he after all 1 This future conqueror was a 
young officer on leave, obscure except in his imme- 
diate circle, with no inheritance, and very much in 
debt; awaited with anxiety by his affectionate pa- 
rents, and a young lady whom he was about to 
marry — for her fortune ] Most impotent epilogue 
to a magnificent revery ! 

The post arrived at Armine in the afternoon. 
As Ferdinand, nervous as a child returning to 
school, tardily regained home, he recognised the 
approaching postman. Ha! a letter] What was 
its import] The blessing of delay ] or was it the 
herald of their instant arrival ] Pale, and sick a: 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



595 



hffirf, he tore open the hurried lines of Katherine. 
The maiden aunt had stumbled while getting out 
of a pony phaeton, and experienced a serious acci- 
dent; their visit to Armine was necessarily post- 
poned. He read no more. The colour returned to 
his cheek, reinforced by his heart's liveliest blood. 
A thousand thoughts, a thousand wild hopes, and 
wilder plans came over him. Here was, at least, 
one interposition in his favour; others would occur. 
He felt fortunate. He rushed to the tower, to tell 
the news to Glastonbury. His tutor ascribed his 
agitation to the shock, and attempted to console 
him. In conmuniicaling the intelligence, he was 
obliged to finish a letter ; it expressed a hope, that, 
if their visit were postponed for more than a day 
or two, Katherine's dearest Ferdinand would return 
to Bath. 

Ferdinand wandered forth into the park to enjoy 
his freedom. A burden had suddenly fallen from 
his frame ; a cloud that had vanished. To-da\;, 
that was so accursed, was to be marked now in his 
calendar with red chalk. Even Armine pleased 
him ; its sky was brighter, its woods more vast and 
green. They had not arrived ; they would not 
arrive to-morrow, that was certain ; tlie third day, 
too, was a day of hope. Why ! three days, three 
whole days of unexpected, unhoped for freedom, it 
was eternity ! What might not happen in three 
days ! In three days he might fairly remain in 
expectation of fresh letters. It could not be antici- 
pated, it was not even desired, that he should in- 
stantly repair to them. Come, he would forget 
this curse, he would be happy. The pa^t, the fu- 
ture should be nothing; he would revel in the aus- 
picious present. 

Thus communing with himself, he sauntered 
along, musing over Henrietta Temple, and building 
bright castles in the air. A man engaged with his 
ideas is insensible of fatigue. Ferdinand found 
himself at the park gate that led to Ducie ; intend- 
ing only a slight stroll, he had already rambled half- 
way to his beloved. It was a delicious afternoon : 
the heat of the sun had long abated ; the air was 
sweet and just beginning to stir; not a sound was 
heard, except the last blow of the woodman's axe, 
or the occasional note of some joyous bird waking 
from its siesta. Ferdinand passed the gate; he 
entered the winding road, the road that Henrietta 
Temple had so admired ; a beautiful green lane, 
indeed with banks of flowers, and hedges of tall 
trecsr Pie strolled along, our happy Ferdinand, 
indefinite of purpose, almost insensible whether he 
Were advancing or returning home. He plucked 
tlie wild flowers, and pressed them to his lips, be- 
cause she had admired them — rested on a hank — 
lounged on a gtite — cut a stick from the hedge — 
traced Henrietta Temj)le in the road, and then 
turned the words into Henrietta Armine — and so, 
and so, and so — he, at length, stared at finding 
himself on Ducie Common. 

Beautiful common! How he loved it! How 
familiar every tree and rustic roof had become to 
him ! Could he ever forget the morning he had 
bathed in those fresh waters ! What lake of Italy, 
what heroic wave of the midland ocean, could rival 
in his imagination that simple basin! He drew 
near to the woods of Ducie, glowing with the set- 
ting sun. Surely tliere was no twilight like the 
twilight of this land ! The woods of Ducie are 
entered. He recognised the path over which she j 
had glided; he knelt down and kissed that sacred 1 



earth. As he approached the pleasure-grounds, he 
turned otT into a side path, that he might not be 
perceived, he caught, through a vist«, the distant 
glimpse of the mansion. The sight of that roof, 
wherein he had been so happy ; of that roof that 
contained all that he cared or thought for in this 
world, overcame him. He leaned against a tree, 
and hid his face. 

The twilight died away, the stars stole forth, and 
Ferdinand ventured in the spreading gloom of night 
to api)roach the mansion. He threw himself upon 
the turf, and watched the chamber where she lived. 
The windows were open, there were lights within 
the room, but the thin curtains were drawn, and 
concealed the inmates. Happy, happy chamber! 
All that was bright, and fair, and sweet, were con- 
centrated in those charming walls ! 

The curtain is withdrawn; an arm — an arm 
which cannot be mistaken — pulls back the drapery. 
Is she coming forth 1 No, she does not ; but he 
sees, distinctly he sees her. She sits in an old 
chair that he had often praised ; her head rests 
upon her arm — her brow seems pensive: and in 
her other hand she holds a volume that she scarcely 
appears to read, O ! may he gaze upon her for- 
ever ! May this celestial scene, this scra[)hic hour, 
never pass away. Bright stars — O ! do not fade ; 
thou sunnner wind that playest upon his brow, per- 
fumed by her flowers, refresh him forever; beauti- 
ful night, be forever the canopy of a scene so sweet 
and still ; let existence glide away in gazing on 
yon delicate and tender vision ! 

Dreams of fantastic love — the curtain closes ; a 
ruder hand than hers has shut her from his sight ! 
It has all vanished ; the stars seem dim, the au- 
tumnal air is dank and harsh ; and where he had 
sazed on heaven, a bat flits wild and fleet. Poor 
Ferdinand, unhappy Ferdinand, how dull and de- 
pressed our brave gallant has become! Was it 
her father who had closed the curtain ] Could he, 
himself, thought Ferdinand, have been observed! 

Hark ! a voice softer and sweeter than the night 
breaks upon the air. It is the voice of his beloved — 
and, indeed, with all her singular and admirable 
qualities, I do not know that there was any thing 
more remarkable about Henrietta Temple than her 
voice. It was a rare voice ; so that in speaking, 
and in the most ordinary conversation, there was 
no one whose utterance was more natural and less 
unstudied ; it forcibly affected you. She could not 
give you a greeting, bid you an adieu, or make the 
most routine remark, without impressing you with 
her power and sweetness. It sounded like a bell, 
sweet, and clear, and thrilling; it was quite astonish- 
ing — ay ! it was ridiculous — what influence a little 
word uttered by this woman, without thought, 
would have upon your life. Of such fine clay is 
man made. 

That beautiful voice recalled to Ferdinand all 
his fading visions: it renewed the spell which had 
recently enchanted him ; it conjured up again all 
those sweet spirits that had a moment since hovered 
over him with their auspicious pinions. He couk' 
not, indeed, see her; her form, indeed, was shrouded, 
but her voice reached him ; a voice attuned to ten- 
derness, even to love; a voice that ravished his ear, 
melted his soul, and blended with his whole exist- 
ence. His heart fluttered, his pulse beat high, he 
sprang up, he advanced to the window! Yes! u 
few paces alone divide them : a single step and ho 
will be at her side. His hand is outstretched tu 



596 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELL 



clutch the currain, his , when suddenly the 

music ceased. His courage vanished with its in- 
spiration. For a moment he lingered, but his heart 
misgave him, and he stole back to his solitude. 

What a mystery is love! All the necessities 
and habits of our life sink before it. Food and 
sleep, that seem to divide our being, as day and 
night divide time, lose all their influence over the 
lover. He is, indeed, a spiritualized being, fit only 
to live upon ambrosia, and slumber in an imagi- 
nary paradise. The cares of the world do not 
touch him ; its most stirring events are to him but 
the dusty incidents of by-gone annals. All the 
fortune of the world without his mistress is misery ; 
and with her all its mischances a transient dream. 
Revolutions, earthquakes, the change of govern- 
ments, the fall of empires, are to him but childish 
games distasteful to a manly spirit. Men love in 
the plague, and forget the pest, though it rages 
about them. They bear a charmed life, and think 
not of destruction until it touches their idol, and 
then they die without a pang, hke zealots for their 
persecuted creed. A man in love wanders in the 
world as a somnambulist, with eyes that seem to 
open to those that watch him, yet in fact view 
nothing but their own inward fancies. 

! that night at Ducie, through whose long 
hours Ferdinand Armine, in a tumult of enraptured 
passions, wandered in the lawns, and groves, feed- 
ing on the image of its enchanting mistress, watch- 
ing the solitary light in her chamber that was to 
liim as the Pharos to a mariner in a tumultuous 
voyage! The morning, the gray cold morning, 
came at last ; he had outwatched the stars, and lis- 
tened to the matins of the waking birds. It was no 
longer possible to remain in the gardens unob- 
served; he regained the common. 

What should he do 1 whether should he wend 
his course ] To Armine ; O ! not to Armine ; 
never could he return to Armine without the heart 
of Henrietta Temple. Yes! on that great venture 
he had now resolved ; on that mighty hazard all 
should now be staked. Reckless of consequences, 
one vast object now alone sustained him. Existence 
without her was impossible ! Ay ! a day, a day, a 
single, a solitary day, should not elapse without 
breathing to her his passion, and seeking his fote 
from her dark eyes ! 

He strolled along to the extremity of the com- 
mon. It was a great table land, from whose 
boundary you looked down in small rich valleys ; 
and into one of these, winding his way through 
fields of golden grain and pastures, of which the 
fertile soil was testified by their vigorous hedge- 
rows, he now descended. A long, low farmhouse, 
with gable ends and ample porch, an antique build- 
ing that in old days might have been some mano- 
rial residence, attracted his attention. Its pictu- 
resque form, its angles and twisted chimneys, its 
porch covered with jessamine and eglantine, its 
verdant homestead and its orchard rich with ruddy 
fruit, its vast barns and long lines of ample stacks, 
produced altogether a rural picture complete and 
cheerful.. Near it ran a stream, which Ferdinand 
followed, and which, after a devious and rapid 
course, emptied itself into a deep and capacious 
pool, touched by the early sunbeam, and grateful 
to the swimmer's eye. Here Ferdinand made his 
natural toilet; and afterwards slowly returning to 
the farmhouse, sought an agreeable refuge from 
the sun in its fragrant porch. 



The farmer's wife, accompanied by a pretty 
daughter with downcast eyes, came forth and in- 
vited him to enter. While he courteously refused 
her offer, he sought her hospitality. The good wife 
brought a table, and placed it in the porch, and co- 
vered it with a napkin purer than snow. Her viands 
were fresh eggs, milk warm from the cow, and 
bread she had herself baked. Even a lover might 
feed on such sweet food. This happy valley and 
this cheerful settlement wonderfully touched the 
fancy of Ferdinand. The season was mild and 
sunny, the air scented by the flowers that rustled 
in the breeze, the bees soon came to rifle their 
sweetness, and flights of white and blue pigeons 
ever and anon skimmed along the sky from the 
neighbouring gables that were their dovecotes. 
Ferdinand made a salutary, if not a plenteous meal ; 
and when the table was removed, exhausted by the 
fatigue and excitement of the last four-and-twenty 
hours, he stretched himself at full length in the 
porch, and fell into a gentle and dreamless slumber. 

Hours elapsed before he awoke, vigorous indeed, 
and wonderfully refreshed ; but the sun had already 
greatly declined. To his astonishment, as he moved, 
there fell from his breast a most beautiful nosegay. 
He was charmed with this delicate attention from 
his hostess, or perhaps from her pretty daughter 
with those downcast eyes. There seemed a refine- 
ment about the gift, and the mode of its offering, 
which scarcely could be expected from these kind 
yet simple rustics. The flowers, too, were most rare 
and choice ; geraniums, such as are found only in 
lady's bower, a cape jessamine, some musky cama 
tions, and a rose that seemed the sister of the one 
that he had borne from Ducie. They were most 
delicately bound together, too, by a bright blue 
riband, fastened by a golden and turquois pin. 
This was most strange ; this was an adventure 
more suitable to a Sicilian palace than an English 
farmhouse ; to the gardens of a princess than the 
clustered porch of his kind hostess. Ferdinand 
gazed at the bouquet with a glance of blended per- 
plexity and pleasure ; then he entered the farm- 
house, and made inquiries of his hostess, but they 
were fruitless. The pretty daughter with the down- 
cast eyes was there too; but her very admiration of 
the gift, so genuine and unrestrained, proved, if 
testimony indeed were necessary, that she was not 
his unknown benefactor : admirer, he would have 
said ; but Ferdinand was in love, and modest. All 
agreed no one, to their knowledge, had been there, 
and so Ferdinand, cherishing his beautiful gift, 
was fain to quit his new friends in as much per- 
plexity as ever. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

WHICH CONTAINS AN INCIDENT THAT IS THE 
TERMINATION OF MOST TALES, THOUUH AiMOST 
THE BEGINNING OF THE PIIESENT. 

It was about two hours before sunset that Cap- 
tain Armine summoned up courage to call at 
Ducie Bower. He inquired for Mr. Temple, and 
learned, to his surprise, that Mr. Temple had quit- 
ted Ducie yesterday morning for Scotland. 

" And Miss Temple 1" said Ferdinand. 

" Is at home, sir," replied the servant. 

Ferdinand was ushered into the saloon. She 
was not there Our hero was very nervous he 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



597 



had bcftn bold enough in the course of his walk 
from the farmhouse, and indulged in a thousand 
imaginary conversations with his mistress ; but, 
now tlial he was really about to meet her, all his 
fire and fancy deserted him. Every thing occurred 
to him iuauspicious to his suit; his own situation, 
the short lime she had known him, his uncertainty 
of the state of her affections. How did he know 
she was n»t engaged to another! why should she 
not be betrothed as well as himself? This contin- 
gency had occurred to him before, and yet he had 
driven it from his thoughts. He began to be jea- 
lous ; he began to think himself a very great fool ; 
at any rate, he resolved not to expose himself anj' 
further. He was clearly premature; he would call 
to-morrow or next day ; to speak to her now was 
certainly impossible. 

The door opened; she entered, radiant as the 
day ! What a smile ! what dazzling teeth ! what 
ravishing dimples ! her eyes flashed like summer 
liglitning ; she extended him a hand white and 
soft as one of those doves that had played about 
him in the morning. Surely never was any one 
endued with such an imperial presence. So stately, 
so majestic, and yet withal so simply gracious ; full 
of such airy artlcssncss, at one moment she seemed 
an empress, and then only a beautiful child; and 
the hand and arm that seemed fashioned to wave a 
sceptre, in an instant appeared only fit to fondle a 
gazelle or pluck a flower. 

"How do you do?" she said; and he really 
fancied she was going to sing. He was not yet 
accustomed to that marvellous voice. It broke upon 
the silence, like a silver bell just touched by the 
summer air. " It is very kind of you to come and 
see a lone maiden," she continued ; " papa has de- 
eerted me, and without any preparation. I cannot 
endure to be separated from him, and this is almost 
the only time that he has refused my solicitation to 
accompany him. But he must travel far and quickly. 
My uncle has sent for him; he is very unwell, and 
papa is his trustee. There is business; I do not 
know what it is, but I dare say not very agreeable. 
By-the-by, I hope Lady .\rmine is well ?" 

" My papa has deserted me," said Ferdinand 
with a smile. "They have not yet arrived, and 
some days may yet elapse before they reach Arminc." 

" Indeed ! I hope they are well." 

" Yes ; they are well." 

" Did vou ride here?" 

" No." 

" You did not walk V 

" I hardly know how I came ; I believe I walked." 

"You must be very tired; and you are standing! 
pray sit down ; sit in that chair ; you know that is 
your favourite chair." 

And Ferdinand seated himself in the very chair 
in which he Iiad watched her the preceding night. 

" This is certainly my favourite chair," he 
said ; " I know no seat in the world I prefer to this." 

"Will you take some refreshment? I am sure 
you will ; you must he very tired. Take some 
hock ; let me order some hock — papa always takes 
hock and soda water. I shall order some hock and 
srxla water for you." She rose and rang the bell 
in spi<e of his remonstrance. 

" .\nd have you been walking, Miss Temple V 
inquired Ferdinand. 

" I was thinking of strolling now," she replied ; 
" but I am glad you have called, for I want an ex- 
ruse to be idle " 



An hour passed away, nor was the conversation 
on cither side very brilliantly su[)ported. Ferdi- 
nand seemed dull, but, indeed, was only moody, re- 
volving in his mind many strange incidents and 
feelings, and then turning for consolation in his 
perplexities to the enchanting vision on which he 
still could gaze. Nor was Miss Temple, indeed, 
in her usually sparkling vein ; her liveliness seem- 
ed an eflbrt ; she was more constrained, she was 
less fluent than before. Ferdinand, indeed, rose 
more than once to depart ; yet still he remained. 
He lost his cap; he looked for his cap; he found 
his cap; and then again seated himself. Again 
he rose, restless and disquieted, wandered about 
the room, looked at a picture, plucked a flower, 
pulled the flower to pieces. 

" Miss Temple," he at length observed, " I am 
afraid I am very stupid !" 

" Because you are silent ?" 

" Is not that a sutlicicnt reason 1" 

" Nay ! I think not — I think I am rather fond of 
silent people myself; I cannot bear to live with a 
person who feels bound to talk because he is my 
companion. The whole day passes sometimes 
without papa and myself exchanging fifty words; 
yet I am very happy ; I do not feel that we are 
dull :" and Miss Temple pursued her work, which 
she had previously taken up. 

" Ah ! but I am not your papa ; when we arc 
very intimate with people, when they interest us, 
we are engaged with their feelings, we di> not per- 
petually require their ideas. But an acquaintance, 
as I am, only an acquaintance, a miserable ac- 
quaintance, unless I speak or listen, I have no busi- 
ness to be here; unless I in some degree contribute 
to the amusement or the convenience of ray com- 
panion, I degenerate into a bore." 

" I think you are very amusing, and you may be 
useful if you like, very;" and she oflered him a 
skein of silk, which she requested him to hold. 

It was a beautiful hand that was extended to him, 
a beautiful hand is an excellent thing in woman; 
it is a charm that never palls, and, better than all, 
it is a means of fiiscination that never disappears. 
Women carry a beautiful hand with them to the 
grave, when a beautiful face has long ago vanished 
or ceased to enchant. The expression of the hand, 
too, is inexhaustible ; and when the eyes we may 
have worshipped no longer flash or sparkle, the 
ringlets with which we may have played are covered 
with a cap, or worse, a turban, and the symmetri- 
cal presence which in our sonnets has reminded 
us so oft of antelopes and wild gazelles, have all, 
all vanished; the hand, the immortal hand, defying 
alike time and care, still vanquishes, and still tri- 
umphs; and, small, soft, and fair, by an airy atti- 
tude, a gentle pressure, or a new ring, renews with 
untiring grace the spell that bound our cnamoureil 
and adoring youth ! 

But in the present instance there were eyes as 
bright as the hand, locks more glossy and luxuriant 
than Helen of Troy's, a cheek pink as a shfll, and 
breaking into dimples like a May morning into sun- 
shine, and lips from which stole forth a perfume 
sweeter than the whole conservatory. Ferdinand 
sat down on a chair opposite Miss Temple, with 
the extended skein. 

"Now this is better than doing nothing!" she 
said, catching his eye with a glance half kind, half 
arch. " I suspect. Captain .-Vrmine, that your 
melancholy originates in idleness." 



598 



D'lSRAELTS NOVELS. 



" Ah ! if I could only be employed every day in 
this manner !" ejaculated Ferdinand. 

"Nay ! not with a distaff; but you must do some- 
thing. You must get into parliament." 

" You forget that I am a Catholic," said Ferdi- 
nand. 

Miss Temple slightly blushed, and talked rather 
quickly about her work ; but her companion would 
not relinquish the subject. 

" I ho};e you are not prejudiced against my faith," 
said Ferdinand. 

" Prejudiced ! Dear Captain Armine, do not 
make me repent too seriously a giddy word. I 
feel it is wrong that matters of taste should mingle 
with matters of belief; but, to speak the truth,' I am 
not quite sure that a Howard or an Armine, who 
was a Protestant, like myself, would quite please 
my fancy as much as in their present position, 
which, if a little inconvenient, is very pictur- 
esque." 

Ferdinand smiled. " My great-grandmother was 
a Protestant," said Ferdinand, " Margaret Armine. 
Do you think Margaret a pretty name V 

"Queen Margaret! yes! a line name, I think: 
barring its abbreviation." 

" I wish my great-grandmother's name had not 
been Margaret," said Ferdinand very seriously. 

"No,v, why should that respectable dame's bap- 
tism disiurb your fancy V inquired Miss Temple. 

" I wish her name had been Henrietta," replied 
Ferdinand. "Henrietta Armine. You know there 
was a Henrietta Armine once 1" 

" Was there ■?" said Miss Temple, rising. " Our 
skein is finished. You have been very good. I must 
go and see my flowers. Come." And as she said 
this little word, she turned her fair and finely finish- 
ed neck, and looked over her shoulder at Ferdinand 
with an arch expression of countenance peculiar to 
her. That winning look, indeed, that clear, sweet 
voice, and that quick graceful attitude, blended 
into a spell, which was irresistible. His heart 
yearned for Henrietta Temple, and rose at the bid- 
ding of her voice. 

From the conservatory they stepped into the gar- 
den. It was a most delicious afternoon ; the sun 
had sunk behind the grove, and the air, which had 
been throughout the day somewhat oppressive, was 
now warm, but mild. At Ducie there was a fine 
old terrace facing the western hills, that bound the 
valley in which the Bovs'er was situated. These hills, 
a ridge of moderate elevation, but of very pictur- 
esque form, parted just opposite the terrace, as if 
on purpose to admit the setting sun, like inferior 
existences that had, as it were, made way before the 
splendour of some mighty lord or conqueror. The 
lofty and sloping bank which this terrace crowned 
was covered with rare shrubs, and occasionally a 
group of tall trees sprang up among them, and 
broke the view witii an interference which was far 
from ungraceful — while ivy and other creepers, 
preading forth from large marble vases, had ex- 
..ended over their trunks, and sometimes even in 
their play, had touched their topmost branches. 
Between the terrace and the distant hills extended 
a vast tract of pasture land, green and well wooded 
by its rich hedge-rows ; not a roof was visible, 
though many farms and hamlets were at hand ; and, 
m the heart of a rich and populous land, here was 
a region where the shepherd or the herdsman were 
the only evidences of human existence. It was 
tiiither, a grateful spot at such an hour, that Miss 



Temple and her companion directed their steps. 
The last beam of the sun flashed across the flam- 
ing horizon as they gained the terrace ; the hills, 
well wooded, or presenting a bare and acute out- 
line to the sky, rose sharply defined in form ; while 
in another direction some more distant elevations 
were prevaded with a rich purple tint, touched 
sometimes with a rosy blaze of soft and flickering 
light. The whole scene, indeed, from the humble 
pasture land that was soon to creep into darkness, 
to the proud hills whose sparkling crests were yet 
touched by the living beam, was bathed with lucid 
beauty and luminous softness, and blended with the 
glowing canopy of the lustrous sky. But on the 
terrace, and the groves that rose beyond it, and the 
glades and vistas into which they opened, fell the 
full glory of the sunset. Each moment a new sha- 
dow, now rosy, now golden, now blending in its 
shifting tints all the glory of the iris, fell over the 
rich pleasure-grounds, its groups of rare and noble 
trees, and its dim or glittering avenues. 

The vespers of the birds were faintly dying away, 
the last low of the returning kine sounded over the 
lea, the tinkle of the sheep-bell was heard no more, 
the thin white moon began to gleam, and Hesperus 
glittered in the fading sky. It was the twilight 
hour ! 

That delicious hour that softens the heart of 
man — what is its magic T Not merely its beauty ; 
it is not more beautiful than the sunrise. It is its 
repose. Our tumultuous passions sink with the 
sun ; there is a fine sympathy between us and our 
world, and the stillness of nature is responded to 
by the serenity of the soul. 

At this sacred hour our hearts are pure. All 
worldly cares, all those vulgar anxieties and aspira* 
tions that at other seasons hover like vultures over 
our existence, vanish from the serene atmosphere 
of our susceptibility. A sense of beauty, a senti- 
ment of love pervade our being. But if at such a 
moment solitude is full of joy — if, even when alone, 
our native sensibility suffices to entrance us with a 
tranquil, yet thrilling, bliss — how doubly sweet, 
how multiplied must be our fine emotions, when 
the most delicate influence of human sympathy 
combines with the power and purity of material and 
moral nature, and completes the exquisite and en- 
chanting spell ! 

Ferdinand Armine turned from the beautiful 
world around him, to gaze upon a countenance 
sweeter than the summer air, softer than the gleam- 
ing moon, brighter than the evening star. The 
shadowy light of purple eve fell upon the still and 
solemn presence of Henrietta Temple. Irresistible 
emotion impelled him; softly he took her gentle 
hand, and scarcely winding round her waist his 
trembling arm, he bent his head, and murmured to 
her, " Most beautiful, I love thee !" 

As in the oppressive stillness of some tropic 
night, a single drop is the refreshing harbinger of a 
shower that clears the heavens, so even this slight 
expression relieved in an instant the intensity of 
his o'erburdened feelings, and warm, quick, and 
gushing, flowed the words that breathed his fervid 
adoration. "Yes!" he continued, "in this fair 
scene, O! let me turn to something fairer still. 
Beautiful, beloved Henrietta, I can repress no longer 
the emotions that, since I first beheld you, have 
vanquished my existence. I love you, I adore you, 
life in your society is heaven ; without you I can- 
not live. Deem me, O ! deem me Hot too bold, 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE, 



599 



sweet lady ; I am not worthy of you, yet let me 
love! I am not worthy of you, but who can be? 
Ah ! if I (iared but venture to offer you my heart, 
if indeed that humblest of all possessions might in- 
deed be yours, if my adoration, if my devotion, if 
the consecration of my life to you, might in some 
degree compensate for its little worth, if I might 
live even but to hope 

" You do not speak, my treasure ; my beloved is 
silent. Miss Temple, Henrietta, admirable Henri- 
etta, have I olfendod you? am I indeed the victim 
of hopes too high and fancies too supreme 1 O ! par- 
Jon me, most beautiful, I pray your pardon. Is it a 
crime to feel, perchance too keenly, the sense of 
beauty like to thine, dear lady 1 Ah ! tell me I am 
forgiven ; tell me indeed you do not hate me. I will 
be silent, I will never speak again. Yet, let me 
walk with you. Cease not to be my companion 
because I have been too bold. Pity me, pity me, 
dearest, dearest Henrietta. If you but knew how I 
have suffered, if you but knew the nights that 
brought no sleep, the days of fever, that had been 
mine since first we met; if you but knew how I 
have fed but upon oneswcet idea, one sacred image 
of absorbing life, since first I gazed on your trans- 
cendent form, indeed I think that you would pity, 
that you would pardon, that you might even 

" Tell mo, is it my fault that you arc beautiful? 
! how beautiful, my wretched and exhausted 
soul too surely feels ! Is it my fault those eyes arc 
like the dawn, that thy sweet voice thrills through 
my frame, and but the lightest touch of that light 
hand falls like a spell on my entranced form 1 Ah! 
Henrietta, be merciful, be kind !" 

He paused for a second, and yet she did not 
answer; but her cheek fell upon his shoulder, and 
the gentle pressure of her hand was more eloquent 
than language. That slight sweet signal was to 
him as the sunrise on the misty earth. Full of 
hope, and joy, and confidence, he took her in his 
arms, sealed her cold lips with a burning kiss, and 
vowed to her his eternal and almighty love ' 

He bore her to an old stone bench placed on the 
terrace. Still she was silent : but her hand clasped 
his, and her head rested on his bosom. The gleam- 
ing moon now glittered, the hills and woods were 
silvered by its beams, and the far meads were bathed 
with its clear, fair light. Not a single cloud cur- 
tained the splendour of the stars. What a rapturous 
soul was Ferdinand Armine's as he sat that night 
on the old bench, on Ducia terrace, shrouding from 
the rising breeze the trembling form of Henrietta 
Temple! And yet it was not cold that made her 
shiver. 

The clock of Ducie church struck ten. She 
moved, saying, in a faint voice, "We must go 
home, my Ferdinand !" 



BOOK III, 



CHAPTER I. 
ry WHICH c.vptai.v armine pnovr.s himself a 

COMPLKTE TACTICIAX. 

Tiir. midnight moon flung its broad heams over 
the glades and avenues of Armine, as Ferdinand, 
riding Miss Temple's horse, re-entered the park. 
His countenance was paler than the spectral light 



that guided him on his way. He looked little like 
a pledged and triumphant lover ; but in his con- 
tracted brow and compressed lip might be read the 
determination of his soul. There was no longer a 
contest between poverty and pride, between the 
maintenance or destruction of his ancient house, 
between his old engagement anil his present pas- 
sion ; that was past. Henrietta Temple was the 
light in the Pharos, amid all his stormy fortunes ; 
thither he directed all the energies of his being ; 
and to gain that port, or sink, was his unflinching 
resolution. 

It was deep in the night before he again beheld 
the towers and turrets of his castle, and the ivj'- 
covered fragment of the old Place seemed to sleep 
in peace under its protecting influence. A wild 
and beautiful event had happened since last he 
quitted those ancient walls. And what would be 
its influence upon them? But it is not for the 
passionate lover to moralize. For him, the regrets 
of the past and the chances of the future are alike 
lost in the ravishing and absorbing present. For a 
lover that has just secured the object of his long 
and tumultuous hopes, is as a diver who has plucked 
a jewel from the bed of some rare sea. Panting 
and wild he lies upon the beach, and the gem tiiat 
he clutches is the sole idea that engrosses his ex- 
istence. 

Ferdinand is within his little chamber; that little 
chamber where his mother had bid him so pas- 
sionate a farewell. Ah ! he loves another woman 
better than his mother now ! Nay, even a feeling 
of embarrassment and pain is associated with the 
recollection of that fond and elegant being, that he 
had recognised once as the model of all feminine 
perfection, and who had been to him so gentle an 
so devoted. He drives his mother from his thoughts 
It is of another voice that he now muses ; it is the 
memory of another's glance that touches his eager 
heart. He fiills into a revery ; the passionate past 
is acted again before him; in his glittering eye and 
the rapid play of his features may be traced the 
tumult of his soul. A doubt crosses his brow. Is 
he indeed so happy — is it not all a dream? He 
takes from his bosom the handkerchief of Henrietta 
Temple. He recognises upon it her magical ini- 
tials, worked in her own fine dark hair. A smile 
of triumphant certainty irradiates his countenance, 
as he rapidly presses the memorial to his lins, and 
imprints upon it a thousand kisses ; and, holding 
this cherished testimony of his felicity to his heart, 
sleep at length descended upon the exhausted frame 
of Ferdinand Armine. 

But the night that brought dreams to Ferdinand 
Armine, brought him not visions more marvellous 
and magical than his waking life. He who loves, 
lives in an ecstatic trance. The world that sur- 
rounds him is not the world of working man: it is 
fairyland. He is not of the same order as the 
labouring myriads on which he seems to tread. 
They are to him but a swarm of humble-minded 
and humble-mannered insects. For him, the hu- 
man species is represented by a single individual, 
and of her he makes an idol. All that is bright and 
rare is but invented and devised to adorn and please 
her. Flowers for her were made so sweet and 
birds so musical. All nature seems to bear an in- 
timate relation to the being we adore; and, as to 
us life would now appear intolerable, a burden o. 
insupportable and wearing toil, without this trans- 
cendent sympathy, so we cannot help fancying 



too 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



that were its sweet and subtle origin lierself to quit 
this inspired scene, the universe itself would not 
be unconscious of its deprivation, and somewhat 
of the world's lustre might be missed, even by the 
most callous. 

The morning burst, as beautiful as such love. A 
rosy tint sufi'used the soft and tremulous sky, and 
tinted with a delicate hue the tall trees and the 
wide lawns, freshened with the light and vanishing 
dew. The air was vocal with a thousand songs ; 
ail was bright and clear, cheerful and golden. Fer- 
dinand awoke from delicious dreams, and gazed 
upon the scene that responded to his own bright 
and glad emotions, and inhaled the balmy air, ethe- 
real as his own soul. Love, that can illumine the 
dark hovel and the dismal garret, that sheds a ray 
of enchanting light over the close and busy city, 
seems to mount with a lighter and more glittering 
pinion in an atmosphere as brilliant as its own 
plumes. Fortunate the youth, the romance of 
whose existence is placed in a scene befitting its 
fair and marvellous career ; fortunate the passion 
that is breathed in palaces, amid the ennobling 
creations of surrounding art, and greets the object 
of its fond solicitude amid perfumed gardens, and 
in the shade of green and silent woods ! What- 
ever may be the harsher course of his career, how- 
ever the cold world may cast its dark shadows upon 
Ills future path, he may yet consider himself thrice 
blessed to whom this graceful destiny has fallen, 
and amid the storms and troubles of after-life may 
look back to these hours, fair as the dawn, beautiful 
as the twilight, with solace and satisfaction. Dis- 
appointment may wither up his energies, oppres- 
sion may bruise his spirit ; but balked, daunted, 
deserted, crushed, lone where once all was sym- 
pathy, gloomy where all was light, still he has not 
lived in vain. 

Business, however, rises with the sun. The 
morning brings cares, and, although with rcbraced 
energies and renovated strength then is the season 
that we are best qualified to struggle with the ha- 
rassing brood, still Ferdinand Armine, the involved 
son of a rained race, seldom rose from his couch, 
seldom recalled consciousness after repose, without 
a pang. Nor was there indeed magic withal in the 
sweet spell that now bound him to preserve him 
from this black invasion. Anxiety was one of the 
ingredients of the charm. He might have forgotten 
his own broken fortunes, his audacious and san- 
guine spirit might have built up many a castle for 
the future, as brave as that of Armine; but the very 
inspiring recollection of Henrietta Temple, the very 
remembrance of the past aud triumphant eve, oidy 
the more forced upon his memory the conviction that 
he was, at this moment, engaged also to another, 
and bound to be married to tv\'o women. 

Something must be done; Miss Grandison might 
arrive this very day It was an improbable inci- 
dent, but still it might occur. While he was thus 
musing, his servant brought him his letters, which 
had arrived the preceding- day — letters from his mo- 
ther and Katherine, his Katherine. They brought 
present relief. The invalid had not amended ; 
their movements were still uncertain. Katherine, 
"his own Kate," expressed even a fond faint wish 
that he would return. His resolution was taken 
in an instant. He decided with the prescient 
J'roraptitude of one who has his dearest interests 
at slake. He wrote to Katherine that he would 



instantly fly to her, only that he daily expected hi* 
attendance would be required in town, on military 
business of urgent importance to their happiness. 
This might, this must, necessarily delay their meet- 
ing. The moment he received his summons to 
attend the Horse Guards, he should hurry ofl". In 
the mean time, she was to write to him here ; and 
at all events not to quit Bath for Armine, without 
giving him a notice of several days. Having de- 
spatched this letter, and another to his mother, 
Ferdinand repaired to the tower, to communicate to 
Glastonbury the necessity of his immediate depar- 
ture for London, but he also assured that good old 
man of his brief visit to that city. The pang of 
this unexpected departure was softened by the posi- 
tive promise of returning in a very few days, and 
returning with his family. 

Having made these arrangements, Ferdinand 
now felt that come what might, he had at least se- 
cured for himself a certain period of unbroken 
bliss. He had a faithful servant, an Italian, in 
whose discretion he had justly unlimited confidence. 
To him Ferdinand intrusted the duty of bringing, 
each day, his letters to his retreat, which he had 
fixed upon should be that same picturesque farm- 
house, in whose friendly porch he had found the 
preceding day such a hospitable shelter, and where 
he experienced that charming adventure which now 
rather delighted than perplexed him. 



CHAPTER IL 



A DAT OF LOVE. 



Meanwhile the beautiful Henrietta sat in her 
bower, her music neglected, her drawing thrown 
aside. Even her birds were forgotten and her 
flowers untended. A soft tumult filled her frame : 
now rapt in revery she leaned her head upon her 
fair hand in charmed abstraction ; now rising from 
her restless seat she paced the chamber, and thought 
of his quick coming. What was this mighty re- 
volution that a few short days — a few brief hours 
had occasioned 1 How mysterious, yet how irre- 
sistible — how overwhelming ! Her father was ab- 
sent, that father on whose fond idea she had alone 
lived; from whom the slightest separation had once 
been pain ; and now that father claims not even 
her thoughts. Another and a stranger's image, is 
throned in her soul ! She who had moved in the 
world so variously — who had received so much 
homage, and been accustomed from her childhood 
to all that is considered accomplished and fascinat- 
ing in man, and had passed through the ordeal with 
a calm clear spirit; behold, she is no longer the 
mistress of her thoughts or feelings; she had fallen 
before a glance, and yielded in an instant to a 
burning word ! 

But could she blame herself? Did she repent 
the rapid and ravishing past ? Did regret mingle 
with her wonder 7 Was there a pang of rernoise, 
however slight, blending its sharp tooth with all 
her bliss ? ! no ! Her love was perfect, and her 
jojr was full. She offered her vows to that Heaven 
that had accorded her hap]iiness so supreme; she 
felt only unworthy of a destitiy so complete. She 
marvelled in the meekness and purity of her spirit, 
why one so gifted had been reserved for her, and 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



601 



what he could recognise in imperfect and inferior 
qualities to devote to tliem the fondness of his rare 
existence. 

Ferdinand Armine I Did there indeed ever 
breathe, had the wit of poet ever yet devised, a 
being so choice 1 So young, so beautiful, so Uvely 
and accomplished, so deeply and variously interest- 
ing ! Was that sweet voice, indeed, only to sound 
in her enchanted ear — that graceful form to move 
only for the pleasure of her watchful eyel That 
quick and airy fancy but to create for her delight, 
and that soft, gentle heart, to own no solicitude 
but foi- her will and infinite gratification 1 And 
could it be possible that he loved her, that she was 
indeed his pledged and panting bride, that the 
accents of his adoration still echoed in her ear, and 
his fond embraces .still clung to her mute and 
trembling lips ! Would he always love her ] 
Would he always be so fond ] Would he be as 
faithful as he was now devoted ? Ah ! she would 
not lose him. That heart should never escape her. 
Her life should be one long vigilant device to en- 
chain his being. 

What was she five days past? Is it possible 
that she lived before she met him? Of what did 
she think, what do? Could there be pursuits 
without this companion, plans or feelings without 
this sweet friend ? Life must have been a blank, 
vapid, and dull, and weary. She could not recall 
herself before that morning ride to Armine. How 
rolled away the day ! How heavy must have been 
the hours ! All that had been uttered before she 
listened to Ferdinand seemed without point ; all 
that was done before he lingered at her side aim- 
less and without an object. 

O, Love ! in vain they moralize ; in vain they 
teach us thou art a delusion; in vain they dissect 
thine inspiring sentiment, and would mortify us 
into misery by its degrading analysis. The sage 
may announce that gratified vanity is thine aim 
and end ; the lover glances with contempt at his 
cold-blooded philosophy. Nature assures him thou 
art a beautiful and sublime emotion ; and, he 
answeis, canst thou deprive the sun of its heat 
because its ray may be decomposed ; or does the 
diamond blaze with less splendour because thou 
canst analyze its cfl'ulgence ? 

A gentle rustling sounded at the window ; Hen- 
rietta looked up, but the sight deserted her fiiding 
vision, as Ferdinand seized with softness her softer 
hand, and pressed it to his lips. 

A moment since, and she had longed for his 
presence as the infant for its mother; a moment 
since, and she had murmured that so much of the 
morn had passed without his society; a moment 
since, and it had seemed that no time could exhaust 
the expression of her feelinsis. How she had sighed 
for his coinmg! How she had hoped that this day 
she might convey to him what last night she had 
«o weakly, so imperfectly attempted! j\nd now 
•she sat trembling and silent, with downcast eyes 
luid chansing countenance ! 

" My Henrietta !" exclaimed Ferdinand ; " My 
beautiful Henrietta, it seemed we never should 
meet again, and yet I rose almost with the sun." 

" My Ferdinand," replied Miss Temple, scarcely 
daring to meet his glance, " I cannot speak; I am 
BO happy that I cannot speak." 

"Ah! tell me, sweetest, have you thought of me 
very much ! Did you observe I stole j'our hand- 
76 



kerchief last night ? See ! here it is ; when I slept, 
I kissed it and wore it next my heart." 

" Dear handkerchief! Ah ! give it me, my Fer- 
dinand," she faintly murmured, extending her 
hand ; and then she added, in a firmer and livelier 
tone, " .\nd did he really kiss it! did he really kiss 
it before he slept, and wear it near his heart!" 

" Near thine ; for thine it is, love ! Sweet, you 
look so beautiful to-day ! It seems to me you 
never looked half so fair. Those eyes are so bril- 
liant — so very blue — so like the violet! There is 
nothing like your eyes." 

"Except your own." 

" You have taken away your hand. Give me 
back my hand, my Henrietta. I will not quit it. 
The whole day it shall be clasped in mine. Ah! 
what a hand ! so soft — so very soft ! There is 
nothing like your hand." 

" Yours is as soft, Ferdinand." 

" O ! Henrietta ! I do love you so ! I wish that 
I could tell you how I loved you ! As I rode home 
last night, it seemed that I had not conveyed to you 
a tithe, nay, a thousandth part of what I feel." 

" You cannot love me, Ferdinand, more than I 
love you." 

" Say so again ! Tell me very often — tell me a 
thousand times, how much you love me. Unless 
you tell me a thousand times, Henrietta, I never 
can believe that I am so blessed." 

They went forth into the garden. Nature, with 
the splendid sky and the sweet breeze, seemed to 
smile upon their passion. Henrietta plucked the 
most beautiful flowers, and placed them in his 
breast. 

"Do you remember the rose at Armine?" said 
Ferdinand, with a fond smile. 

" Ah ! who would have believed that it would 
have led to^his !" said Henrietta, with downcast 
eyes. 

" I am not more in love now than I was then," 
said Ferdinand. 

"1 dare not speak of my feelings," said Miss 
Temple. "Is it possible that it can be but five 
days back since we first met! It seems another 
era." 

" I have no recollection of any thing that occur- 
red, before I saw you beneath the cedar," replied 
Ferdinand ; " that is the date of my existence. I 
saw you, and I loved. My love was at once com- 
plete; I have no confidence in any other; I have 
no confidence in the love that is the creature of ob- 
servation, and reflection, and comparison, and cal- 
culation. Love, in my opinion, should spring from 
innate sympathy ; it should be superior to all situa- 
tions, all ties, all circumstances." 

" Such, then, we must believe, is ours," replied 
Henrietta, in a somewhat grave and nmsing tone; 
"I would willingly embrace your creed. I know 
not why I should be ashamed of my feelings. 
They are natural, and they are pure. And yet I 
tremble. But as long as you do not think lightly 
of me, Ferdinand, for whom should I care ?" 

" My Henrietta ! my angel ! my adored and 
beautiful ! I worship you — I reverence you. Ah ! 
my Henrietta, if you only knew how I doat upon 
you, you would not speak thus. Come, let us 
ramble in our woods." 

So saying, he withdrew her from the moie pub- 
lic situation in which they were then placed, and 
entered, by a winding walk, those beautiful b( wers 
3E 



602 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



that had given so fair and fitting a name to Ducie. 
Ah ! that was a ramble of rich delight, as, winding 
his arm round her light waist, he poured into her 
palpitating ear all the eloquence of his passion. 
Each hour that they had known each other was 
analyzed, and the feelings of each moment were 
compared. What sweet and thrilling confessions! 
Eventually it was settled, to the complete satisfac- 
tion of both, that both had fallen in love at the 
same time, and that tliey had been mutually and 
unceasingly thinking of each other from the first 
instant of their meeting. 

The conversation of lovers is inexhaustible. 
Hour glided away after hour, as Ferdinand alter- 
nately expressed his passion and detailed the his- 
tory of his past life. For the curiosity of woman, 
lively at all times, is never so kern, so exacting, 
and so interested, as in her anxiety to become 
acquainted with the previous career of her lover. 
Hhe is jealous of all that he has done before she 
knew him ; of every person to whom he has 
spoken. She will be assured a thousand times 
that he never loved before, yet she credits the first 
affirmation. She envies the mother who knew 
him as a child, even the nurse that may have rocked 
his cradle. She insists upon a minute and finished 
portraiture of his character and life. 

Why did he not give it] More than once it 
was upon his lips to reveal all; more than once he 
was about to pour forth all his sorrows, all the en- 
tanglements of his painful situation; more than 
once he was about to make the full and mortifying 
confession, that, though his heart was hers, there 
existed another, who even at that moment might 
claim the hand that Henrietta clasped with so 
much tenderness. But he checked himself. He 
would not break the charm that surrounded him; 
he would not disturb the clear and brilliant stream 
in which his life was at this moment flowing; he 
had not courage to change by a worldly word the 
scene of celestial enchantment in which he now 
moved and breathed. Let me add, in some degree 
for his justification, that he was not altogether 
unmindful of the feelings of Miss Grandison. Suf- 
ficient misery remained, at all events, for her, with- 
out adding the misery of makin? her rival a confi- 
dant in her mortification. The deed must be 
done, and done promptly ; but, at least, there should 
be no unnecessary witnesses to its harrowing 
achievement. 

So he looked upon the radiant brow of his Hen- 
rietta, wreathed with smiles of innocent triumjih, 
sparkling with unalloyed felicity, and beaming with 
unbroken devotion. Should the shade of a dark 
passion for a moment cloud that heaven, so bright 
and so serene"! Should even a momentary pang 
of jealousy or distrust pain that pure and unsullied 
breast 1 In the midst of contending emotions, he 
jiressed her to his heart with renewed energy, and, 
bending down his head, imprinted an embrace upon 
her blushing forehead. 

They seated themselves on a bank, which, it 
would seem, nature had created for the convenience 
of lovers. The softest moss and the brightest 
flowers decked its elastic and fragrant side. A 
spreading beech tree shaded their heads from the 
sun, which now indeed was on the decline; and 
occasionally its wide branches rustled with the soft 
breeze, that passed over them in renovating and 
gentle gusts. The woods widened before them, 
and, at the termination of a well-contiived avenue, 



they caught the roofs of the village and the tal' 
tower of Ducie Church. They had wandered for 
hours without weariness, yet the repose was grate- 
ful, while they listened to the birds, and plucked 
beautiful wild flowers. 

" Ah ! I remember," said Ferdinand, " that it 
was not far from here, while slumbering indeed in 
the porch of my pretty farmhouse, that the fairy of 
the spot dropped on my breast these beautiful flow 
ers that I now wear. Did you not observe them, 
my sweet Henrietta? Do you know that I am 
rather mortified, that they have not made you at 
least a little jealous!" 

" I am not jealous of fairies, dear Ferdinand." 

" And yet I half believe that you are a fairy, my 
Henrietta." 

" A very substantial one, I fear, my Ferdinand. 
Is this a compliment to my form !" 

"Well, then, a sylvan nymph, much more, I as- 
sure you, to my fancy ; perhaps the rosy dryad ot 
this fair tree; rambling in woods, and bounding 
over commons, scattering beautiful flowers, and 
dreams as bright." 

" And were your dreams bright yesterday morn- 
ing," 

"Idreamt of you." 

"And when you awoke?" 

" I hastened to the source of my inspiration. 

" And if you had not dreamt of me?" 

" I should have come to have inquired the reason 
why." 

Miss Temple looked upon the ground ; a blended 
expression of mirth and sentiment played over her 
features, and then looking up with a smile contend- 
ing with her tearful eye, she hid her face in hia 
breast and murmured, "I watched him sleeping 
Did he indeed dream of me ?" 

" Darling of my existence," exclaimed the en- 
raptured Ferdinand ; " exquisite, enchanting being! 
Why am I so happy ? What have I done to de- 
serve bliss so inefiable ? But tell me, beauty, tell 
me how you contrived to appear and vanish with- 
out witnesses. For my inquiries were severe, and 
these good people must have been less artless than 
I imagined to have withstood them successfully." 

" I came," said Miss Temple, " to pay them a 
visit, with me not uncommon. When I entered 
the porch I beheld my Ferdinand asleep. I looked 
upon him for a moment, but I was frightened and 
stole away unperceived. But I left the flowers 
more fortunate than your Henrietta!" 

" Sweet love !" 

" Never did I return home," continued Miss Tem- 
ple, " more sad and more dispirited. A thousand 
times I wish that I was a flower, that I might be 
gathered and worn upon your heart. You smile, 
my Ferdinand. Indeed I feel I am very foolish, 
yet I know not why, I am now neither ashamed 
nor afraid to tell you any thing. I was so misera- 
ble when I arrived home, my Ferdinand, that I 
went to mv room and wept. And he then came ! 
O ! what heaven was mine ! I wiped the tears fron? 
my face and came down to see him. He looked so 
beautiful and happy !" 

"And you, sweet child, O! who could have be- 
lieved, at that moment, that a tear had escaped from 
those bright eyes !" 

" Love makes us hypocrites, I fear, my Ferdi- 
nand ; for a moment before I was so wearied that I 
was lying on my sofo quite wretched. And then, 
when I saw him, I pretended that I had not been 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



G03 



out, and was just thinkin<3r of a stroll. ! my 
Ferdinand I will you pardon me?" 

" It seems to me that I never loved you until this 
moment. Is it possible that human beings ever 
loved each other as we do?" 

Now came the hour of twilight. While in this 
fond strain the lovers interchaiiijcd their hearts, the 
sun had sunk, tiie birds grown silent, and the star 
of evening twinkled over the tower of Ducie. The 
bat and the beetle warned them to return. They 
rose reluctantly and retraced their steps to Ducie, 
with hearts even softer than the melting hour. 

"Must we then part?" exclaimed Ferdinand. 
"0 ! must we part? How can I exist even an in- 
stant without your presence, without at least the 
consciousness of existing under the same roof? O ! 
would I were one of your serving-men, to listen to 
your footstep, to obey your bell, and ever and anon 
to catch your voice! O! now I wish indeed Mr. 
Temple were here, and then I might be your 
guest." 

" My father!" exclaimed Miss Temple, in a some- 
what serious tone. "My poor father! I ought to 
have written to him to-day ! Why have I not ? 
O ! talk not of my father, speak only of yourself." 

They stood in silence as they were about to 
emerge upon the lawn, and then Miss Temple said, 
"Dear Ferdinand, you must go; indeed you must. 
Press me not to enter, darling. If you love me, now- 
let us part. I shall retire immediately, that the 
morning may sooner come. God bless j-ou, my 
Ferdinand. May he guard over you, and keep you 
forever and ever. Sweet, sweet love, you weep! 
Indeed you must not; you will drive me mad if 
you do this. Ferdinand, darling, darling Ferdi- 
nand, be good, be kind ; for my sake do not this. I 
love you, sweetest ; what can I do more ? The 
time will come we will not part, but now we must. 
Good night, my Ferdinand ; good night, idol of my 
soul ! Nay, if you will, these lips indeed are yours. 
Promise me you will not remain here. Well, then, 
when the light is out in my chamber, leave Dncic. 
Promise me this, sweet, and early to-morrow, earlier 
than you think, I will pay a visit to your cottage. 
Now, sweet, be good, and to-morrow we will break- 
fast together. There, now !" she added in a gay 
tone, "you see woman's wit has the advantage." 
And so without another word she ran away. 



CHAPTER III. 

WHICH OS THE WUOLE IS FOUND VERY CON- 
SOLING. 

The separation of lovers, even with an immediate 
pros])ect of uniiin, involves a sentiment of deep 
melancholy. The reaction of our solitary emotions, 
after a social impulse of such peculiar excitement, 
very much disheartens and depresses us. Mutual 
passion is complete sympathy. Under such an in- 
iluence there is no feeling so strong, no fancy so 
delicate, that it is not instantly responded to. Our 
heart has no secrets, though our life may. Under 
such an influence, each unconsciously labours to en- 
chant the other; each struggles to maintain the 
reality of that ideal, which has heen reached in a 
moment of happy inspiration. Then is the season 
when the voice is ever soft, the eye ever bright, 
and every movement of the frame airy and pictur- 
esque ; each accent is full of tenderness, each glance 



of affection, each gesture of grace. We live in a 
heaven of our own creation. All happens that can 
contribute to our perfect satisfaction, and can insure 
our comi)lete self-complacency. We give and we 
receive felicity. We adore and we are adored. 
Love is the May-day of the heart. 

But a cloud nevertheless will dim the genial lus- 
tre of that soft and brilliant sky, when we are alone; 
when the soft voice no longer sighs, and the bright 
eye no longer beams, and the form we worship no 
longer moves befure our enraptured vision. Our hap- 
piness becomes too much the result of reflection. 
Our faith is not less devout, but it is not so fervent. 
We believe in the miracle, but we no longer witness it. 

And as the light was extinguished in the cham- 
ber of Henrietta Temple, Ferdinand Armine felt 
for a moment as if his sun had set forever. There 
seemed to be now no evidence of her existence. 
Would t j-morrow ever come? And if it came, 
would the rosy hours indeed bring her in their ra- 
diant car? What if this night she died? He shud- 
dered at this wild imagination. Yet it might be; 
such direful calamities had been. And now he felt 
his life was involved in hers, and that under such 
circumstances his instant death must complete the 
catastrophe. There was then much at stake. Had 
it been yet his glorious privilege that her fair cheek 
should have found a pillow on his heart; could ho 
have been permitted to have rested without her door 
but as her guard; even if the same roof at any dis- 
tance had screened both their heads; such daik 
conceptions would not perhaps have risen up to 
torture him ; but as it was, they haunted him like 
evil spirits as he took his lonely way over the com- 
mon to gain his new abode. 

Ah! the morning came, and such a morn! 
Bright as his love! Ferdinand had passed a 
dreamy night, and when he woke he could not at 
first recognise the locality. It was not Armine. 
Could it be Ducie ? As he stretched his limbs and 
rubbed his eyes, he might be excused for a momcnc 
fancying that all the happiness of yesterday was 
indeed a vision. He was, in truth, sorely perplex- 
ed, as he looked around the neat but humble cham- 
ber, and caught the first beam of the sun struggling 
through a casement shadowed by the jessamine. 
But on his heart there rested a curl of dark and 
flowing hair, and held together by that very tur- 
quoise of which he fancied he had been dreaming. 
Happy, happy Ferdinand ! Why shouldst thou 
have cares ! and may not the course even of thy 
true love run smooth ? 

He recks not of the future ! .What is the future 
to one so blessed ? The sun is up, the lark is sing- 
ing, the sky is bluer than the loved jewel at his 
heart. She will be here soon. No gloomy images 
disturb him now. Cheerfulness is the dowry of tho 
dawn. 

Will she indeed be here ? Will Henrietta Tem- 
ple indeed come to visit him ? Will that consum- 
mate being before whom, but a few days back, ha 
stood entranced — to whose mind the very idea of 
his existence had not then even occurred — will she 
be here anon to visit him ? to visit her beloved ! 
What has he done to be so happy ? What fairy 
has touched him and his dark fortunes with her 
wand ? What talisman does he grasp to call up 
such bright adventures of existence. He does not 
err. He is an enchanted being: a s[)cll indeed 
pervades his frame ; he moves in truth in a world 
of marvels and miracles. For what fairy has a wand 



6G4 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



like love, what talisman can achieve the deeds of 
passion. 

He quitted the rustic porch, and strolled up the 
Jane that led to Ducie. He started at a sound ; it 
was but the spring of a wandering bird. Then the 
murmur of a distant wheel turned him pale ; and he 
stopped and leaned on a neighbouring gate with a 
panting heart. Was she at hand 1 There is not 
a moment when the heart palpitates with such deli- 
cate suspense as when we await our mistress in 
the spring days of our passion. Man watching the 
sunrise from the mountain, awaits not an incident 
to him more beautiful ; more genial, and more im- 
pressive. With her presence it would seem that 
both light and heat fall at the same time upon our 
heart; our emotions are warm and sunny, that a 
moment ago seemed dim and frigid; a thrilling 
sense of joy pervades our frame ; the air is sweeter, 
and our ears seem to echo with the music of a thou- 
sand birds. 

The sound of the approaching wheel became 
more audible; it drew near, nearer; but lost the 
delicacy that distance lent it. Alas ! it did not 
propel the car of a fairy, or the chariot of a heroine, 
but a cart, whose taxed springs bowed beneath the 
portly form of an honest yeoman, who gave Captain 
Armine a cheerful good-morrow as he jogged by, 
and flanked his jolly whip with unmerciful dexte- 
rity. The loudness of the unexpected salute, the 
crack of the echoing thong, shook the fine nerves 
of a fanciful lover, and Ferdinand looked so con- 
fused, that if the honest yeoman had only stopped 
to observe him, tlie passenger might have really 
been excused for mistaking him for a poacher, at the 
least, by his guilty countenance. 

This little worldly interruption broke the wings 
of Ferdinand's soaring fancy. He fell to earth. 
Doubt came over him whether Henrietta would in- 
deed come. He was disappointed, and so he became 
distrustful. He strolled on, however, in the direc- 
tion of Ducie, yet slowly, as there was more than 
one road, and to miss each other would have been 
mortifying. His quick eye was in every quarter; 
nis watchful ear listened in every direction; still 
she was not seen, and not a sound was heard except 
the hum of day. He became nervous, agitated, and 
began to conjure up a crowd of unfortunate inci- 
dents. — Perhaps she was ill ; that was very bad. — 
Perhaps her father had suddenly returned. Was 
that worse 1 Perhaps something strange had hap- 
pened. — Perhaps — 

Why ! why does his face turn so pale, and why 
is his step so suddenly arrested 1 Ah ! Ferdinand 
Armine, is not thy 'conscience clear"! That pang 
was sharp. No, no, it is impossible ; clearly, ab- 
solutely impossible ; this is weak, indeed. See ! 
he smiles! He smiles at his weakness. He waves 
his arm as if in contempt. He casts away, with 
defiance, his idle apprehensions. His step is more 
assured, and the colour returns to his check. And 
yet her father must return. Was he prepared for 
that occurrence 1 This was a searching question. 
It induced a long, dark train of harassing recollec- 
tions. He stopped to ponder. In what a web of 
circumstances was he now involved ! Howsoever 
he might act, self-extrication appeared impossible. 
Perfect candour to Miss Temple might be the de- 
struction of her love ; even modified to her father, 
would certainly produce his banishment from Ducie. 
As the betrothed of Miss Grandison, Miss Temple 



would abjure him ; as the lover of Miss Temple, 
under any circumstances, Mr. Temple would reject 
him. In what light would he appear to Henrietta 
were he to dare to reveal the truth 1 Would sha 
not look upon him as the unresisting libertine ot 
the hour, engaging in levity her heart, as he had 
already trifled with another's 1 For that absorbing 
and overwhelming passion, pure, primitive, and 
profound, to which she now responded with an 
enthusiasm as fresh, as ardent, and as immaculate; 
she would only recognise the fleeting fancy of a 
vain and worldly spirit, eager to add another tri- 
umph to a long list of conquests, and proud of 
another evidence of his irresistible iiiflucnce. What 
security was there for her that she too should not 
in turn be forgotten for another 1 that another eye 
should not shine brighter than hers, and another 
voice sound to his ear vvith a sweeter tone 1 O, 
no! he dared not disturb and sully tb.e bright flower 
of his present existence ; he shrank from the fatal 
word that would dissolve the spell that enchanted 
them, and introduce all the calculating cares of a 
harsh world into the thoughtless Eden in which 
they now wandered. And, for her father, even if 
the sad engagement with Miss Grandison did not 
exist, with what front could Ferdinand solicit the 
hand of his daughter 1 Vv^hat prospect could he 
hold out of worldly prosperity to the anxious con 
sideration of a parent ? V/as he himself inde- 
pendent ] Was he not worse than a beggar t 
Could he refer Mr. Temple to Sir Ratcliffe 1 Alas ! 
it would be an insult to both ! In the mean time, 
every hour, Mr. Temple might return, or something 
reach the ear of Henrietta fatal to all his aspira- 
tions. Armine, with all its cares, Bath, with all its 
hopes ; his melancholy father, his fond and san- 
guine mother, the tender-hearted Kalherine, tha 
devoted Glastonbury, all rose up before him, and 
crowded on his tortured imagination. In the agony 
of his mind he v\ished himself alone in the world" 
he sighed for some earthquake to swallow up Ar 
mine and all its fatal fortunes ; and as for those 
parents, so affectionate and virtuous, and to whom 
he had hitherto been so dutiful and devoted, he 
turned from their idea with a sensation of weari- 
ness, almost of hatred. 

He sat down on the trunk of a tree and buried 
his face with his hands. His revery had lasted 
some time, when a gentle sound disturbed him. 
He looked up ; it was Henrietta. She had driven 
over the common in her pony-chaise, and unat- 
tended. She was but a few steps from him ; and, 
as he looked up, he caught her fond smile. He 
sprang from his seat ; he was at her side in an in- 
stant ; his heart beat so tumultuously, that he could 
not speak ; all dark thoughts were forgotten ; he 
seized with a trembling touch her extended hand, 
and gazed upon her with a glance of ecstasy. For, 
indeed, she looked so beautiful, that it seemed to 
him he had never before done justice to her sur- 
passing loveliness. There was a bloom upon her 
check, as upon some choice and delicate fruit ; her 
violet eyes sparkled like gems; while the dimples 
played and quivered on her cheeks ; as you jnay 
sometimes watch the sunbeam on the pure sur- 
focc of fair water. Her countenance, indeed, was 
wreathed with smiles. She seemed the happiest 
thing on earth ; the very personification of a ])oetic 
spring; lively, and fresli, and innocent; sparkling, 
and sweet, and soft. When he beheld her, Ferdi- 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



605 



nand was reminded of some gay bird, or airy ante- 
lope ; she looked so bright and joyous ! 

" Ilf is to get in," said Henrietta, with a smile, 
" and drive her to their cottage. Have I not ma- 
naged well to come alone 1 We shall have such a 
charming drive to-day." 

"You are so beautiful," murmured Ferdinand. 

"I am content if you but think so. You did 
not hear me a|)proach 1 Wliat were you doing ] 
Plunged in meditation] Now tell me truly, were 
you thinking of her?" 

'• Indeed, I have no other thought. O, my Hen- 
rietta ! you are so beautiful to-day. I cannot talk 
of any thing but your beauty." 

"And how did you sleep? Are you comfortable? 
I must see your room. I have brought you some 
flowers to make it pretty." 

They soon reached the farmhouse. The good- 
wife seemed a little surprised when she observed 
her guest driving Miss Temple, but far more pleased. 
Henrietta ran into the house to see the children, 
spoke some kind words to the little maiden, and 
fisked if their guest had breakfisted. Then, turn- 
ing to Ferdinand, she said, " Have you forgot that 
you are to give me a breakfast? It shall be in the 
porch. Is it not sweet and pretty ? See, here 
are your flowers, and I have brought you some 
fruit'" 

The breakfast was arranged. Miss Temple 
made tea for Ferdinand, and prepared every 
tiling for hini. "But you do not play your 
part, sweet Henrietta," he said ; "I cannot breakfast 
alone." 

She affected to share his repast, that he might 
partake of it; but, in truth, she only busied herself 
in arranging the (lowers. Yet she conducted her- 
self with so much dexterity, that Ferdinand had 
the opportunity of gratifying his appetite, without 
being placed in a position, awkward at all times, 
insufferable for a lover, that of eating in the pre- 
sence of others who do not join you in the occupa- 
tion. 

" Now," she suddenly said, sitting by his side, 
and placing a rose in his dress, " I have a little plan 
to-day, which I think will be quite delightful. You 
shall drive her to Armine." 

Ferdinand started. He thought of Glastonbury. 
His miserable situation recurred to him. This 
was the bitter drop in the cup ; yes ! in the very 
plenitude of his rare felicity he experienced a pang. 
His confusion was not unobserved by Miss Tem- 
ple; for she was very quick in her perception; but 
she could not comprehend it. It did not rest on 
her mind, particularly when Ferdinand assented to 
her proposition, but added, " I forgot that Armine 
is more interesting to you than to me. All my 
associations with Armine are painful. Ducie is 
my delight." 

'• Ah ! my romance is at Armine ; yours at 
Diicie. "What we live among, we do not always 
value. And yet I love my home," she added, in a 
fiomewhat subdued, even serious tone ; " all my 
a.ssipciations with Ducie arc sweet and pleasant. 
Will they always be so?" 

She hit upon a key to which the passing thoughts 
of Ferdinand too completely responded ; but he 
restrained the mood of his mind. As he grew 
grave, he affected cheerfulness. " My Henrietta 
must always be happy," he said, "at least, if her 
Ferdinand's love can make her so." 



She did not reply, but she pressed his hand. 
Then, after a moment's silence, she said, "My 
Ferdinand must not be low-spirited ahout dear 
Armine. I have confidence in our destiny, sweet; 
I see a happy, a very happy future." 

W'ho could resist so fair a prophet ? Not the 
sanguine mind of the enamoured Ferdinand Ar- 
mine. He drank inspiration from her smiles, and 
dwelt with delight on the tender accents of her 
animating sympathy. "I never shall be low- 
spirited with you, my beloved," he replied; "you 
are my good genius. O ! Henrietta ! what heaven 
it is to be together !" 

" Darling ! I bless you for these words. We 
will not go to Armine to-day. Let us walk. And 
to speak the truth — for I am not ashamed of say- 
ing any thing to you — it would be hardly discreet, 
perhaps, to be driving about the country in this 
guise. And yet," she added, after a moment's he- 
sitation, "what care I for what people say? O! 
Ferdinand, I think only of you !" 

That was a delicious ramble which these young 
and enamoured creatures took that sunny morn ! 
The air was sweet, the earth was beautiful, and yet 
they were insensible to every thing but their 
mutual love. Inexhaustible is the converse of 
fond hearts ! A simple story, too, and yet there 
are so many ways of telling it ! " How strange 
that we should have ever met !" said Henrietta 
Temple. 

" Indeed, I think it most natural," said Ferdi- 
nand, " I will believe it the fulfilment of a happy 
destiny. For all that I have sighed for now I meet, 
and more, much more than my imagination could 
ever hope for!" 

" Only think of that morning drive," resumed 
Henrietta, " such a little time ago, and yet it seems 
an age! Let us believe in destiny, sweet Ferdi- 
nand, or you must think of me, I fear, that which 
I would not wish." 

" My darling, darling Henrietta, I can think of 
you only as the noblest and the sweetest of beings 
My love is ever equalled by my gratitude!" 

" Sweet Ferdinand, I had read of such feelings, 
but did not believe in them. I did not believe, at 
least, that they were reserved for me. And yet I 
have met many persons, and seen something more, 
much more than falls to the lot of women of my 
age. Believe me, indeed, my Ferdinand, my eye 
has hitherto been undazzled, and my heart un- 
touched." 

He pressed her hand. 

"And then," she resumed, "in a moment — !iut 
it seemed not like a common life. That beautiful 
wilderness, that ruinous castle! As I gazed around 
me, I felt not as is my custom. I felt as if some 
fate were impending, as if my life and lot were 
bound up, as it were, with that strange and silent 
scene. And then he came forward, and I beheld 
him so unlike all other men — so beautiful, so pen- 
sive ! O ! my Ferdinand, pardon me for loving 
you!" and she gently turned her head, and hid her 
face on his breast. 

"Darling, darling Henrietta," lowly breathed the 
enraptured lover, " best, and sweetest, and loveliest 
of women, your Ferdinand, at that moment, w.is 
not less moved than you were. Sjieechless and 
pale I had watched my Henrietta, and I felt that I 
beheld the being to whom I must dedicate my ex- 
istence." 

3E2 



606 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" O ! I shall never forget the moment when I 
stood before the portrait of Sir Ferdinand and 
recognised my child. Do you know my heart was 
prophetic; I wanted not that confirmation of a 
strange conjecture. I felt that you must be an 
Armine. I had heard so much of your grandfather, 
so much of your family. I loved them for their 
glory, and for their lordly sorrows." 

"Ah! my Henrietta, 'tis that alone that galls 
me. It is bitter to introduce my bride to our house 
of cares," 

" You shall never^ think it so," she replied with 
animation. "I will prove a true Armine. Hap- 
pier in the honour of that name, than in the most 
rich possessions ! O ! my Ferdinand, you do not 
know me yet. Your wife shall not disgrace you 
or your lineage. I have a spirit worthy of you, 
Ferdinand; at least, I dare to hope so. I can 
break, but I will not bend. We will wrestle to- 
gether with all our cares; and my Ferdinand, ani- 
mated by his Henrietta, shall restore the house." 

"Alas! my noble-minded girl, I fear a severe 
trial awaits us. I can offer you only love." 

"Is there any thing else in this world?" 

" But, to bear you from a roof of luxury, where 
you have been cherished from your cradle, with all 
that ministers to the delicate delights of woman, 
to — ! my Henrietta, you know not the disheart- 
ening and depressing burden of domestic cares." 
His voice faltered as he recalled his melancholy 
father; and the disappointment, perhaps the de- 
struction, that his passion was preparing for his 
roof. 

" There shall be no cares, my Ferdinand ; I will 
endure every thing; I will animate all. I have 
energy; indeed I have, my Ferdinand. I have, 
young as I may be, I have often inspirited, often 
urged on my father. Sometimes, he says, that had 
it not been for me, he would not have been what 
he is. He is my father, the best and kindest parent 
that ever loved his child ; yet, what are fothers to 
you, my Ferdinand ; and, if I could assist him, 
what may I not do for — " 

"Alas! my Henrietta, we have no theatre for 
action. You forget our creed." 

" It was the great Sir Ferdinand's. He made a 
theatre." 

" My Henrietta is ambitious," said Ferdinand, 
smiling. 

" Dearest, I would be content — nay ! that is a 
weak phrase — I would, if the choice were in my 
power now to select a life most grateful to my 
views and feelings, choose some delightful solitude, 
even as Armine, and pass existence with no other 
aim but to delight my Ferdinand. But we were 
speaking of other circumstances. Such hapj)incss, 
it is said, is not for us. And I wished to show yon 
that I have a spirit that can struggle with adversity, 
and a soul prescient of overwhelming it." 

" You have a spirit I reverence, and a soul I wor- 
ship, nor is there a happier being in the world than 
Ferdinand Armine. With such a woman as you 
every fate must be a triumph. You have touched, 
my darling, upon a chord of my heart that has 
sounded before, though in solitude. It was but the 
wind that played on it before ; but now that tone 
rings with a purpose. This is glorious sympathy. 
Let us leave Armine to its fate. I have a sword, 
and it shall go hard if I do not carve out a destiny 
worthy even of Henrietta Temple." 



CHAPTER IV. 

henhietta visits aumine, which ieads to ▲ 
hather perplexing encounter. 

The communion of this day, of the spirit of 
which the conversation just noticed may convey an 
intimation, produced a very inspiriting effect on 
the mind of Ferdinand. Love is inspiration ; it 
encourages to great deeds, and developes the crea- 
tive faculty of our nature. Few great men have 
flourished, who, were they to be candid, would not 
acknowledge the vast advantages they have expe- 
rienced in the earlier years of their career from the 
spirit and sympathy of woman. It is woman 
whose prescient admiration strings the lyre of the 
desponding poet, whose genius is afterwards to be 
recognised by his race, and which often embalms 
the memory of the gentle mistress whose kindness 
solaced him in less glorious hours. How many an 
official portfolio would never have been carried, 
had it not been for her sanguine spirit and assidu- 
ous love ! How many a depressed and despairing 
advocate has clutched the Great Seal, and taken his 
precedence before princes, borne onv/ard by the 
breeze of her inspiring hope, and illumined by the 
sunshine of her prophetic smile! A female friend, 
amiable, clever, and devoted, is a possession more 
valuable than parks and palaces ; and, without 
such a muse, few men can succeed in life — none 
be content. 

The plans and aspirations of Henrietta Temple 
had relieved Ferdinand from a depressing burden. 
Inspired by her creative sympathy, a new scene 
opened to him, adorned by a magnificent perspec- 
tive. His sanguine imagination sought refuge in 
a triumphant future. That love for which he had 
hitherto schooled his mind to sacrifice every worldly 
advantage, appeared suddenly to be transformed 
into the very source of earthly success. Henrietta 
Temple was to be the fountain, not only of his 
bliss, but of his prosperity. In the revel of his au- 
dacious fancy he seemed, as it were, by a beautiful 
retribution, to be already rewarded for having 
devoted, vsith such unhesitating readiness, his heart 
upon the altar of disinterested aflection. Lying on 
his cottage couch, he indulged in dazzling visions; 
he wandered in strange lands with his beautiful 
companion, and offered at her feet the quick re- 
wards of his unparalleled achievements. 

Kccurring to his immediate situation, he resolved 
to lose no time in bringing his affairs to a crisis. 
He was even working himself up to his instant 
departure, solaced by the certainty of his immediato 
return, when the arrival of his servant announced 
to him that Glastonbury had quitted Armine ou 
one of those antiquarian rambles to which he was 
accustomed. Gratified that it was now in his 
power to comply with the wish of Henrietta to visit 
his home, and perhaps, in truih, not very much 
mortified that so reasonable an excuse had arisen 
for the postponement of his intended departure, 
Ferdinand instantly rose, and as speedily as possi- 
ble took his way to Diicic. * 

He found Henrietta in the garden. He had 
arrived, perhaps, earlier than he was expected ; yet 
what joy to see him. And, when he himself pro- 
p)Osed an excursion to Armine. her grateful smile 
melted his very heart. Indeed, Ferdinand this 
morning was so gay and light-hearted, thai his 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



607 



excessive nierriment might almost have been a| 
suspicious as his passing gloom the previous day. 
Not less tender and fond than before, his sportive 
fancy indulged in infniite expressions of playful 
humour, and delicate pranks of love. When he 
first recognised her, gatliering a nosegay, too, for 
him, himself unobserved, he stole behind her on 
tiptoe, and sutidcniy clasping her delicate waist, and 
raisinc: her gently in the air, " Well, lady-bird," he 
exclaimed, "I too will pluck a flower!" 

Ah! when she turned round her beautiful face, 
full of charminc; confusion, and uttered a faint cry 
of fond astonishment, as she caught his bright 
glance, what happiness was Ferdinand Armine's, 
as he felt this enchanting creature was his, and 
pressed to his bosom her noble and throbbing 
form! 

" Perhaps this time next year, we may be travel- 
ling on mules, love," said Ferdinand, as he flou- 
rished his whip, and the little pony trotted along. 
Henrietta smiled. "And then," continued he, "we 
shall remember our pony-chaise, that we turn up 
our noses at now. Donna Henrietta, jogged to 
death over dull vegas, and picking her way across 
rocky sierras, will be a very different person to Miss 
Temple, of Ducic Bower. I hope you will not be 
very irritable, my child ; and pray vent your spleen 
upon your muleteer, and not upon your husband." 

" Now, Ferdinand, how can you be so ridicu- 
lous!" 

" ! I have no doubt I shall have to bear all the 
blame. ' You brought me here,' it will be, ' un- 
grateful man, is this your love ? not even post- 
horses !' " 

" As for that," said Henrietta, " perhaps we shall 
have to walk. I can fancy ourselves — you with 
an Andalusian jacket, a long gun, and, I fear, a 
cigar; and I with all the baggage." 

" Children and all," added Ferdinand. 

Miss Temple looked somewhat demure, turned 
away her face a little, but said nothing. 

"But what think you of Vienna, sweetestl" 
inquired Ferdinand, in a more serious tone; "upon 
my honour I think we might do great things there. 
A regiment and a chamberlainsiiip at the least !" 

" In mountains or in cities I shall be alike 
content, provided Ferdinand be my companion," 
replied Miss Temple. 

Ferdinand let go the reins, and dropped his 
whip. " My darling, darling Henrietta," he ex- 
claimed, looking in her face, "what an angel you 
are!" 

This visit to Armine was so delightful to Miss 
Temple, — she experienced so much gratification in 
wandering about the park, and over the old castle, 
and gazing on Glastonbury's tower, and wondering 
when she should see him, and lalkinc: fo her Fcr 
dinand about every member of his family, — that 
Captain Armine, unable to withstand the irresisti- 
ble current, postponed from d.ay to day his decisive 
visit to Bath, and, confident in the future, would 
not permit his soul to be the least daunted by any 
possi!)le conjuncture of ill-f )rtune. A week, a whole 
happy week glided awav. and spent almost entirely 
at Armine. 'I'heir presence there was scarcely no- 
ticed by the single female servant who remained ; 
and, if her curiosity had been excited, she possessed 
no power of communicating it into Somersetshire. 
Besides, she was unaware that her young master 
was nominally in liOndon. Sometimes an hour 
Was snatched by Henrietta from roaming in the 



plaisance, and interchanging vows of mutual love 
and admiration, to the picture gallery, where she 
had already commenced a miniature copy of the 
portrait of the great Sir Ferdinand. As the sun 
set they departed in their little equipage. Ferdi- 
nand wrapped his Henrietta in his fur cloak, for 
the autumn dews began to rise, and, thus protected, 
the journey often miles was ever found too short. 
It is the habit of lovers, however innocent their pas- 
sion, to grow every day less discreet ; for every day 
their almost constant companionship becomes more 
a necessity. Miss Temple had almost unconscious- 
ly contrived at first tliat Cajjtain Armine, in the 
absence of her father, should not be observed too 
often at Ducie; but now Ferdinand drove her home 
every evening, and drank tea at the Bower,and the 
evening closed with music and song. Each night 
he crossed over the common to his farmhouse more 
fondly and devotedly in love. 

One morning at Armine, Henrietta being alone 
in the gallery busied with her drawing, Ferdinand 
having left her for a moment to execute some light 
commission for her, she heard someone enter, and, 
looking up to catch his glance of love, she beheld 
a venerable man, of a very mild and benignant ap- 
pearance, and dressed in black, standing, as if a 
little surprised, at some distance. Herself not less 
confu.sed, she nevertheless bowed, and the gentle- 
man advanced with hesitation, and with a faint 
blush returned her salute, and apologized for his 
intrusion. " He thought Captain Armine might be 
there." 

" He was here but this moment," replied Miss 
Temple ; " and doubtless will instantly return." 
Then she turned to her drawing with a trembling 
hand. 

" I perceive, madam," said the gentleman, ad- 
vancing and speaking in a very soft and engaging 
tone, while looking at her labour with a mingled air 
of diffidence and admiration, " that you are a very 
fine artist." 

" My wish to excel may have assisted my per- 
formance," replied Miss Temple. 

" You are copying the portrait of a very extraor- 
dinary personage," said the stranger. 

" Do you think that it is like Captain Armine 1" 
inquired Miss Temple, with some hesitation. 

" It is always so considered," replied the stranger 

Henrietta's hand faltered ; she looked at the 
door of the gallery, then at the portrait ; never 
was she yet so anxious for the reappearance of 
Ferdinand. There was a silence wliich she was 
compelled to break, for the stranger was both mute 
and motionless, and scarcely more assured than 
herself. 

" Captain Armine will be here immediately, I 
have no doubt." 

The stranger bowed. " If I might presume to 
criticise so finished a performance," he remarked, 
"I should say that you had conveyed, madam, 
a more youthful character than the original pre- 
sents." 

Henrietta did not venture to confess that such 

was her intention. She looked again at the door, 

mixed some colour, then cleared it iumiediately ofl 

' her palette. " What a beautiful gallery is this !" 

1 she exclaimed, as she changed her brush, which 

I was, however, without a fault. 

" It is worthy of Armine," said the stranger 

" Indeed there is no place so interesting, saiJ 
Miss Temple. 



60S 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



"It pleases me to hear it praised," said the 
stranger. 

" You are well acquainted with it?" inquired 
Miss Temple. 

" I have the happiness to hve here," said the 
stranger. 

" I am not then mistaken in believing that I 
speak to Mr. Glastonbury." 

"Indeed, madam, that is my name," replied the 
gentleman ; " I fancy we have often heard of each 
other. This is a most unexpected meeting, madam, 
but for that reason not less delightful. I have my- 
self just returned from a ramble of some days, and 
entered the gallery little aware that the family had 
arrived. You met, I suppose, my Ferdinand on 
the road. Ah ! you wonder, perhaps, at my fami- 
liar expression, madam. He has been my Ferdi- 
nand so many years, that I cannot easily school 
myself no longer to style him so. But I am aware 
that there are now other claims — " 

" My dearest Glastonbury," exclaimed Ferdi- 
nand Armine, starting as he re-entered the gallery, 
and truly in as great a fright as a man could well 
be, who, perhaps, but a few hours ago, was to con- 
quer in Spain or Germany. At the same time, pale 
and eager, and talking with excited rapidity, he 
embraced his tutor, and scrutinized the countenance 
of Henrietta to ascertain whether his fatal secret 
had been discovered. That countenance was fond, 
and, if not calm, not more confused than the un- 
expected appearance under the circumstances might 
account for. " You have often heard me mention 
Mr. Glastonbury," he said, addressing himself to 
Henrietta. " Let me now have the pleasure of 
making you acquainted. My oldest, my best friend, 
my second father — an admirable artist, too, I can 
assure you. He is qualified to decide even upon 
your skill. And when did you arrive, my dearest 
friend 1 and where have you been 1 Our old 
haunts, our old haunts? Many sketches, many 
sketches ? What abbey have you explored, what 
antique treasure have you discovered 1 I have 
such a fine addition for your herbal ! The Barbary 
cactus, just what you wanted ; I found it in my 
volume of Shelley ; and beautifully dried— beauti- 
fully ; it will quite charm you. What do you 
think of this drawing 1 Is it not beautiful ? quite 
the character, is it not?" — ■ 
lack of breath. 

" I was just observing as you entered," said Glas- 
tonbury, very quietly, "to Miss — " 

" I have several letters for you," said Ferdinand, 
interrupting him, and trembling from head to foot 
lest he might say Miss Grandison. " Do you know 
that you are just the person I wanted to see ? How 
fortunate that you should just arrive ! I was so 
annoyed to find you were away. I cannot tell you 
how much I was annoyed." 

"Your dear parents?" inquired Glastonbury. 
"Are quite well," said Ferdinand, "perfectly 
well. They will be so glad to see you — so very glad. 
They do so long to see you, my dearest Glaston- 
bury. You cannot imagine how they long to see 
you." 

"I shall find them within, think you?" inquired 
Glastonbury. 

" O .' they are not here," said Ferdinand ; " they 
have not yet arrived. I expect them every day. 
Every day I expect them. I have prepared every 
thing for them— every thing. What a wonderful 
autumn it has been !" 



And Glastonbury fell into the lure, and talked 
"about the weather, for he was learned in the sea- 
sons, and prophesied by many circumstances a hard 
winter. While he was thus conversing, Ferdinand 
extracted from Henrietta that Glastonbury had not 
been in the gallery more than a very few minutes ; 
and he felt assured that nothing very fatal had 
transpired. All this time Ferdinand was review- 
ing his painful situation with desperate rapidity 
and prescience. All that he aspired to now was 
that Henrietta should quit Armine in as happy 
ignorance as she had arrived ; as for Glastonbury, 
Ferdinand cared not what he might suspect, or 
ultimately discover. These were future evils, that 
subsided into insignificance compared with any dis- 
covery on the part of Miss Temple. 

Comparatively composed, Ferdinand now sug- 
gested to Henrietta to quit her drawing, which, in- 
deed, was so advanced, that it might be finished at 
Ducie; and, never leaving her side, and watching 
every look, and hanging on every accent of his old 
tutor, he even ventured to suggest that they should 
visii the tower. The proposal, he thought, might 
lull any suspicion that might have been excited on 
the part of Miss Temple. Glastonbury expressed 
his gratification at the suggestion, and they quitted 
the gallery, and entered the avenue of beech 
trees. 

" I have heard so much of your tower, Mr Glas- 
tonbury," said Miss Temple, "I am sensible, I as- 
sure you, of the honour of being admitted." 

The extreme delicacy that was a characteristic 
of Glastonbury preserved Ferdinand Armine from 
the dreaded danger. It never for an instant entered 
Glastonbury's mind that Henrietta was not Miss 
Grandison ; he thought it a little extraordinary, in- 
deed, that she should arrive at Armine only in the 
company of Ferdinand ; but much might be allowed 
to plighted lovers ; besides, there might be some 
female companion, some aunt or cousin, for 
aught he knew, at the Place. It was only his 
parents that Ferdinand had said had not yet arrived. 
At all events, he felt at this moment that Ferdinand, 
perhaps, even because he was alone with his in- 
tended bride, had no desire that any formal intro- 
duction or congratulations should take place, and 
only pleased that the intended wife of his pupil 
Ferdinand paused for I should be one so beautiful, so gifted, and so gracious, 
one apparently so worthy in every way of his choice 
and her lot, Glastonbury relapsed into his accus- 
tomed ease and simplicity, and exerted himself to 
amuse the young lady with whom he had become 
so unexpectedly acquainted, and with whom, in all 
probability, it was his destiny in future to be so in- 
timate. As for Henrietta, nothing had occurred in 
any way to give rise to the slightest suspicion in 
her mind. The agitation of Ferdinand at this un- 
expected meeting between his tutor and his betroth- 
ed was in every respect natural. Their engage- 
ment, as she knew, was at present a secret to all ; 
and although, under such circumstances, she her- 
self at first was disposed not to feel very much at 
her ease, still she was so well acquainted with Mr. 
Glastonbury from report, and he was so unlike the 
common characters of the censorious world, that she 
•was, from the first, far less annoyed than she other- 
wise would have been, and soon regained her usual 
composure, and was even gratified and amuseil 
with the adventure. 

A load, however, fell from the h%jnt of Ferdinand, 
when he and his beloved bade Glastonbury a good 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



609 



afternoon. This accidental, and almost fatal inter- 
view, terrilily reminded him of his dillicull and dan- 
gerous position; it seemed the commencement of a 
series of misconceptions, mortifications, and mis- 
fortunes, wiiich it was absolutely necessary to pre- 
vent by instantly arresting them with the utmost 
energy and decision. It was bitter to quit Armine 
and all his joys, but in truth the arrival of his family 
was very doubtful ; and, until the confession of his 
real situation was made, every day might bring 
some disastrous discovery. Some ominous clouds 
in the horizon formed a capital excuse fur hurrying 
Henrietta oil' to Ducie. They (juitted Armine at 
an unusually early hour. As they drove along, 
Ferdinand revolved in his mind the adventure of 
the morning, and endeavoured to stimulate himself 
to the exertion of instantly repairing to Bath. But 
he had not courage to confide his purpose to Henri- 
etta. When, however, they arrived at Ducie, they 
were welcomed with intelligence which rendered 
the decision, on his part, absolutely necessary. But 
we will reserve this for the next chapter. 



CHAPTER V. 

VTHICH COXTAINS SOMETHING VERT UNEXPECTED. 

Miss Temple had run up stairs to take ofi" her 
bonnet ; Ferdinand stood before the wood-firc in 
the saloon. Its clear and fragrant flame was agree- 
able after the cloudy sky of their somewhat chill 
drive. He was musing over the charms of Henri- 
etta, and longing for her reappearance, when she 
entered : but her entrance filled him with alarm. 
She was very pale, her lips nearly as white as her 
forehead. An expression of dread was impressed 
on her agitated countenance. Ere he could 
speak she held forth her hand to his extended grasp. 
It was cold, it trembled. 

"Good God ! my sweetest; you are ill I" he ex- 
claimed. 

"No!" she faintly murmured, "not ill." And 
then she paused, as if stifled, leaning down her head 
with eyes fixed upon the ground. 

The conscience of Ferdinand pricked him. Had 
she heard 

But he was reassured by her accents of kindness. 
" Pardon me, dearest," she said ; "I am agitated — I 
shall soon be better." 

He held her hand with firmness while she leaned 
upon his shoulder, .\fter a few minutes of harrow- 
ing silence, she said, in a smothered voice, " Papa 
returns to-morrow." 

Ferdinand turned as pale as she ; the blood fled 
to his heart, his frame trembled, his knees tottered, 
his passive hand scarcely retained hers ; he could 
not speak. All the possible results of his return 
flashed across his mind, and presented themselves, 
in terrible array, to his alarmed imagination. He 
could not meet Mr. Temple, — that was out of the 
question. Some explanation must immediately 
and inevitably ensue, and that must precipitate the 
fatal discovery. The great object was to prevent 
any communication between Mr. Temple and Sir 
Ratclitfe before Ferdinand had broken his situation to 
his father. How he now wished he had not post- 
poned his departure for Bath! Had he only quitted 
Armine when first convinced of the hard nci-essity, 
the harrowing future would now have been the 
past; the impending scenes, however dreadful, 
77 



would have ensued ; perhaps he might have beeu 
at Ducie at this moment, with a clear conscience 
and a frank purpose, and with no difliculties to 
overcome but those which must necessarily arise 
from Mr. Temple's natural consideration for the 
welfare of his child. These, however diliicult to 
combat, seemed light in comparison with the per- 
plexities of his involved situation. Ferdinand bore 
Henrietta to a scat, and hung over her in agitated 
silence, which she ascribed only to his sympathy 
in her distress, but which, in truth, was rather to 
be attributed to his own uncertain purpose, and to 
the confusion of an invention which he now ran- 
sacked for desperate expedients. 

While he was thus revolving in his mind the 
course which he must now pursue, he sat down on 
the ottoman on which her feet rested, and pressed 
her hand to his lips while he summoned to his aid 
all the resources of his imagination. It at length 
appeared to him that the only mode by which he 
could now gain time, and secure himself from dan- 
gerous explanations, was to involve Henrietta in a 
secret engagement. There was great dilliculty, he 
was aware, in accomplishing this purpose. Miss 
Temple was devoted to her father ; and though for 
a moment led av^'ay, by the omnipotent influence 
of an irresistible passion, to enter into a compact 
without the sanction of her parent, her present agi- 
tation too clearly indicated her keen sense that she 
had not conducted herself tow^ards him in her ac- 
customed spirit of unswerving and immaculate 
duty; that, if not absolutely indelicate, her be- 
haviour must appear to him very inconsiderate, 
very rash, perhaps even unfeeling. Unfeeling ! 
What — to that father, that fond and widowed 
father, of whom she was the only and cherished 
child ! All his goodness, all his unceasing care, all 
his anxiety, his ready sympathy, his watchfulness 
for her amusement, her comfort, her happiness, his 
vigilance in her hours of sickness, his pride in her 
beauty, her accomplishments, her affection, the 
smiles and tears of long, long y.ears — all passed be- 
fore her — till at last she released herself with a 
quick movement from the hold of Ferdinand, and, 
clasping her hands together, burst into a sigh so 
bitter, so profound, so full of anguish, that Ferdi- 
nand started from his scat. 

"Henrietta!" he exclaimed, "my beloved Hen- 
rietta !" 

" Leave me," she replied, in a tone almostof stern- 
ness. He rose and walked up and down the room, 
overpowered by contending emotions. The severity 
of her voice, that voice that hitherto had fallen upon 
his car like the warble of a summer bird, filled him 
with consternation. The idea of having offended her, 
of having seriously oflTended her — of being to her, to 
Henrietta, his Henrietta, that divinity to whom his 
idolatrous fimcy clung with such rapturousdevotion, 
in whose very smiles and accents it is no exaggera- 
tion 10 say he lived and iiad his being — the idea of 
being to her, even for a transient moment, an object 
of repugnance, seemed something too terrible for 
thought, too intolerable for existence. All his 
troubles, all his cares, all his impending sorrows, 
vanished into thin air compared with this unfore- 
seen and sudden visitation. O ! what was future 
evil, what was to-morrow, pregnant as it might he. 
with misery, compared with the quick agony of tho 
instant ? As long as she smileil, every dilficulty 
appeared surmountable; as long as he could listen 
to her accents of tenderness, there was no disoeu- 



610 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



sation with which he could not struggle. Come 
what come may, throned in the palace of her heart 
he was a Ko\creign who might defy the world in 
arms ; but, thrust from that great seat, he was a fu- 
gitive without a hope, an aim, a desire; dull, timid, 
exhausted, broken-hearted ! 

And she had bid him leave her. Leave her ! 
Henrietta Temple had bid him leave her ! Did he 
leave 1 Was this the same world in which a few 
hours back l.e breathed, and blessed his God for 
breathing ! What had happened 1 What strange 
event, what miracle had occurred, to work this 
awful, this portentOMS change 1 Why, if she had 
known all, it' she had suddenly shared that sharp 
and perpetual wo, every gnaviing at his own secret 
heart, even amid his joys ; if he had revealed to her, 
if any one had betrayed to her his distressing secret, 
could she have said more 1 Why ! it was to shun 
this, it was to spare himself this horrible catastrophe, 
that he had involved himself in his agonizing, his 
inextricable difficulties. Inextricable they must be 
now ; for where, now, was the inspiration that be- 
fore was to animate him to such great exploits 1 
How could he struggle any longer with his fate? 
How could he now carve out a destiny 1 All that 
remained for him now was to die ; and, in the mad- 
ness of his sensations, death seemed to him the 
most desirable consummation. 

The temper of a lover is exquisitely sensitive. 
Mortified and miserable, at any other time Ferdi- 
nand, in a fit of harrassed love and irritable devo- 
tion, might have instantly quitted the presence of a 
mistress who had treated him with such unexpect- 
ed and such undeserved harshness. But the thought 
of the morrow — the mournful conviction that this 
was the last opportunity for their undisturbed com- 
munion — the recollection that, at all events, their 
temporary separation was impending; all these 
considerations had checked his first impulse. Be- 
sides, it must not be concealed that more than once 
it occurred him that it was utterly impossible to 
permit Henrietta to meet her father in her present 
mood. With her determined spirit and strong 
emotions, and her difficulty of concealing her feel- 
ings ; smarting, too, under the consciousness of hav- 
ing parted with Ferdinand in anger, and of having 
treated him with injustice; and, therefore, doubly 
anxious to bring affairs to a crisis, a scene in all 
probability would instantly ensue: and Ferdinand 
recoiled at present from the consequences of any 
explanations. 

Unhappy Ferdinand ! It seemed to him that he 
had never known misery before. He wrung his 
hands in despair — his mind seemed to desert him. 
Suddenly he stopped — he looked at Henrietta, — 
her face was still pale, her eyes fixed upon the de- 
caying embers of the fire, her attitude unchanged. 
Either she was unconscious of his presence, or she 
did not choose to recognise it. What were her 
thoughts ? 

Still of her father 1 Perhaps she contrasted that 
fond and fiiithfid friend of her existence, to whom 
she owed such an incalculable debt of gratitude, 
with the acquaintance of the hour, to whom, in a 
moment of insanity, she had pledged the love that 
could alone repay it. Perhaps, in the spirit of self- 
torment, she conjured up against this too success- 
ful stranger all the menacing spectres of suspicion, 
distrust, and deceit ; recalled to her recollection the 
too just and too frequent tales of man's impurity 
and ingratitude; and tortured herself by her own 



apparition, the merited victim of his harshness, his 
neglect, or his desertion. And when she had at 
the same time both shocked and alarmed her fancy 
by these distressful and degrading images, exhausted 
by these imaginary vexations, and eager for conso- 
lation in her dark despondency, she may have re- 
curred to the yet innocent cause of her sorrow and 
apprehension, and perhaps accused herself of cruelty 
and injustice for visiting on his head the mere con- 
sequences of her own fitful and morbid temper. 
She may have recalled his unvarying tenderness, 
his unceasing admiration; she may have recollected 
those im.passioned accents that thrilled her heart, 
those glances of rapturous affection that fixed her 
eye with fascination. She may have conjured up 
that form over which of late she had mused in a 
trance of love — that form bright with so much 
beauty, beaming with so many graces, adorned 
with so much intelligence, and hallowed by every 
romantic association that could melt the heart or 
mould the spirit of woman; she may have conjured 
up this form, that was the god of her idolatry, and 
rushed again to the altar in an ecstasy of devotion. 

Tlie shades of evening were fast descending — 
the curtains of the chamber were not closed — the 
blaze of the fire had died away. The flickering 
light fell upon the solemn countenance of Hen- 
rietta Temple, now buried in the shade, now tran- 
siently illuminated by the fitful flame. 

On a sudden he advanced, with a step too light 
even to be heard, knelt at her side, and, not ventur- 
ing to touch her hand, pressed his lips to her arm, 
and with streaming eyes, and in a tone of plaintive 
tenderness, murmured, " What have I done 1" 

She turned — her eyes met his — a wild expres- 
sion of fear, surprise, delight, played over her coun- 
tenance ; then, bursting into tears, she threw her 
arms round his neck, and hid her face upon his 
breast. 

He did not disturb this effusion of her suppressed 
emotions. His throbbing heart responded to her 
tumultuous soul. At length, when the strength of 
her passionate alTections had somewhat decreased 
— when the convulsive sobs had subsided into gen 
tie sighs, and ever and anon he felt the pressure of hei 
sweet lips sealing her remorseful love and charm 
ing repentance upon his bosom — he dared to say, 
"O ! my Henrietta, you did not doubt your Ferdi- 
nand 1" 

" Darling, beloved, dearest, sweetest Ferdinand, 
you are too good, too kind, too faultless — and I am 
very wicked." 

He raised himself gently from her side, hearing 
up her form at the same time, and contrived, with 
one arm round her waist, to place himself in her 
chair, and seat her on his knee. Then taking her 
hand and covering it with kisses, while her head 
rested on his shoulder, he said, in a distinct hut 
very low voice, " Now tell me, darling, why were 
you unhappy V 

'• Papa," sighed Henrietta, " dearest papa, that 
the day should come when I should grieve to meet 
him !" 

" And why should my darling grieve !" said 
Ferdinand. 

"I know not; I ask myself what have I done? 
what have I to fear? It is no crime to love; it 
may be a misfortune — God knows I have almost 
felt to-night that such it was. But no, I never will 
believe that it can be cither wrong or unhappy to 
love ycu.'' 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



€11 



" Bless you, my sweetest, for such sweet words," 
replied Ferdinand. " If my heart can make you 
hap|)y, felicity should be your lot." 

" It is my Ibt. I am happy, quite happy, and 
grateful for my happiness." 

"And your father, our father let me call him, 
(she pressed his hand when he said this,) he will 
he happy too V 

" So I would hope." 

" If the fulfilment of my duty can content him," 
continued Ferdinand, "Mr. Temple shall not re- 
pent his son-in-law." 

"O! do not call him Mr. Temple; call him 
father. I love to hear you call him father." 

"Then what alarms my child ?" 

" I hardly know," said Henrietta in a hesitating 
tone. " I think, I think it is the suddenness of all 
this. He has gone — he comes again ; he went — 
he returns ; and all has happened. So short a 
time, too, Ferdinand. It is a life to us; to him, I 
fear," and she smiled and hid her face, " it is only 
a fortnight." 

" We have seen more of each other, and known 
more of each other, in this fortnight, than we might 
have in an acquamtance which had continued a 
life." 

" 'Tis true — 'tis very true. We feel this, Ferdi- 
nand, hecause w'e know it. But papa will not feel 
like us: we cannot expect him to feel like us. 
He does not know my Ferdinand as I know him. 
Papa, too, though the dearest, kindest, fondest father 
that ever Uved, though he had no thought but for 
my happiness, and lives only for his daughter, papa 
naturally is not as young as we are. He is, too, 
what is called a man of the world. He has seen a 
great deal — he has formed his opinions on men and 
life. We cannot expect that he will change them 
in your, I mean our, favour. Men of the world 
are of the world, worldly. I do not think they are 
always right — I do not myself believe in their 
infallibility. There is no person more clever and 
more judicious than papa. No person is more 
considered. But there arc characters so rare, that 
men of the world do not admit them into their ge- 
neral calculations — and such is my Ferdinand's." 

Here Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought, but 
he pressed her hand, though he said nothing. 

" He will tl ink we have known each other too 
short a time," continued Miss Temple. " He will 
be niortilied, perhaps alarmed, when I inform him 
I am no longer his." 

" Ther do not inform him," said Ferdinand. 

She started. 

" Let me inform him," continued Ferdinand, 
giving another turn to his meaning, and watching 
her countenance with an unfaltering eye. 

" Dearest Ferdinand — always prepared to hear 
every burden !" exclaimed Miss Temple. " How 
generous and good you are ! No. it would be bet- 
ter for me to speak first to my father. My soul, I 
will never have a secret from you, and you, I am 
sure, will never have one from your Henrietta. 
This is the truth ; I do not repent the past, I glory 
HI it; I am yours, and I am proud to be yours. 
Were the past to be again acted, I would not falter. 
But I cannot conceal from myself that, as far as 
my father is concerned, I have not conducted myself 
towards him with frankness, with respect, or with 
kindness. There is no fault in loving you. Even 
were he to regret, he could not blame such an oc- 
currence ; but he will regret, he will blame, he has 



a right both to regret and blame, my doing more 
than love you : my engagement, without his ad- 
vice, his sanction, his knowledge, or even his suspi- 
cion!" 

" You take too refined a view of our situation, 
sweet Henrietta," replied Ferdinand. " Why should 
you not spare your father the pain of such a com- 
munication, if painful it would be] What has 
passed is between ourselves, and ought to be be- 
tween ourselves. If I request his permission to 
offer you my hand, and he yields his consent, is 
not that ceremony enougli 1" 

" I have never concealed EUiy thing from papa," 
said Henrietta, " but I will be guided by you." 

"Leave, then, all to me," said Ferdinand; "be 
guided but by the judgment of your own Ferdi- 
nand, my sweet Henrietta, and believe me all will 
go right. I will break this intelligence to your 
father. So we will settle it?" he ccntinued in- 
quiringly. 

" It shall be so." 

"Then arises the question," said Ferdinand, 
" when it would be most advisable for me to make 
the communication. Now, your father, Henrietta, 
who is a man of the world, will of course expect 
that, when I do make it, I shall be prepared to 
speak delinitely to him upon all matters of busi- 
ness. He will think, otherwise, that I am trifling 
with him. To go and request of a man like your 
father, a shrewd, experienced man of the world, 
like Mr. Temple, permission to marry his daughter, 
without showing to him that I am prepared with 
the means of maintaining a fomily ; is little short 
of madness. He would be offended with me, he 
would' be prejudiced against me. I must, there- 
fore, settle something first with Sir Ratcliffe. M/ich 
you know, unfortunately, I cannot offer your father; 
but still, sweet love, there must at least be an ap- 
pearance of providence and management. We 
must not disgust your father with our match." 

" O ! how can he be disgusted with my Ferdi- 
nand !" 

" Darling! This, then, is what I propose — that, 
as to-morrow we must comparatively bo separated, 
I should take advantage of the next few days, I 
should rush to Bath, and bring affairs to some ar- 
rangement. Until my return I would advise you 
to say nothing to your father." 

" ! how can I live under the same roof with 
him, under such circumstances V exclaimed Miss 
Temple; "how can I meet his eye — how can I 
speak to him, with the consciousness of a secret 
engagement, with the recollection that, all the time 
he is lavishing his affection upon me, my heart is 
yearning for another, and that, while he is laying 
plans of future companionship, I am meditating, 
perhaps, an eternal separation !" 

" Sweet Henrietta, listen to me one moment. 
Suppose I had quitted you last night for Bath, 
merely for this purpose, as indeed we had onco 
thought of; and that your father had arrived at 
Ducie before I had returned to make my communi- 
cation ; would you style your silence, under such 
circumstances, a secret engagement! No, no, dear 
love; this is an abuse of terms. It would be a 
delicate consideration for a parent's feelings." 

" ! Ferdinand, would we were united, and had 
no cares !" 

" You would not consider our projected union a 
secret engagement, if, after passing tomorrow with 
your father, you expected me on the next day to 



612 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



communicate to him our position. Is it any more 
a secret engagement because six or seven d^ys are 
to elapse, before this communication takes place, 
instead of one 1 My Henrietta is indeed fighting 
with shadows !" 

" ! Ferdinand, I cannot reason like you ; but I 
feel unhappy when I think of this." 

"Dearest Henrietta! feel only that you are loved. 
Think, darling, the day will come when we shall 
smile at all these cares. All will flow smoothly yet; 
and we shall all yet live at Armine — Mr. Temple 
and all." 

" Papa likes you so much, too, Ferdinand, I 
should be miserable if you offended him." 

" Which I certainly should do if I were not to 
communicate with Sir Ratcliffe first." 

" Do you, indeed, think so V 

" Indeed I am certain." 

"But cannot you write to Sir Ratcliffe, Ferdi- 
nand ? Must you, indeed, go? Must we, indeed, 
be separated ? I cannot believe it; it is inconceiv- 
able ; it is impossible ; I cannot endure it." 

" It is, indeed, terrible," said Ferdinand, most 
sincerely. " This consideration alone reconciles 
me to the necessity : I know my father well ; his 
only answer to a communication of this kind vrould 
be an immediate summons to his side. Now, is it 
not better that this meeting should take place when 
we must necessarily be much less together than be- 
fore, than at a later period, when we may, perhaps, 
be constant companions with the sanction of our 
parents V 

" O ! Ferdinand, you reason — I only feel." 

Let us pause here one instant, to reflect upon 
the character and situation of Ferdinand Armine. 
Henrietta Temple told him that he reasoned, and 
did not feel. Such an observation from one's mis- 
tress is rather a reproach than a compliment. It 
was made, in the present instance, to a man whose 
principal characteristic was, perhaps, his too dan- 
gerous susceptibility ; a man of profound and 
violent passions, yet of a most sweet and tender 
temper ; capable of deep reflection, yet ever acting 
from the impulse of sentiment, and ready at all 
times to sacrifice every consideration to his heart. 
The prospect of separation from Henrietta, for 
however short a period, was absolute agony to him ; 
he found difficulty in conceiving existence without 
the influence of her perpetual presence: their part- 
ing even for the night was felt by him as an oner- 
ous deprivation. The only process, indeed, that 
could at present prepare and console him for 
the impending sorrow, would have been the frank 
indulgence of the feelings which it called forth. 
Yet behold him, behold this unhappy victim of 
circumstances, forced to deceive, even for her hap- 
piness, the being whom he idolized ; compelled, at 
this hour of anguish, to bridle his heart, lest he 
should lose for a fatal instant his command over 
his head ; and — while he was himself conscious 
that not in the wide world, perhaps, existed a man 
who was sacrificing more for his mistress — obliged 
to endure, even from her lips, a remark which 
seemed to impute to him a deficiency of feeling. 
And yet it was too much ; he covered his eyes 
with his hand, and said, in a low and broken voice, 
" Alas ! my Henrietta, if you knew all, you would 
not say this !" 

" My Ferdinand, my darling Ferdinand," she 
exclaimed, touched by that tender and melancholy 
one, " why — what is this ? you weep ! Let me 



kiss away these tears ! What have I said — what 
done 1 Dearest, dearest Ferdinand, do not do 
this." And she threw herself on her knees before 
him, and looked up into his face with scrutinizing 
affection. 

He bent down his head, and pressed his lips to 
her forehead. "O, Henrietta!" he exclaimed, "we 
have been so happy !" 

" And shall be so, my love, my own Ferdinand. 
Doubt not my word, all will go right, sweet soul. 
I am so sorry, I am so miserable, that I made you 
unhappy to-night. I shall think of it when you 
are gone. I shall remember how naughty I was. 
It was so wicked — so very, very wicked ; and he 
was so good !" 

"Gone! what a dreadful word ! And shall we 
not be together to-morrow, Henrietta '? ! what 
a morrow ! Think of me, dearest ! Do not let me 
for a moment escape from your memory !" 

" Tell me exactly your road; let me know exactly 
where you will be at every hour; write to me on 
the road ; if it be only a line, only a little word , 
only his dear name; only Ferdinand. Let me 
have a letter with only 'Ferdinand' in it, that I 
may kiss the dear name with a thousand kisses !" 

" And how shall I write to you, my beloved ' 
Shall I direct to you here ?" 

Henrietta looked perplexed. " Papa opens the 
bag every morning, and every morning you must 
write, or I shall die. Ferdinand, what is to be 
donel" 

"I will direct to you at the post-office. You 
must send for your letters." 

" I tremble. Believe me, it will be noticed. It 
will look so. — so — so — so clandestine." 

"I will direct them to your maid. She must be 
our confidant." 

" Ferdinand !" 

" 'Tis only for a week." 

"0, Ferdinand! love teaches us strange things." 

" My darling, believe me, it is wise and well. 
Think how desolate we should be without constant 
correspondence. As for myself, I shall write to 
you every hour, and unless I hear from you as often, 
I shall believe only in evil !" 

" Let it he as you wish. God knows my heart 
is pure. I pretend no longer to regulate my des- 
tiny. I am yours, Ferdinand. Be you responsible 
for all that affects my honour or my heart." 

" A precious trust, my Henrietta, and dearer to 
me than all the glory of my ancestors." 

The clock sounded eleven. Miss Temple rose. 
" It is so late, and we in darkness here ! What 
will they think 1 Ferdinand, sweetest, rouse the 
fire. I ring the bell. Lights will come, and then — " 
Her voice faltered. 

" And then — " echoed Ferdinand. He took up 
his guitar, but he could not command his voice. 

"'Tis your guitar." said Henrietta; "I am happy 
that it is left behind." 

The servant entered with lights, drew the 
curtains, renewed the fire, arranged the room, and 
withdrew, 

" Little knows he our misery," said Henrietta, 
" It seemed strange, when I felt my own mind, that 
there could be any thing so calm and mechanical 
in the world." 

Ferdinand was silent. He felt that the hour of 
departure had indeed arrived, yet he had not courage 
to move. Henrietta, too, did not speak. She laid 
down on the sofa, as it were, exhausted, and placed 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



613 



her handkerchief over her face. Ferdinand leaned 
over the lire. He was nearly tempted to give up 
his project, confess all to his father by letter, and 
await his decision. Then he conjured up the 
dreadful scenes at Bath, and then he remembered 
that, at all events, to-morrow he must not appear at 
Ducie. " Henrietta !'' he at length said. 

" A minute, Ferdinand, yet a minute," she ex- 
claimed, in an excited tone ; " do not speak — I am 
preparing myself." 

He remained in his leaning posture; and, in a 
few moments, Miss Temple rose and said, " Now, 
Ferdinand, I am ready." He looked round. Her 
countenance was quite pale, but fixed and calm. 

"Let us embrace," she said, "but let us say 
nothing." 

He pressed her to his arms. She trembled. He 
imprinted a thousand kisses on her cold lips ; she 
received them with no return. Then siie said in a 
low voice, "Let me leave the room first;" and, 
giving him one kiss upon the forehead, Henrietta 
Temple disappeared. 

When Ferdinand, with a sinking heart and a 
staggering step, quitted Ducie, he found the night 
so dark that it was with extreme difliculty that he 
traced, or rather groped, his way through the grove. 
The absolute necessity of vs'atching every step he 
took, in some degree diverted his mind from his 
painful meditations. The atmosphere of the wood 
was so close, that he congratulated himself when 
he had gained its skirts; but just as he was about to 
emerge upon the common, and was looking forward 
to the light of some cottage, as his guide in this 
gloomy wilderness, a flash of lightning that seemed 
to cut the sky in twain, and to descend like a flight 
of fiery steps from the highest heavens to the lowest 
earth, revealed to him for a moment the whole 
broad bosom of the common, and showed to him 
that nature to-night was as disordered and perturbed 
as his own heart. A clap of- thunder, that might 
have been the herald of doomsday, woke the cattle 
from their slumbers, which began to moan and low 
to the rising wind, and cluster under the trees, that 
sent forth, indeed, with their wailing branches, 
sounds scarcely less dolorous and wild. Avoiding 
the woods, and striking into the most open part of 
the country, Ferdinand watched the progress of the 
tempest. 

For the wind, indeed, had now risen to such a 
height, that the leaves and branches of the trees 
were carried about in vast whirls and eddies, while 
the waters of the lake, where, in serener hours, 
Ferdinand was accustomed to bathe, were lifted 
out of their bed, and inundated the neighbouring 
settlements. Lights were now seen moving in all 
the cottages, and then the forked lightning, pouring 
down at the same time from opposite quarters of 
the sky, exposed with an awful distinctness, and a 
fearful splendour, the wide-spreading scene of dan- 
ger and devastation. 

Now descended the rain in such overwhelming 
torrents, that it was as if a waterspout had burst, 
and Ferdinand gasped for breath beneath its op- 
pressive ])ower, while the blaze of the variegated 
lightning, the crash of the thunder, and the roar of 
the wind, all simultaneously in movement, indicated 
the fulness of the storm. Succeeded then that 
strange lull that occurs in the heart of a tempest, 
when the unruly and disordereil elements pause as 
it were for breath, and seem to concentrate their 
energies for an increased and final explosion. It 



came at last ; and the very earth seemed to rock in 
the passage of the hurricane. 

Exposed to all the awful chances of the storm, 
one solitary being alone beheld them without ter- 
ror. The mind of Ferdinand Armine grew calm, 
as nature became more disturbed. He moralized 
amid the whirlwind. He contrasted the present 
tumult and distraction with the sweet and beautiful 
serenity which the same scene had presented, when, 
a short time back, he first beheld it. His love, too, 
had commenced in stillness and in sunshine; was 
it, also, to end in storm and destruction ? 



BOOK IV. 



CHAPTER L 

WHICH COiVTAIXS A LOVE-LETTEK. 

Let us pause. We have endeavoured to trace, 
in the preceding portion of this history, the deve- 
lopement of that passion that is at once the principle 
and end of our existence ; that passion, compared 
to whose delights all the other gratifications of our 
nature — wealth, and power, and fame — sink into 
insignificance ; and which, nevertheless, by the 
ineffable beneficence of our Creator, are open to his 
creatures of all conditions, qualities, and climes. 
Whatever be the lot of man, however unfortunate, 
however oppressed, if he only love and be loved, he 
must strike a balance in favour of existence, for 
love can illume the dark roof of poverty, and can 
lighten the fetter of the slave. 

But, if the most miserable position of humanity 
be tolerable with its support, so also the most 
splendid situations of our life arc wearisome with- 
out its inspiration. The golden palace requires a 
mistress as magnificent; and the fairest garden, 
besides the song of birds, and the breath of flowers, 
calls for the sigh of sympathy. It is at the foot 
of woman that we lay the laurels that, without 
her smile, would never have been gained : it is her 
image that strings the lyre of the poet, that ani- 
mates our voice in the blaze of eloquent faction, 
and guides our brain in the august toils of stately 
councils. 

But this passion, so charming in its nature, so 
equal in its dispensation, so universal in its influ- 
ence, never assumes a power so vast, or exerts an 
authority so captivating, as when it is experienced 
for the first time. Then it is truly irresistible and 
enchanting, fiiscinating, and despotic; and, whatever 
may be the harsher feelings that life may devclope, 
there is no one, however callous or constrained he 
may have become, whose brow will not grow pen- 
sive at the memory of first love. 

The magic of first love is our ignorance that it 
can ever end. It is the dark conviction that feel- 
ings the most ardent may yet grow cold, and that 
emotions the most constant and confirmed, are, 
nevertheless, liable to change, that taints the feebler 
spell of our later passions, though they may spring 
from a heart that has lost little of its original fresh- 
ness, and be offered to one infinitely more worthy 
of the devotion than our first idolatry. To gaze 
upon a face, and to believe that forever we must 
behold it with the same adoration ; that those eyes, 
in whose light we live, will forever meet ours with 
mutual glances of rapture and devotcdness; to b« 
3F 



614 



©'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



conscious that, all conversation with others sounds 
vapid and spiritless, compared with the endless ex- 
pression of our aflection ; to feel our heart rise at 
the favoured voice ; and to believe that life must 
hereafter consist of a ramble through the world, 
pressing but one fond hand, and leaning but upon 
one faithful breast; — O I must this sweet creduUty 
indeed be dissipated ! Is there no hope for them so 
full of hope 1 — no pity for them so abounding with 
love ] 

And can it be possible that the hour can ever 
arrive when the former votaries of a mutual passion 
so exquisite and engrossing can meet each other 
with indilTercnce, almost with unconsciousness, and 
recall with an ctfort their vanished scenes of feli- 
city — that quick yet profound sympathy, that ready 
yet boundless confidence, all that charming alian- 
donment of self, and that vigilant and prescient 
fondness that anticipates all our wants and all our 
wishes '! It makes the heart ache hut to picture 
such vicissitudes to the imagination. They are 
mages full of distress, and misery, and gloom. 
The knowledge that such changes .can occur flits 
over the mind like the thought of death, obscuring 
all our gay fancies with its batlike wing, and taint- 
ing the healthy atmosphere of our happiness with 
its venomous expirations. It is not so much ruined 
cities, that were once the capital glories of the 
world, or mouldering temples, breathing with ora- 
cles no more believed, or arches of triumph, that 
have forgotten the heroic name they were piled up 
to celebrate, that fill my nund with half so mourn- 
ful an impression of the instability of human for- 
tunes as these sad spectacles of exhausted aflfections, 
and, as it were, traditionary fragments of expired 
passion. 

The morning, that broke sweet, and soft, and 
clear, brought Ferdinand, with its first glimmer, a 
letter from Henrietta. 

HENRIETTA TO FERDINAND. 

Mine own, own love ! I have not lain down the 
whole night, I have been so anxious about my Fer- 
dinand. What a terrible, what an awful night! 
To think that he was in the heart of that fearful 
storm ! What did, what could you do 1 How I 
long to be with you ! And I could only watch the 
tempest from my window, and strain my eyes at 
every flash of lightning, in the vain hope that it 
might reveal him! Is he well — is he unhurt"! 
Until my messenger return I can imagine only 
evil. How often I was on the point of sending out 
the household, and yet I thought it must be useless, 
and might displease him ! I knew not what to do. 
I beat about my chamber like a silly bird in a cage. 
Tell me the truth, my Ferdinand — conceal nothing. 
Do not think of moving to-day. If you feel the 
least unwell, send immediately for advice. Write 
to me one line, only one hue to tell me you are 
well. I shall be in despair until I hear from you. 
Do not keep the messenger an instant. He is on 
my pony. He promises to return in a verj', very 
short time. I pray for you, as I prayed for you 
the whole long night, that seemed as if it would 
never end. God bless you, my dear and darling 
Ferdinand ! Write only one word to your own 

Henrietta. 

ferdinand to henrietta. 

Sweetest, dearest Henrietta ! — I am quite 
well, and love you, if that could be, more than ever. 



Darling, to send to see after her Ferdinand ! A 
wet jacket, and I experienced no greater evil, does 
not frighten me. The storm was magnilicent ; I 
would not have missed it for the world. But I re- 
gret it now, because my Henrietta did not sleep. 
Sweetest love, let me come on to you ! your page is 
inexorable. He will not let me write another line 
God bless you, my Hern-ietta, my beloved, my 
matchless Henrietta ! Words cannot tell you how 
I love you, how I dote upon you, my darling. 

Tut Ferdinand. 

henrietta to ferdinand. 

No! you must not come here. It would be 
unwise, it would be silly. We could only be 
together a moment, and though a moment with you 
is heaven, my Ferdinand, I cannot endure again 
the agony of parting. O, Ferdinand ! what has 
that separation not cost me ! Pangs that I could 
not conceive any human misery could occa.sion. 
My Ferdinand may we some da}' be happy ! It 
seems to me now that happiness can never come 
again. And yet I ought to be grateful that he was 
uninjured last night. I dared not confess to you 
before what evils I anticipated. Do you knov/ she 
was so foolish that she thought every flash of 
lightning must descend on the head of her Ferdi- 
nand ] She dares not now own how foolish she 
was. God be praised that he is well. But is he 
sure that he is quite well ] If you have the 
slightest cold, dearest, do not move. Postpone that 
journey on which all our hopes are fixed. Colds 
bring fever. But you laugh at me : you are a 
man and a soldier ; you laugh at a woman's caution, 
! my Ferdinand, I am so selfish that I should not 
care if you were ill, if I might only be your nurse. 
What happiness, what exquisite happiness would 
that be ! 

Darling, do not be angry with your Henrietta, 
but I am nervous about concealing our engagement 
from papa. What I have promised I will perform, 
fear not that ; I will never deceive you, no, not 
even for your fancied benefit ; but sweet, sweet 
love, I feel the burden of this secrecy more than I 
can express, more than I wish to express, I do not 
like to say any thing that can annoy you, espe- 
cially at this moment ; when I feel, from my own 
heart, how you must require all the support and 
solace of unbroken fondness. I have such confidence 
in your judgment, my Ferdinand, that I feel con- 
vinced that you have acted wisely ; but come back, 
my sweetest, come back as soon as you can. I 
know it must be more than a week; I know that 
that prospect was only held out by your aflection 
for your Henrietta. Days must elapse before you 
can reach Bath ; and I know, Ferdinand, I know 
your office is more difficult than you will confess. 
But come back, my sweetest, as soon as you 
can, and write to me at the postoflice, as vou set- 
tled. 

If you are well, as you say, leave the farm di- 
rectly. The consciousness that you are so near, 
my darling, makes me restless. Remember, in a 
few hours papa will be here. I wish to meet him 
with as much calmness as I can command. 

Ferdinand, I must bid you adieu ! My tears 
are too evident. Sec, they fall upon the page. It 
is stained. Kiss it, Ferdinand, just here. I will 
])ress my lips just here ; do you also press yours. 
'J''hink of me always. Never let your Henrietta be 
absent from your thoughts. If you knew how 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



615 



desolate this house is ! Your guitar is on the soia, ; 
a ghost of departed joy ! 

Farewell, Fcnlinaiid ! farewell, my Ferdinand ! 
Ah ! there is pride, there is bliss, in that remem- 
brance ! If you knew, sweetest, how proud I am 
of you, how keenly I feel my own unworthiness ; 
but my lieart is yours. I cannot write, darling. 
I cannot restrain my tears. I know not what to 
do. I almost wish papa would return, though I 
dread to see him. I feel the desolation of this 
house, I am so accustomed to see you here ! 

Heaven be with you, dearest, an<l guard over you, 
and cherish you, and bless you. Think always of 
me. VA'ould that this pen could express the depth 
and devotion of my feelings ! 

Thine own fond and faithful 

Henrietta. 



CHAPTER n. 

wiiicn, srrposijio the nEADER is interested 

IN THE CORRESPONDENCE, PURSUES IT. 

LETTER I. 

HENRIETTA TO FERDINAND. 

Deabest, dearest love. A thousand, thousand 
thanks, a thousand blessings, for your letter from 
Aniline, dear, dear Armine, where some day we 
shall he so happy ! It was such a darling letter, so 
long, so kind, and so clear. How could my sweet 
life for a moment fancy that his Henrietta would 
not be able to decipher his dear, dear handwriting 1 
Ahvays cross, dearest ; your handwriting is so 
beautiful that I sliall never find the slightest diffi- 
culty in making it out, if your letters were crossed 
a thousand times. Besides, dear love, to tell the 
truth, I should rather like to experience a little 
difficulty in reading your letters, for I read them so 
often, over and over again, till I get thciii by heart, 
and it is such a delight every now and then to 
find out some new expression that escaped me in 
the first fever of perusal, and then it is sure to be 
some darling word fonder than all the rest ! 

O, my Ferdinand ! how shall I express to you 
my love 1 It seems to me now that I never loved 
you until this separation — that I have never been 
grateful enough to you for your goodness. It makes 
me weep to remember all the soft things you have 
said, all the kind things you have done forme, and 
to think that I have not conveyed to you at the 
time a tithe of my sense of all j'our gentle kindness. 
You are so gentle, Ferdinand ! I think that, sweet, 
is the greatest charm of your character. My gentle, 
gentle love ! so unlike all other persons that I have 
met with ! Your voice is so sweet, your manner 
so tender, I am sure you have the kindest heart 
that ever existed ; and then it is a daring spirit too, 
and that I love ! Be of good cheer, my Ferdinand ; 
all will go well. I am full of hoj)e, and would Iw 
of jov if yon were here — and yet I am joyful, too, 
when I think of all your love. I can sit for hours 
and recall the past — it is so sweet. When I re- 
ceived your dear letter from Armine yesterday and 
knew indeed that you had gone, I went and walked 
in our woods, and sat down on the very bank we 
loved so, and read your letter over and over again ; 
and then I thought of all you had said and done. 
It is so strange; I think I could repeat every word 
Vou have uttered since we first knew each other. 



The morning that began co miserable, wore away 
before I dreamed it could ne noon. 

■J'apa arrived about an hour before dinner. So 
kind and good ! And why should he not be 1 I 
was ashamed of myself afterwards for seeming sur- 
prised that he was the same as ever. He asked me 
if your family had returned to Armine. I said that 
you expected them daily. Then he asked if I had 
seen you. I said very often, but that you had now 
gone to Bath, as their return had been prevented 
by the illness of a relative. Did 1 right in this 1 
I looked as unconcerned as I could when I spoke 
of you, but my heart throbbed — O ! how it 
throbbed ! I hope, however, I did not change colour ; 
I think not ; for I had schooled myself for this con- 
versation. I knew it must ensue. Believe me, 
Ferdinand, papa really likes you, and is prepared 
to love you. He spoke of you in a tone of genuine 
kindness. I gave him your mess.ige about the 
shooting at Armine ; that you regretted his unex- 
pected departure had prevented you from speaking 
before, but that it was at his entire command, only 
that, after our preserves, all you could hope was, 
that the extent of the land might make up for the 
thinness of the game. He was greatly pleased. 

Ferdinand, my darling Ferdinand, adieu I All 
good angels guard over my Ferdinand. I will x\Tite 
every day to the postoflice, Bath. Think of me 
very much. Your own faithful Hexuietta. 

LETTER n. 

HENRIETTA TO FERDINAND. 

0, Ferdinand, what heaven it is to think of 
you, and to read your letters ! This morning 
brought me two — the one from London, and the 
few lines you wrote me as the mail stopped on the 
road. Do you know, you will think me very 
ungrateful, but those dear few lines, I believe I 
must confess I prefer them even to your beautiful 
long letter. It was so kind, so tender, so sweetly 
considerate, so like my Ferdinand, to snatch tlie 
few minutes that should have been given to rest 
and food, to write to his Henrietta. Dariing ! I love 
you for It a thousand times more than ever I I hope 
you are really well ; I hope you tell me truth. 
This is a great fatigue, even for you. It is worse 
than our mules that we once talked of. Does he 
recollect 1 ! what joyous spirits my Ferdinand 
was in that happy day ! I love him when he 
laughs, and yet I think he won my heart with those 
pensive eyes of his ! 

Papa is most kind, and suspects nothing. Yester- 
day I mentioned you first, I took up your guitar, 
and said to whom it belonged. I thought it more 
natural not to be silent about you. Besides, dear- 
est, papa really likes you, and I am sure will love 
you veiy much when he knows all. and it is such 
a pleasure to me to hear you praised and spoken 
of with kindness by those I love. I have, of course, 
little to say about myself. I visit my birds, tend 
my flowers, and pay particular attention to all those 
I remember that you admired or touched. Some- 
times I whisper to them, and tell them that you 
will soon return, for, indeed, they seem to miss you 
and to droop their heads hke their poor mistress. 
! my Ferdinand, shall we ever again meet ! Shall 
I, indeed, ever again listen to that sweet voice, and 
will it tell me again that it loves me with the very 
selfsame accents that ring even now in my fa.«ci- 
nated ear 1 

Ferdinand ! this love is a fever, a fever of 



616 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



health. I cannot sleep ; I can scarcely countenance 
my father at his meals. I am wild and restless; 
nut I am happy, happy in the consciousness of 
your fond devotion. To-morrow I purpose visiting 
our farmhouse. I think papa will shoot to-morrow. 
My heart will throb, I fancy, when I see our porch, 
and when I remember all that has happened there. 
God bless my own love ; the darhng, the idol of his 
fond and happy Henrietta. 

LETTER III. 

HENRIETTA TO FERDINAND. 

Dearest, dearest love ! No letter since the 
few lines on the road, but I suppose it was impossi- 
ble. To-morrow will bring me one, I suppose from 
Bath. I know not why I tremble when I write 
that word. All is well here, papa most kind, the 
same as ever. He went a little on your land to- 
day, a very little, but it pleased me. He has killed 
ai. Armine hare. O ! what a morning have I spent ; 
so happy, so sorrowful, so full of tears and smiles ! 
I hardly know whether I laughed or wept most. 
That dear, dear farmhouse ! And then they all 
talked of you. How they do love my Ferdinand ! 
But so must every one. The poor woman has 
lost her heart to you, I suspect, and T am half in- 
clined to he a httle jealous. She did so praise you ! 
So kind, so gentle, giving so little trouble, and, as 
I fear, so much too generous ! Exactly like my 
Ferdinand ; but, really, this was unnecessary. 
Pardon me, love, but I am learning prudence. 

Do you know I went into your room ! I con- 
trived to ascend alone ; the good woman followed 
me, hut I was there alone a moment, and — and — 
and — and what do you think I did 1 I could not 
help it, dear Ferdinand. Don't think it very wrong ; 
don't scold me. I kissed your pillow. I could not 
help it, dearest ; when I thought that his darling 
ucad has rested there so often and so lately, I could 
not refrain from pressing my lips to that favoured 
resting-place, and I am afraid I shed a tear besides. 
When mine own love receives this he will be at 
Bath. How I pray that you may iind all your 
family well and happy ! I hope they will love me. 
I already love them, and dear, dear Armine. I 
shall never have courage to go there again until 
vour return. It is night, and I am writing this in 
my own room. Perhaps the hour may have its 
induence, but I feel depressed. O ! that I were at 
your side ! This house is so desolate without you. 
Every thing reminds me of the past. Darling, 
darling Ferdinand, how can I express to you what 
J feel — the aliection, the love, the rapture, the pas- 
.sionate joy, with which your image inspires me 1 
I will not be miseralile, I will be grateful to Heaven 
that I am loved by one so rare and gifted. Your 
portrait is before me, I call it yours ; it is so like ! 
'Tis a great consolation. My heart is with yon, 
dearest. Think of me as I think of you. Awake 
or asleep my thoughts are alike yours, and now I 
am gohig to pray for you. 

Thine own Henrietta. 



I,ETTER IX. 
My best beloved — The week is long past, but 
you say nothing of returning. O ! my Ferdinand, 
your Henrietta is not happy. I read your letters 
<)ver and over again. They ought to make me 
happy. I leel in the consciousness of your affec- 



tion that I ought to he the happiest person in thf 
world, and yet, I know not why, I am very de- 
pressed. You say that all is going well ; but why de 
you not enter into detail 1 There are difficulties , 
I am prepared for them. Believe me, my Ferdi- 
nand, that your Henrietta can endure as well as 
enjoy. Your father, he frowns upon our affection 1 
Tell me, tell me all, only do not leave me in sus- 
pense. I am entitled to your confidence, Ferdinand. 
It makes me hate myself to think that I do not share 
your cares as well as your delights. I am jealous of 
your sorrows, Ferdinand, if I may not share them 

Darling Ferdinand, do not let your brow Iw 
clouded when you read this. O ! I could kill rayselt 
if I thought I could increase your difficulties, i 
love you — God knows how I love you. I will be 
patient; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feel wretched 
when I think that all is concealed from papa, and 
my lips are sealed until you give me permission to 
open them. 

Pray write to me, sweet, sweet love, and tell me 
really how atliiirs are. Be not afraid to tell your 
Hern-ietta any thing. There is no misery as long 
as we love ; as long as your heart is mine, there 
is nothing which I cannot face, nothing which, I 
am persuaded, we cannot overcome. God bless 
you, Ferdinand, my soul's very idol. Words can- 
not express how I dote upon your image. 

Henrietta. 

LETTER X. 
Mine own, own. I wrote to you yesterday a 
letter of complaints. I am so sorry, for your dear 
letter has come to-day, and it is so kind, so fond, so 
atTectionate, that it makes me miserable that I 
should occasion you even a shade of annoyance. 
Dearest, how I love you ! How I long to prove 
my love ! There is nothing that I would not do, 
nothing that I would not endure, to convince you 
of my devotion ! Sweet, sweet Ferdinand, I will 
do all that you wish. I will be calm, I will he 
patient, I will try to be content. You say you are 
sure all will go right; but you tell me nothing. 
What said your dear father 1 your mother '! Be 
not afraid to speak. 

You bid me tell you all that I am doing. O ! my 
Ferdinand, life is a blank without you. I have seen 
no one, I have spoken to no one, save papa. He 
is very kind, and yet somehow or other I dread to 
be with him. This house seems so desolate, so 
very desolate. It seems a deserted place since your 
departure, a spot that some good genius has quitted, 
and all the glory has gone. I never care for my 
birds or flowers now. They have lost their music 
and their sweetness since my Ferdinand left them. 
And the woods, I cannot walk in them, and the 
garden reminds me only of the happy past. I have 
never been to the farmhouse again. I could not 
go now, dearest Ferditiand ; it would only make 
me weep. I think only of the morning, for it 
brings me your letters. I feed upon them, I live 
upon them. They are my only joy and solace, 
find yet but no comi)laints to-day, no com- 
plaints, dearest Ferdinand ; let me only express 
my devoted love. Farewell, my joy, my pride, 
my soul's idol. O ! that my weak pen could ex- 
press a tithe of my fond devotion. Ferdinand, I 
love you with all my heart, and all my soul, and 
all my spirit's strength. I have no thought but for 
you, I exist only on your idea. Write, write — 
tell me that you love me, tell me that you are 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



617 



unchan^d. It is so lont^ since I heard that voice, so 
lone: since I beheld that fond, soft ej-e ! Pity me, 
my Ferdinand. This is captivity. A thousand, 
thousand loves. Your devoted Hexiiietta. 

LETTKR XI. 
FERni.vAxn, dearest Ferdinand, the post to-day 
has brought me no letter. I cannot credit my 
senses. I think the postmaster must have thought 
me mad. No letter ! I could not believe his de- 
nial. I was annoyed, too, at the expression of 
his countenance. This mode of correspondence, 
Ferdinand, I wish not tonmrmur, but v^'hen I con- 
sented to this clandestine method of communica- 
tion, it was for a few days, a few, few days, and 
then — But I cannot write. I am quite overwhelmed. 
O ! will to-morrow ever come? Hexuietta. 

LETTER XII. 
Deahf.st Ferdinand, I wish to be calm. Your 
letter occasions me very serious uneasiness. I 
quarrel not with its tone of allcction. It is fond, 
very fond, and there were moments when I could 
have melted over such expressions; but, Ferdinand, 
it is not candid. Why arc we separated '. For a 
purpose. Is that purpose eflected 1 Were I to 
judge onl}' from your letters, I should even suppose 
that you had not spoken to your father; but that is 
of course, impossible. Your father disapproves of 
our union. I feel it, I know it ; I was even i)re- 
pared for it. Come, then, and speak to my father. 
It is due to me not to leave him any more in the 
dark ; it will be better, believe me, for yourself, that 
he should share our confidence. Papa is not a 
rich man, but he loves his daughter, hot us make 
him our friend. Ah ! why did I ever conceal any 
thing from one so kind and good ] In this moment 
of desolation, I feel, I keenly feel, my folly, my 
wickedness. I have no one to speak to, no one to 
console me. This constant struggle to conceal my 
feelings will kill me. It was painful when all was 
joy, but now — O, Ferdinand ! I can endure this 
life no longer. My brain is weak, my spirit per- 
plexed and broken. I will not say if you love ; 
but Ferdinand, if you pity me, vrrite, and write 
definitely to your unhappy Hexuietta. 



LETTER XVIII. 

Yot; tell me that, in compliance with my wishes, 
you will write definitely. Yon tell me that circum- 
stances have occurred, since your arrival at Bath, 
of a very perplexing and annoying nature, and that 
they retard that settlement with your father that 
you had projected and partly arranged, that it is 
impossible to enter info detail in letters, and assur- 
ing me of your love, you add that you have been 
anxious to preserve me from sharing your anxiety. 
O, Ferdinand ! what anxiety can you withhold like 
that you have occasioned me '! Dearest, dearest 
Ferdinand, I will, I must still believe that you are 
faultless: but, believe me, a want of candour in our 
situation, and, I believe, in every situation, is a want 
of common sense. Never conceal any tiling from 
your Henrietta. 

I now take it for granted that your father has 
forbid our union ; indeed, this is the only conclu- 
sion that I can draw from your letter. Ferdinand, 
I can bear this, even this. Sustained by your af- 
fection, I will trust to time, to events, to the kind- 
78 



ness of my friends, and to that Overruling Provi- 
dence, which will not desert affections so pure as 
ours, to bring about, sooner or later, some happier 
result. Confident in your love, I can live in soli- 
tude, and devote myself to your memory, I 

O, Ferdinand ! kneel to your father, kneel to your 
kind mother ; tell them all, tell them how I love 
you, how I will love them ; tell them your Henrietta 
will have no thought but for their happiness ; tell 
them she will be as dutiful to them as she is de- 
voted to you. Ask not for our union, ask them 
only to permit you to cherish our acquaintance. 
Let them return to Armine; let them cultivate our 
friendship ; let them know papa ; let them know 
me — let them know me as I am, with all my faults, 
I trust not worldly, not selfish, not quite insignifi- 
cant, not quite unprepared to act the part that 
awaits a member of their family, either in its splen- 
dour or its proud humility ; and, if not worthy of 
tlieir son, (as who can bel) yet conscious, deeply 
conscious of the value and l^lessing of his affection, 
and prepared to prove it by the devotion of my 
being. Do this, my Ferdinand, and happiness will 
yet come. 

But, sweet, sweet Ferdinand, my own, my gentle, 
love, on whatever course you may decide, remember 
your Henrietta. I do not reproach you, my dar- 
ling; never will I reproach you ; but remember tho 
situation in which you have placed me. All my 
hapy)y life I have never had a secret from my father ; 
and now I am involved in a private engagement 
and a clandestine correspondence. Be just to him ; 
be just to your Henrietta ! Return, my darling, I 
beseech you on my knees; return instantly to Ducie; 
reveal every thing. He will be kind and gracious; 
he will he our best friend ; in his hand and bosom 
we shall find solace and support. God bless you, 
Ferdinand ! All will yet go well, mine own, own 
love. I smile amid my tears when I think that we 
shall so soon meet. O ! what misery can there be 
in this world if we may but share it together? 
Thy fond, thy faithful, thy devoted 

Hexuietta. 



CHAPTER III. 

COXTAIXIXG THE AUUIVAL AT DUCIE OF A VEUT 
niSTIXGUlSHED GUEST. 

It was about three weeks after Ferdinand Ar- 
mine had quitted Ducie that Mr. Temple entered 
the breakfast-room one morning, with an open note 
in his hand, and told Henrietta to i)re])are for 
visiters, as her old friend. Lady Bellair, had wTit- 
ten. to apprize him of her intention to rest the night 
at Ducie, on her way to the north. 

" She brings with her also the most charming 
woman in the world," added Mr. Temple with a 
smile. 

" I have little doubt Lady Bellair deems her com- 
panion so at present," said Miss Temple, "whoever 
she may be; but, at any rate, I shall be glad to see 
her ladyship, who is ceitainly one of the most 
amusing women in the world." 

This announcement of the speedy arrival of Lady 

Bellair made some bustle in the household of Ducie 

Bower; for her ladyship was in every respect a 

memorable character, and the butler, who had re- 

3i-2 



em 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



membered her visits to tlie Temples before their 
residence atDucie, very rriucli interested the curios- 
ity of his fellow-servants by liis intimations of her 
ladyship's eccentricities. 

" You will have to take care of the parrot, Mary," 
said the butler ; " and you, Susan, must look after 
the page. VVe shall all be well cross-examined as 
to the state of the establishment; and so I advise 
you to be prepared. Her ladyship is a rum one, 
and that's the truth." 

In due covirse of time, a very handsome travelling 
chariot, emblazoned witli a viscount's coronet, and 
carrying on the seat behind a portly man-servant 
and a lady's-maid, arrived at Ducie. They imme- 
diately descended ; and assisted tlie assembled house- 
hold of the Bovver to disembark the contents of the 
chariot ; but Mr. Temple and his daughter were too 
well acquainted with Lady Bellair's character to 
appear at this critical moment. First came forth a 
very stately dame, of ample proportions and ex- 
ceedingly magnificent attire, being dressed, indeed, 
in the very extreme of gorgeous fashion, and who, 
after being landed on the marble steps, was for some 
moments absorbed in the fluttering arrangement of 
her plumage; smoothing her maroon pelisse, shak- 
ing the golden riband of her emerald bonnet, and 
adjusting the glittering pelerine of point device that 
shaded tlie fall of her broad, but well formed, 
shoulders. In one hand the stately dame lightly 
swung a bag that was worthy of holding the great 
seal itself, so rich and so elaborate were its materials 
and embroidei-y ; and in the other she at length took 
a glass, which was suspended from her neck by a 
chain-cable of gold, and glanced with a flashing eye, 
as dark as her ebon curls and as brilliant as her 
well-rouged cheek, at the surrounding scene. 

The green parrot, in its sparkling cage, followed 
next, and then came forth the prettiest, liveliest, 
smallest, best dressed, and, stranger than all, oldest 
little lady in the world. Lady Bellair was of child- 
like stature, and quite erect, though ninety years 
of age ; the tasteful simplicity of her costume, her 
little plain white silk bonnet, her gray silk dress, 
her apron, her gray mittens, and her Cinderella 
shoes, all admirably contrasted with the vast and 
flaunting splendour of her companion, not less than 
her ladyship's small yet exquisitely proportioned 
form, her highly-finished extremities, and her keen 
sarcastic gray eye. 'Jlie expression of her lady- 
ship's countenance now, however, was somewhat 
serious. An arrival was an important moment that 
requned all her practical circumspection ; there was 
so much to arrange, so much to remember, and so 
much to observe. 

The portly serving-man had advanced, and taking 
his little mistress in his arms, as he would a child, 
had planted her on the steps. And then her lady- 
ship's clear, shrill, and now rather fretful voice was 
lieard. 

" Here ! where's the butler 1 I don't want you, 
stupid, (addressing her own servant,) but the butler 
of me house, Mister's butler; what is his name — 
Mr. Two-Shoes' butler] I cannot remember 
names. 

" O ! you are there, are you 1 I don't want you. 
How is your master ? How is your charming lady ] 
Where is the parrot ? I don't want it. Where's 
the lady ] Why don't you answer 1 Why do you 
stare so] Miss Temple ! no! not Miss Temple! 
The lady, my lady, my charming friend, Mrs. 



Floyd ! To be sure so — why did not you say S9 
before ] But she has got two names. Why don't 
you say both names ] My dear,"' continued Lady 
Bellair, addressing her travelling companion, " I 
don't know your name. Tell all these good people 
your name — your two names ! I like people with 
two names. Tell them, my dear, tell them — tell 
them your name, Mrs. Thingabob, or whatever it 
is, Mrs. Thingabob Two-Shoes." 

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, though rather annoyed 
by this appeal, still contrived to comply with the 
request in the most dignified manner ; and all the 
servants bowed to Mrs. Montgon)er}' Floyd. 

To the great satisfaction of this stately dan>e, 
Lady Bellair, after scanning every thing and every 
bod}' with the utmost scrutiny, indicated some in- 
tention of enterhig, when suddenly she turned 
round — 

" Man, there's something wanting. I had three 
things to take charge of. 'i'lie parrot and my charm- 
ing friend — that is only two. There is a third. What 
is it ] You don't know ! Here, you man, who are 
you] Mr. Temple's servant. I knew your master 
when he was not as high as that cage. What do 
you think of that]" continued her ladyship, with a 
triumphant smile. " What do you laugh at, sir] 
Did you ever see a woman ninety years old before ] 
That I would wager you have not. What do I 
want ] I want something. Why do you tease me 
by not remembering what I want. Now, I knew 
a gentleman who made his fortune by once remem- 
bering what a very great man wanted. But then 
the great man was a minister of state. I dare say 
if I were a minister of state, instead of an old 
woman ninety years of age, you would contrive 
somehow or other to find out what I wanted. 
Never mind, never mind. Come, m}' charming 
friend, let me take your arm. Now I will introduce 
you to the prettiest, the dearest, the most innocent 
and charming lady in the world. She is my 
greatest favourite. She is always my favourite. 
You are my favourite, too ; but you are only my 
favourite for the moment. I always have two 
favourites : one for the moment, and one that I 
never change, and that is my sweet Henrietta Tem- 
ple. You see I can remember her name, though I 
couldn't yours. But you are a good creature, a 
dear good soul, though you live in a bad set, my 
dear, a very bad set, indeed ; vulgar people, my 
dear; they may be rich, but they have no ton. 
This is a fine place. Stop, stop," Lady Bellair ex- 
claimed, stamping her little foot, and shaking her 
little arm, "Don't drive away, I remember what it 
was. Gregory ! run, Gregory ! It is the page ! 
There was no room for him behind, and I told liim 
to lie under the seat. Poor dear boy ! He must 
be smothered. I hope he is not dead. ! there 
he is. Has Miss Temple got a page ] Does her 
page wear a feather ] My page has not got a fea- 
ther, but he shall have one, because he was not 
smothered. Here ! woman, who are you ] The 
housemaid. I thought so. I always know a house- 
maid. You shall take care of my page. Take him 
at once, and give him some milk and water ; and, 
page, be very good, and never leave this good 
young woman, unless I send for you. And, wo- 
man, good young woman, perha[is you may find 
an old leather of Miss Temple's page. Give it 
to this good little boy, because he was not smo 
thered." 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



619 



CHAPTER IV. 

CON'TAIMXG SOMK ACCOUNT OF TlIK VISCOUNTESS 
DOWAGEll BELLAin. 

The Viscountess Dowager Bcllair was the last 
rcniiiining link between the two centuries. Her- 
self horn of a noble family, and dislinguishetl both 
for her beauty and lier wit, she had reigned for a 
quarter of a century the favourite subject of Sir 
Joshua ; had flirted with Lord Carlisle, and chatted 
with Dr. Johnson. But the most remarkable qua- 
lity of her ladyship's destiny was her preservation. 
Time, that had rolled on nearly a century since 
her birth, had spared alike her physical and mental 
powers. 8he was almost as active in body, and 
quite as lively in mind, as when seventy years 
before she skipped in Mary lebone Gardens, or puzzled 
the gentlemen of the Tuesday IVight Club at Mrs. 
Comely 's masquerades. 'I'hosc wonderful seventy 
years, indeed, had passed to Lady Bellair like one 
of those very masked balls in which she formerly 
sparkled; she had lived in a perpetual crowd of 
strange and brilliant characters. All that had been 
famous for beauty, rank, fashion, wit, genius, had 
been gathered round her throne ; and at this very 
liour a fresh and admiring generation, distinguished 
for these qualities, cheerfully acknowledged her 
supremacy, and paid to her their homage. The 
heroes and heroines of her youth, her middle life, 
even of her old age, had vanished ; brilliant 
orators, profound statesmen, inspired bards, ripe 
scholars, illustrious warriors, beauties whose daz- 
zling charms had turned the world mad ; choice 
spirits, whose Hying words or fanciful manners 
made ever}' saloon smile or wonder — all had dis- 
appeared. She had witnessed revolutions in every 
counti-y in the world ; she remembered Brighton a 
fishing-town, and Manchester a village ; she had 
shared the pomp of nabobs and the profusion of 
loan-mongers ; she had stimulated the early ambi- 
tion of Charles Fox, and had sympathized with the 
last aspirations of George Canning; she had been 
the confidant of the loves alike of Byron and Allieri ; 
had worn mourning for General Wolfe, and given 
a festival to the Duke of Wellington ; had laughed 
with George Selvvyn, and smiled at Lord Alvanley ; 
had known the first macaroni and the last dandy ; 
remembered the Gunnings, and introduced the 
Shcridans! But she herself was unchanged ; still 
restless for novelty, still eager for amusement; still 
anxiously watching the entrance on the stage of 
some new stream of characters, and indei'atigable 
in attracting the notice of every one whose talents 
might contribute to her entertainment, or whose 
attention might gratify her vanity. And, really, 
when one recollected Lady Bellair's long career, 
and witnessed at the same time her diminutive 
form and her unrivalled vitality, one might almost 
be tempted to believe, that if not absolutely im- 
mortal, it was at least her strange destiny not so 
much vulgarly to die, as to grow like the heroine 
of tlie fairy tale, each year smaller and smaller, 

" Fine by degrees and beautifully less." 

antil her ladyship might at length subside into airy 
nothingness, and so rather vanish than expire. 

It was the fashion to say her ladyship had no 
heart; in most instances an unmeaning phrase; in 
her case certaiidy an unjust one. IN'inety years 
of experience had assuredly not been thrown away 



on a mind of remarkable acuteness, but Lady 
Bellair's feelings were still quick and warm, and 
could be even profound. Her fancy was so lively, 
that her attention was soon engaged ; her taste so 
refined, that her affection was not so easily obtained 
Hence she acquired a character^or caprice, because 
she repented at leisure those first impressions which 
with her were irresistible ; for, in truth. Lady Bell 
air, though she had nearly comiileted her centurj', 
and had passed her whole life in the most artificial 
circles, was the very creature of impulse. Her 
first homage she always declared was paid to 
talent, her second to beauty, her third to blood. 
The favoured individual who might combine these 
three splendid qualifications, was, with Lady Bell- 
air, a nymph, or a demi-god. As for mere wealth 
she really despised it, though she liked her favour- 
ites to be rich. 

Her knowledge of human nature, which was 
considerable, her acquaintance with human weak- 
nesses, which was unrivalled, were not thrown 
away upon Lady Bellair. Her ladyship's percep- 
tion of character was fine and quick, and nothing 
delighted her so much as making a person a tool. 
Capable, where her heart was touched, of the finest 
sympathy and the most generous actions — where 
her feelings were not engaged, she experienced no 
compunction in turning her companions to account, 
or, indeed, sometimes in honouring them with her 
intimacy for that purpose. But if you had the 
skill to detect her plots, and the courage to make 
her aware of your consciousness of them, you never 
displeased her, and often gained her friendship. 
For Lady Bellair had a fine taste for humour, and 
when she chose to be candid — an indulgence which 
was no^rare with her — she could dissect her own 
character and conduct with equal spirit and impar- 
tiality. In her own instance it cannot be denied 
that she comprised the three great qualifications 
she so much prized : for she was very witty ; had 
blood in her veins, to use her own expression ; and 

was the prettiest woman in the world for her 

years. For the rest, though no person was more 
highly bred, she could be very impertinent; but if 
you treated her with servility, she absolutely loathed 
you. 

Lady Bellair, after the London season, always 
spent two or three months at Bath, and then pro- 
ceeded to her great-grandson's, the yiresent vis- 
count's, seat in the North, where she remained 
until London was again attractive. Part of her 
domestic diplomacy was employed each year, during 
her Bath visit, in discovering some old friend, or 
making some new acquaintance, who would bear 
her in safety, and save her harmless from all ex- 
penses and dangers of the road, to Northumber- 
land ; and she displayed often in these arrangements 
talents which Talleyrand might have envied. Bur- 
ring the present season, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, 
the widow of a rich East Indian, whose intention 
it was to proceed to her estate in Scotland at the 
end of the autumn, had been presented to Lady 
Bellair by a friend well acquainted with her lady 
ship's desired arrangements. What an invaluable 
acquaintance at such a moment for Lady Bellair ! 
Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, very rich and very anx 
ious to be fashionable, was intoxicated with the 
flattering condescension and anticipated compiuiion- 
ship of Lady Bcllair. At first. Lady B. had quietly 
suugcsted that they should travel together to North- 
umberland. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd was enchanted 



630 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



with the proposal. Then Lady Bellair regretted 
that her servant was very ill, and that she must 
send her to town immediately in her own carriage; 
and then Mrs. Montgomery Floyd insisted, in spite 
of the oflers of Lady Bellair, that her ladyship 
should take a seat in her carriage, and would not 
for an instant hear of Lady Bellair defraying, un- 
der such circumstances, any portion of the expense. 
Lady Bellair held out to the dazzled vision of Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd a brilliant perspective of the 
noble lords and wealthy squires whose splendid 
seats, under the auspices of Lady Bellair, they 
were to make their resting-places during their 
progress ; and in time Lady Bellair, who had a 
particular fancy for her own carriage, proposed that 
her servants should travel in that of Mrs. Mont- 
gomery Floyd. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd smiled 
a too willing assent. It ended by Mrs. Mont- 
gomery Floyd's servants travelling to Lord Bellair's, 
where their mistress was to meet them, in that 
lady's own carriage, and Lady Bellair travelling in 
her own chariot with her own servants, and Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd defraying the expenditure of 
both expeditions. 



CHAPTER V. 

IN "WHICH LADY BELLAIR GIVES SOME ACCOUiNT 
OP SOME OF HER FRIENDS. 

Lapt Bellair really loved Henrietta Temple. 
She was her prime and her permanent favourite, 
and she was always lamenting that Henrietta 
would not come and stay with her in London, and 
marry a duke. Lady Bellair was a great match- 
maker. When, therefore, she was welcomed by 
tlie fair mistress of Ducie Bower, Lady Bellair was 
as genuine as she was profuse in her kind phrases. 
" My sweet, sweet young friend," she said, as 
Henrietta bowed her head and offered her lips to 
the little old lady, " it is something to have such a 
friend as you. What old woman has such a sweet 
friend as I have ! Now let me look at you. It does 
my heart good to see you. I feel younger. You 
are handsomer than ever, I declare you are. Why 
will you not come and stay with me, and let me 
find you a husband ] There is the Duke of De- 
randale — he is in love with you already; for I do 
nothing but talk of you. No, you should not 
marry him, he is not good enough. He is not 
refined. I love a duke, but I love a duke that is 
refined more. You shall marry Lord Fitzwarrene. 
He is my favourite ; he is worthy of you. You 
laugh ; I love to see you laugh. You are so fresh 
a7id innocent ! There is your worthy father talk- 
ing to my friend Mrs. Twoshoes ; a very good 
creature, my love, a very worthy soul, but no ton ; 
I hate French words, but what other can I use ; 
and she will wear gold chains, which I detest. 
You never wear gold chains, I am sure. The Duke 

of would not have me, so I came to you," 

continued her ladyship, returning the salutation 
of Mr. Temple, " Don't ask me if I am tired, I 
am never tired. There is nothing I hate so much 
as being asked if I am well. I am always well. 
There, I have brought you a charming friend; give 
her your arm ; and you shall give me yours," said 
tlie old lady, smiling to Henrietta ; " we make a 
good contrast ; I like a good contrast, but not an 
Ugly one. I cannot bear any tlung that is ugly ; 



unless it is a very ugly man indeed who is a genius 
and very fashionable. I liked Wilkes, and I liked 
Curran ; but they were famous, the best company 
in the world. When I was as young as you, Lady 
Lavington and I always hunted in couples, because 
she was tall, and I was called the Queen of the 
Fairies. Pretty women, my sweet child, should 
never be alone. Not that I was very pretty, but I 
was always with pretty women, and at last the men 
began to think that I was pretty too." 

" A superbly pretty place," simpered the magni- 
ficent Mrs. Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple, 
" and of all the sweetly pretty persons I ever met, I 
assure you I think Miss Temple the most charming. 
Such a favourite too with Lady Bellair ! You know 
she calls Miss Temple her real favourite," added 
the lady, with a playful smile. 

The ladies v\ere ushered to their apartments by 
Henrietta, for the hour of dinner was at hand, and 
Mrs. Montgomery Floyd indicated some anxiety 
not to be hurried in her toilet. Indeed, when she 
reappeared, it might have been matter of marvel 
how she could have effected such a complete trans- 
formation in so short a period. Except a train, 
she was splendid enough for a birth-day at St. 
James's, and wore so many brilliants that she glit- 
tered like a chandelier. However, as Lady Bellair 
loved a contrast, this was perhaps not unfortunate; 
for certainly her ladyship, in her simjile costume, 
which had onl}^ been altered by the substitution of 
a cap that should have been immortalized by Mieris 
or Gerard Douw, afforded one not a little startling 
to her sumptuous fellow-traveller. 

" Your dinner is very good," said Lady Bellair 
to Mr. Temple. " I eat very little and very plainly, 
but I hate a bad dinner; it dissatisfies everybody 
else, and they are all dull. The best diimcrs now 
are a new man's ; I forget his name,; the man who 
is so very rich. You never heard of him, and she 
(pointing with her fork to Mrs. Montgomery) 
knows nobody. What is his name 1 Gregory, 
what is the name of the gentleman I dine with so 
often ] the gentleman I send to when I have no 
other engagement, and he always gives me a dinner, 
but who never dines with me. He is only rich, 
and I hate people who are only rich ; but I must 
ask him next year. I ask him to my evening parties, 
mind ; I don't care about them ; but I will not have 
stupid people, who are only rich at my dinners. 
Gregory, what is his name V 

" Mr. Million de Stockville, my lady." 

" Yes, that is the man, good Gregory. You have 
no deer, have you V inquired her ladyship of Mr. 
Temple. "I thought not. I wish you had deer. 
You should send a haunch in my name to Mr. 
Million de Stockville, and that would be as good as 
a dinner to him. If your neighbour, the duke, had 
received me, I should have sent it from thence. I 
will tell you what I will do; I will write a note 
from this place to the duke, and get him to do it 
for me. He will do any thing for me. He 
loves me, the duke, and I love him : but his wife 
hates me." 

" And you have had a gay season in town this 
year, Lady Bellair 1" inquired Miss Temple. 

" My dear, I always have a gay season." 

" What happiness!" softly exclaimed Mrs. Mont- 
gomery rio_yd. " I think nothing is more deligh'.ful 
than gayety." 

" And how is my friend Mr.Bonmot, this year V 
said Mr. Temple. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE 



62t 



" My dear, Bonrnot is growing very old. He 
tells the same stories pvcr again, and therefore I 
never see him. I cannot bear wits that have run 
to seed ; I cannot ask Bonmot to my dinners, and 
I told him the reason why ; but I said I was at 
home every mornini? from two till six, and he 
might come then — for he does not go out to evening 
parties — and he is hulTy — and so we have quar- 
relled." 

" Poor Mr. Bonmot," said Miss Temple. 

'• My dear, there is the most wonderful man in 
the world — I forget his name — but everybody is 
mad to have him. He is quite the fashion. I have 
him to my parties instead of Bonmot, and it is 
much better. Everybody has Bonmot; but my 
man is new, and I love something new. Lady 
Frederick Berrington brought him to me. Do you 
know Lady Frederick Berrington 1 O ! I forgot, 
poor dear, you are buried alive in the country ; I 
must introduce you to I^ady Frederick. She is 
charming — she will taste you — she will be your 
friend ; and you cannot have a better friend, my 
dear, for she is very pretty, very witty, and has got 
blood in her veins. I won't introduce you to Iiady 
Frederick," continued T^ady Belhiir to Mrs. Mont- 
gomery Floyd ; " she is not in your way. I shall 
introduce you to Lady Splash and Dashaway — she 
is to be your friend." 

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd seemed consoled by the 
splendid future of being the friend of Lady Splash 
and Dashaway, and easily to endure with such a 
compensation the somewhat annoying remarks of 
her noble patroness. 

" But as for Bonmot," continued Lady Bcllair, 
"I will have nothing to do with him. General 
Fancville, he is a dear good man and gives me din- 
ners. I love dinners : I never dine at home, except 
when I have company. General Fancville not only 
gives me dinners, but lets me always choose my 
own party. And he said to me the other day — 
' Now, Lady Bellair, fix your day and name your 
party.' I said directly — ' General, anybody but Bon- 
mot.' You know Bonmot is his particular friend." 

" But surely that is very cruel," said Henrietta 
Temple, smiling. 

•' I am cruel," said Lady Bellair, " when I hate a 
person I am very cruel — and I hate Bonmot. Mr. 
Fox wrote me a copy of verses once, and called me 
' cruel fair ;' but I was not cruel to him, for I dearly 
loved Charles Fox: and 1 love you, and I love your 
father. The first party your father ever was at, 
was at my house. There, what do you think of 
that ! And I love my grandchildren ; I call them 
all my grandchildren. I think great-grandchildren 
sounds silly : I am so happy tliat they have married 
so well. Mv dear Sclina is a countess ; you shall 
be a countess, too," added the old lady, laughing. 
'' I must see you a countess before I die. Mrs. 
Grenvillc is not a countess, and is rather poor ; but 
they will be rich some day ; and Grenvillc is a good 
name — it sounas well. That is a great thing. I 
hate a name thai does not sound well." 



CHAPTER VL 

CO^TAIJ«IXG A COTrrF.nSATION NOT aUITE SO 

amujIxg as the last. 

ly the evening, Henrietta amused her guests 
with music. Mrs. Montgomery Floyd was entliu- 



siastically fond of music and very proud of her inti- 
mate friendship with Pa.sta. 

" O ! you know her, do you 1" said Lady Bel- 
lair. " Very well : you shall bring her to my house; 
she shall sing at all my parties : I love music at my 
evenings, but I never pay for it, never. If she will 
not come in the evening, I will try to ask her to 
dinner, once at least. I do not like singers and 
tumblers at dinner — but she is very fashionable, and 
young men like her, and what I want at my dinners 
are young men, young men of very great fashion. 
I rather want young men at my dinners. I have 
some — Lord Languid always comes to me, and he 
is ver}- fine, you know, very fine indeed. He goes 
to very few places, but he always comes to me." 

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd quitted the piano, and 
seated herself by Mr. Teni])le. Mr. Temple was 
gallant, and Mrs. Montgomery Floyd anxious to 
obtain the notice of a gentleman whom Lady Bel- 
lair had assured her was of the first ton. Her 
ladyship herself beckoned to Henrietta Temple to 
join her on the sofa, and, taking her hand verj' af- 
fectionately, explained to her all the tactics by which 
she intendeil to bring about a match between her 
and Lord Fitzwarrene, very much regretting, at the 
same time, that her dear grandson. Lord Bellair, 
was married ; for he, after all, was the only person 
worthy of her. " He would taste you, my dear; 
he Avould understand you. Dear Bellair ! he is 
so very handsome, and so very witty. M'hy 
did he go and marry ? And yet I love his wife. 
Do you know her 1 ! she is charming : so very 
pretty, so very witty, and such good blood in her 
veins. I made the match. Why were you not in 
England ] If you had only come to England a 
year sooner, you should have married Bellair. How 
provoking !" 

" But really, dear Lady Bellair, your grandson 
is very happy. What more can you wish ?" 

" Well, my dear, it shall be Lord Fitzwarrene, 
then. I shall give a series of parties this year, and 
ask Lord Fitzwarrene to every one. Not that it is 
very easy to get him, my child. There is nobody 
so difficult as Lord Fitzwarrene. 'i'hat is quite 
right. Men should always be diflicult, I cannot; 
bear men who come and dine with you when you 
want them." 

" What a charming place is Ducie !" sighed Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd to Mr. Temple. " The country 
is so delightful." 

"But you would not Hke to live in the country 
only," said Mr. Temple. 

" Ah ! you do not know me !" sighed the senti- 
mental Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. "If you, only 
knew how I loved flowers ! — I wish you could but 
see my conservatory in Park lane." 

" And how did you find Bath this year. Lady 
Bellair 1" inquired Miss Temple. 

" ! my dear, I met a charming man there. I 
forget his name, but the most distinguished person 
I ever met ; so very handsome, so very witty, and 
with blood in his veins, only I forget his name, and 
it is a verj' good name, too. My dear," addressing 
herself to Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, "tell me tlie 
name of my favourite." 

Mrs. Montgomery Floyd looked a little puzzled 
" My great favourite !" exclaimed the irritated Lady 
Bellair, rapping her fan against the sofa. " O ! why 
do you not remember names ! I love people who 
remember names. My favourite, my Bath favourite. 
What is liis name ] He is to dine with me in lowu 



623 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



What is the name of my Bath fovourite who is 
certainly to dine with me in town." 

" Do you mean Captain Arminel" inquired Mrs. 
iviontgoraery Floyd. Miss Temple turned quite 
pale. " That is the man," said Lady Bellair. 
O ! such a charming man. You shall marry 
him, my dear, you shall not marry Lord Fitz- 
warrene." 

" But you forget he is going to be married," said 
Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 

Miss Temple tried to rise, but she could not. 
She held down her head. She felt the fever in her 
check. " Is our engagement then so notorious !" 
she thought to herself. 

" Ah ! yes, I forgot he was going to be married," 
said Lady Bellair. " Well, then, it must be Lord 
Fitzwarrene. Besides, Captain Armine is not 
rich, but he has got a very line place, though, and I 
will go and stop there some day. And, besides, he 
is over head and ears in debt, so they say. How- 
ever he is going to marry a very rich woman, and 
60 all will be right. I like old families in decay to 
get round again." 

Henrietta dreaded that her father should observ'e 
her confusion ; she had recourse to every art to 
prevent it. " Dear Ferdinand," she thought to her- 
self, " thy very rich wife will bring thee, I fear, but 
a poor dower. Ah ! would he were here I" 

" Who is Captain Armine going to marry T' in- 
quired Mr. Temple. 

" O ! a very proper person," said Lady Bellair. 
" I forget her name. Miss Twoshoes, or something. 
What is her name, my dear"!" 

"You mean Miss Grandison, madam?" respond- 
ed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 

" To be sure, Miss Grandison, the great heiress. 
The only one left of the Grandisons. I knew her 
grandfather. He was my son's schoolfellow." 

" Captain Armine is a near neighbour of ours," 
s-aid Mr. Temple. 

" ! you know him," said Lady Bellair, " Is he 
not charming 1" 

" Are you certain he is going to be married to 
Miss Grandison 1" inquired Mr. Temple. 

" O ! there is no doubt in the world," said Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd. " Every thing is quite settled. 
My most particular friend, Lady .lulia Hartevillc, is 
to be one of the bride's-maids. I have seen all the 
presents. Both the families are at Bath at this 
very moment. I saw the happ}' pair together every 
day. They are related, you know. It is an ex- 
cellent match, for the Armines have great estates, 
mortgaged to the very last pound. I liave heard 
that Sir Ratclilfe Armine has not a thousand a-year 
he can call his own. We are all so pleased," add- 
ed Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, as if she were quite 
one of the family. " Is not it delightful V 

" They are to be married next month," said 
Lady Bellair. " I did not quite make tlie match, 
but I did something. I love the Grandisons, be- 
cause Lord Grandison was my son's friend fifty 
^ years ago." 

" I never knew a person so pleased as Lady Ar- 
mine is," continued Mrs. Montgomery Floyd. 
" The truth is, Captain Armine has been very 
wild, very wild indeed ; a little of a roue ; but then 
.such a fine young man, so very handsome, so truly 
distinguished, as Lady Bellair says, what could you 
expect 1 But he has sown his wild oats now. 
They have been engaged these six months — ever 
since he came from a^ road. He has been at Bath 



all the time, except for a fortnight or so, when ho 
went to his place to make the necessary prepara- 
tions. We all so missed* him. Captain Armine 
was quite the life of Bath. I am almost ashamed 
to repeat what was said of him," added Mrs. Mont- 
gomery Floyd, blusliing through her rouge ; "but 
they said every woman was in love with him." 

" Fortunate man !" said Mr. Temple, bowing, 
but with a grave expression. 

" And he says, he is only going to marry, be- 
cause he is wearied of conquests," continued Mrs. 
Montgomery Floyd; "how impertinent, is it not^ 
But Captain Armine says such things ! He is quite 
a privileged person at Bath !" 

Miss Temple rose and left the room. When the 
hour of general retirement had arrived, she had not 
returned. Her maid brought a message that her 
mistress was not very well, and offered her excuses 
for not again descending. 



CHAPTER VII. 

in which mr. temple tats a visit to his 
daughter's chamber. 

Hexrietta, when she quitted the room, nevei 
stopped until she had gained her own chamln'r. 
She had no light, but a straggling moonbeam reveat- 
ed sufficient. She threw herself upon her bed, 
choked with emotion. She was incapable of 
thought ; a chaos of wild images flitted over her 
brain. Thus had she remained, perchance an hour, 
with scarcely self-consciousness, when her servant 
entered with a light to arrange her chamber, and 
nearly shrieked when, on turning round, she be- 
held her mistress. 

This intrusion impressed upon Miss Temple the 
absolute necessity of some exertion, if only to pre- 
serve herself at this moment from renewed inter- 
ruptions. She remembered where she was, she 
called back with an effort some recollection of her 
guests, and she sent that message to her father, 
which we have already noticed. Then she was 
again alone. How she wished at that moment that 
she might ever be alone ; that the form and shape 
of human being should no more cross her vision ; 
that she might remain in this dark chamber until 
she died ! There was no more joy for her; her 
sun was set, the lustre of her life was gone ; the 
lute had lost its tone, the flower its perfume, the 
bird its airy wing. Ah ! what a fleet, as well a5 
fatal tragedy ! How swift upon her improvidence 
had come her heart-breaking pang ! There was an 
end of foilh, for he was faithless ; there was an end 
of love, for love had betrayed her ; there was an 
end of beauty, for beauty had been her bane. All 
that hitherto made life delightful, all the fine emo- 
tions, all the bright hopes, and the rare accomplish- 
ments of our nature, were dark delusions now, cruel 
mockeries, and false and cheating phantoms! What 
humiliation ! what despair ! And he had seemed 
so true ; so pure, so fond, so gifted ! What — could 
it be — could it be that a few short weeks back this 
man had knelt to her, had adored her ] And she 
had hung upon his accents, and lived in the light 
of his enraptured eyes, and pledged to him her 
heart; dedicated to him her life, devoted to him all 
her innocent and passionate affections, worshipptxJ 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



623 



him as an idol ! Why, what was life that it coulJ 
bring upon its swift wing such ilarU, such agoniz- 
ing vicissitudes as these ? It was not life — it was 
frenzy ! 

Some one knorked gently at her door. She did 
not answer — sht: feigned sleep. Yet the door open- 
ed — she felt, though her eyes were shut and her 
back turned, that there was a light in the room. A 
tender step approached her bed. It could be but 
one person — that person whom she had herself de- 
ceived. She knew it was her father 

Mr. Temple seated hrmself by her bedside ; he 
bent his head and pressed his lips upon her forehead. 
In her desolation some one still loved her. She 
could not resist the impulse — she held forth her 
hand without opening her eyes — her father held it 
clasped in his. 

" Henrietta," he at length said, in a tone of pe- 
culiar sweetness. 

" O ! do not speak, my father. Do not speak. 
You alone have cause to reproach me. Spare me ; 
spare your child." 

" I came to console, not to reproach," said Mr. 
Temple. " But, if it please you, I will not speak ; 
let me, however, remain." 

" Father, we must speak. It relieves me e^en 
to confess my indiscretion, my fatal folly. Father, 
I feel — yet why, I know not — I feel that you know 
all !" 

" I know much, my Henrietta, but I do not 
know all." 

" And, if you knew all, you would not hate 
me V 

" Hate you, my Henrietta ! These are strange 
words to use to a father— to a father, I would add, 
like me. No one can love you, Henrietta, as your 
father loves you ; yet, speak to me not merely as a 
father ; speak to me as your earliest, your best, your 
fondest, your most faithful friend." , 

She pressed his hand, but answer — that she 
could not. 

" Henrietta, dearest, dearest Henrietta, answer 
me one question." 

'• I tremble, sir." 

" Then we will speak to-morrow," 

" O ! no, to-night, to-night. To-morrow may 
never come. There is no night for me ; I cannot 
sleep. I should go mad if it were not for you. I 
will speak ; I will answer any questions. My con- 
science is quite clear except to you ; no one, no 
power on earth or heaven, can reproach me except 
my father." 

" He never will. But, dearest, tell me ; summon 
up your courage to meet my question ; are you 
engaged to this person 1 " 

" I was." 

" Positively engaged ?" 

" Long ere this I had supposed we should have 
claimed your sanction. He left me only to speak 
to his father." 

" This may be the idle tattle of chattering wo- 
men V 

" No, no," said Henrietta, in a voice of a deep 
melancholy ; " my fears had foreseen this dark 
reality. This week has been a vcrj' hell to me; 
and yet, I hoped, and hoped, and hoped. O ! what 
a fool have I been !" 

" I know this person was your constant com- 
panion in my absence : that you have correspond- 
«i with him. Has he written very recently?" 

" Within two days." 



" And his letters 1" 

" Have been of late most vague. O ! my father : 
uideed, indeed I have not conducted myself so ill 
as you perhaps imagine. I shrunk from this secret 
engagement ; I oj)posed by every argument in my 
power, this clandestine correspondence ; but it was 
only for a week, a single week ; and reasons, plau- 
sible and specious reasons, were plentiful. Alas ! 
alas ! all is explained now. All that was strange, 
mysterious, perplexeil in his views and conduct, 
and which, when it crossed my mind, I dismissed 
with contempt — all is now too clear." 

"Henrietta, he is unworthy of you." 

" Hush ! hush ! dear father. An hour ago I 
loved him. Spare him, if you only wish to spare 
me." 

" Cling to my heart, my child, my pure and 
faultless child ! A father's love has comfort. Is it 
not so V 

" I feel it is ; I feel calmer since you came and 
we have spoken. Father, I never can be happy 
again ; my spirit is quite broken. And yet I feel I 
have a heart now, which I thought I had not before 
you came. Dear, dear father," she said, rising and 
putting her hands round Mr. Temple's neck and 
leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet yet 
very mournful voice, " henceforth your happiness? 
shall be mine. I will not disgrace you ; you shal. 
not see me grieve ; I will atone, I will endeavour 
to atone, for my great sins, for sins they were, 
towards you." 

" My child, the time will come when we shall 
remember this bitterness only as a lesson. But I 
know the human heart too well to endeavour to 
stem your sorrow now ; I only came to soothe it. 
My blessing is upon you, my sweet child. Let us 
talk no more. Henrietta, do me one favour ; let me 
send your maid to you. Try, my love, to sleep ; 
try to compose yourself." 

"These people. — to-morrow, — what shall I do?" 

" Leave all to me. Keep your chamber until 
they have gone. You need appear no more." 

" ! that no human being might again see 
me !" 

"Hush ! sweetest ! that is not a wise wish. Be 
calm ; we shall yet be happy. To-morrow we will 
talk ; and so good night, my child, good night, my 
own Henrietta." 

Mr. Temple left the room. He bid the maid go 
to her mistress in as calm a tone as if, indeed, her 
complaint had been only a headach ; and then he 
entered his own apartment. Over the mantelpiece 
was a portrait of his daughter, gay and smihne as 
the spring ; the room was adorned with her draw- 
ings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed 
for some time abstracted upon the flame, and Uien 
hid his weeping countenance in his hands. He 
sobbed convulsively. 



CHAPTER Vni. 

IN -WHICH OLASTOXBCUT Ifi VERT MCCU ASTO 
>-ISHEIl. 

It was a gusty autumnal night; Glastonbury 
sat alone in his tower; every now and then the 
wind, amid the chorus of groaning branches, and 
hissing rain, dashed against his window, then ifa 
power seemed gradually lulled, and perfect stillnes* 



624 



D'lSRAELTS NOVELS. 



succeeded, until a low moan was heard again in 
the distance, which gradually swelled into storm. 
The countenance of the good old man was not so 
serene as usual. Occasionally his thoughts seemed 
to wander from the folio opened before him ; and 
he fell into fits of revery which impressed upon his 
visage an expression rather of anxiety than study. 
The old man looked up to the portrait of the un- 
appy Lady Armine, and heaved a deep sigh. 
Were his thoughts of her, or of he/ child 1 
He closed his book, he replaced it upon its shelf, 
and taking from a cabinet an ancient crucifix of 
carved ivory, he bent down before the image of his 
Redeemer. 

Even while he was buried in his devotions, pray- 
ing perchance for the soul of that sinning yet 
sainted lady, whose memory was never absent from 
his thoughts, or the prosperity of that family to 
whom he had dedicated his faithful life, the noise 
of ascending footsteps was heard in the sudden 
stillness, and immediately a loud knocldng at the 
door of his outer chamber. 

Surprised at this unaccustomed interruption, 
Glastonbury rose, and inquired the object of his 
yet unseen visiter ; but, on hearing a well-known 
voice, the door was instantly unbarred, and Ferdi- 
nand Armine, pale as a ghost, and deluged to the 
skm, appeared before him. Glastonbury ushered 
his guest into his cell, replenished the fire, re- 
trimmed the lamp, and placed Ferdinand in his own 
easy seat. 

" My Ferdinand, you have surprised me ; but 
you are wet, I fear, thoroughly V 

" It matters not," said Captain Armine, in a hol- 
low voice. 

" From Bath 1" inquired Glastonbury. 
But his companion did not reply. At length he 
said, in a voice of utter wretchedness, "Glastonbury, 
you see before you the most miserable of human 
beings." 

The good father started. 

" Yes !" continued Ferdinand ; " this is the end 
of all your care, all your affection, all your hopes, 
all your sacrifices. It is over, our house is fated, 
my life draws to an end." 

" Speak, my Ferdinand," said Glastonbury, for 
his pupil seemed to have relapsed into moody 
silence ; " speak to your friend and fother. Disbur- 
den your mind of the weight that presses on it. 
Life is never without hope, and while this remains," 
pointing to the crucifi.K, "never v/ithout consola- 
tion." 

" I cannot speak ; I know not what to say. My 
brain sinks under the effort. It is a wild, a com- 
plicated tale ; it relates to feelings with which you 
cannot sympathize, thoughts that you cannot share. 
O, Glastonbury ! there is no hope; there is no 
solace." 

" Calm yourself, my Ferdinand ; not merely as 
your friend, but as a priest of our holy church, I 
call upon you to speak to me. Even to me, the 
humblest of its ministers, is given a power that can 
sustain the falling and make whole the broken spi- 
rit. Speak, and speak fearlessly ; nor shrink from 
exposing the very inmost recesses of your breast, 
for I can sympathize with your passions, be they 
even as wild as I believe them." 

Ferdinand turned his eyes from the fire, on 
which he was gazing, and shot a scrutinizing glance 
at his kind confessor, but the countenance of Glas- 
Uinbury was placid though serious. 



" You remember," Ferdinand at length mur- 
mured, " that we met — we met unexpectedly — some 
six weeks back." 

" I have not forgotten it," replied Glastonbury. 

" There was a lady," Ferdinand continued, in a 
hesitating tone, 

" Whom I mistook for Miss Grandison," ob- 
served Glastonbury, " but who, it turned out, bore 
another name." 

" You know it 1" 

" I know all ; for her father has been here." 

" Where are they 1" exclaimed Ferdinand eagerly, 
starting from his seat, and seizing the hand of 
Glastonbury. " Only tell me where they are — 
only tell me where Henrietta is — and you will save 
me, Glastonbury. You will restore me to hfe, to 
hope, to heaven." 

" I cannot," said Glastonbury, shaking his head. 
" It is more than ten days ago that I saw this lady's 
father, for a few brie*, and painful moments ; for 
what purpose your conscience may inform you. 
From the unexpected interview between ourselves 
in the gallery, my consequent misconception, and 
the conversation which it occasioned, I was not so 
unprepared for this interview with him as I other- 
wise might have been. Believe me, Ferdinand, I 
was as tender to your conduct as was consistent 
with my duty to my God and to my neighbour." 

" You betrayed me, then," said Ferdinand. 

" Ferdinand !" said Glastonbury, reproachfully, 
" I trust that I am free from deceit of any kind. In 
the present instance I had not even to communi- 
cate any thing. Your own conduct had excited 
suspicion : some visiters from Bath, to this gentle- 
man and his family, had revealed every thing : and, 
in deference to the claims of an innocent lady, I 
could not refuse to confirm what was no secret to 
the world in general — what was already known to 
them in particular ; what was not even doubted — 
and, alas ! not dubitable." 

" O ! my father, pardon me, pardon me ; pardon 
the only disrespectful expression that ever escaped 
the lips of your Ferdinand towards you ; most 
humbly do I ask your forgiveness. But if you 

knew all God ! God ! my heart is breaking. 

You have seen her, Glastonbury, you have seen 
her. Was there ever on earth a being like her 1 
So beautiful, so highly gifted — with a heart as 
fresh, as fragrant, as the dawn of Eden ; and that 
heart mine — and all lost — all gone and lost. ! 
why am I alive?" He threw himself back in his 
chair, and covered his face, and wept. 

" I would that deed or labour of mine could re- 
store you both to peace," said Glastonbuiy, with 
streaming eyes. 

"So innocent, so truly virtuous!" continued 
Ferdinand. " It seemed to me I never knew what 
virtue was till I knew her. So frank, so generous ! 
I think I see her now, with that dear smile of hers, 
that never more may welcome me !" 

" My child, I know not what to say — I know not 
what advice to give — I know not what even to 
wish. Your situation is so complicated, so myste- 
rious, that it passes my comprehension. There are 
others whose claims, whose feelings, should be con- 
sidered. You are not, of course, married 1" 
Ferdinand shook his head. 
" Does Miss Grandison know all 1 
" Nothing." 
" Your family V 
Ferd'iiand shook his head again. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



625 



" What do you yourself wish ? What ohjprt I 
are you aiming at 7 What game have you your- 
self been playing 1 I speak not in harshness ; but 
I really do not understand what you have been 
about If you have your grandfather's passions, 
you have his brain too. I did not ever suppose that 
you were ' infirm of purpose.' " 

"I have only one wish, only one object. Since 
I first saw Henrietta, my heart and resolution have 
never for an instant faltered ; and if I do not now 
succeed in thorn, I am determined not to live." 

" The God of all goodness have mercy on this 
distracted house !" exclaimed Glastonbury, as he 
lifted his pious hands to heaven. 

" You went to Bath to communicate this great 
change to your father," he continued. " Why did 
you not 1 Painful as the explanation must be to 
Miss Grandison, the injustice of your conduct to- 
wards her is aggravated by delay." 

'* There were reasons," said Ferdinand, " reasons 
which I never intended any one to know — but now 
I have no secrets. Dear Glastonburj', even amid 
all this overwhelming misery, my cheek burns when 
Iconfess to you that I have, and have had for years, 
private cares of my own, of no slight nature." 
" Debts V inquired Glastonbury. 
" Debts," replied Ferdinand, " and considerable 
ones." 

" Poor child !" exclaimed Glastonbury. " And 
this drove you to the marriage V 

"To that every worldly consideration impelled 
me : my heart was free then : in fact I did not 
know I had a heart, and I thought the marriage 
would make all happy. But now — as far as I am 
myself concerned — O ! I would sooner be the com- 
monest peasant in this country, with Henrietta 
Temple for the partner of my life, than live at 
Armine with all the splendour of my ancestors." 

" Honour be to them ; they were great men," ex- 
claimed Glastonbury. 

" I am their victim," replied Ferdinand. " I owe 
my ancestors nothing — nay ! worse than nothing, 
I owe them — " 

''Hush! hush!" said Glastonbury. "If only 
for my sake, Ferdinand, be silent." 
'•For yours, then, not tor theirs." 
"But why did you .amain at Bath!" inquired 
Glastonbury. 

" I had not been the t more than a day or two, 
when my principal err .litor came down from town 
and menaced me. He had a power of attorney 
from a usurer at Malta, and talked of applying to 
the Horse Guards. The report that I was going 
to marry an heiress had kept these fellows quiet; but 
the delay, and my absence from Bath, had excited 
bis suspicion. Instead, therefore, of coming to an 
immediate explanation with Katherine, brought 
about, as I had intended, by my coldness and neg- 
lect, I was obliged to be constantly seen with her 
in public, to prevent myself from being arrested. 
Yet I wrote to Ducie daily. I had confidence in 
my energy and skill, I thought that Henrietta 
might be for a moment annoyed or su-^jiitious ; I 
thought, however, she would be supported by the 
fervour of m\ love — I anticipated no other evil. 
Who could have supposed that those inft'rn.-\l visit- 
ers would have come at such a moment to this 
retired spot!" 

" And now, is all known now V inquired Glas- 
tonbur)'. 

"Nothing," replied Fcnlinand; "the dilficultv 
79 



of my position was so great, that I was about to 
cut the knot, by quitting Bath and leaving a letter 
addressed to Katherine confessing all. But the 
sudden silence of Henrietta drove me mad. Day 
after day elapsed ; two, three,- four, five, six days, 
and I heard nothing. The moon was bright — the 
mail was just going off. I yielded to an iriesistiblo 
impulse. I bid adieu to no one. I jumped in. I 
was in London only ten minutes. I dashed to 
Ducie. It was deserted ; an old woman told me 
the family had gone, had utterly departed. Siw 
knew not where, but she thought for foreign parts. 
I sank down, I tottered to a seat in that hall where 
I had been so happy. Then it flashed across my 
mind, that I miglit discover their course and pursue 
them. I hurried to the nearest posting town. I 
found out their route. I lost it forever at the next 
stage. The clue was gone ; it was market-daj', 
and, in a great city, where horses are changed 
every minute, there is so much confusion, that my 
inquiries were utterh' baffled. And here I am, 
Mr. Glastonburj'," added Ferdinand, with a kind of 
mad smile. " I have travelled four days, I have 
not slept a wink, I have tasted no food ; but I have 
drank, I have drank well. Here I am, and I have 
half a mind to set fire to that cursed pile, called 
Armine Castle, for my funeral pyre." 

"Ferdinand, you are not well," said Air. Glas- 
tonbury, grasping his hand. " You need rest. 
You must retire; indeed you must. I must be 
obeyed. My bed is yours." 

"No ! Let me go to my own room," murmured 
Ferdinand, in a faint voice. " That room where 
my mother said the day would come — ! what 
did my mother say 1 Would there were only 
mother's love, and then I should not be here or 
thus." 

" I pray you, my child, rest here." 
" No ! Let us to the Place. For an hour ; I 
shall not sleep more than an hour. I am off again 
directly the storm is over. If it had not been for 
the cursed rain, I should have caught them. And 
yet perhaps they arc in countries where there is no 
rain. Ah ! who would believe what hapjicns in 
this world ? Not I for one. Now ! give me your 
arm. Good Glastonbury ! you are always the 
same. You seem to me the only thing in the 
world that is unchanged." 

Glastonbury, with an air of great tenderness and 
anxiety, led his former pupil down the slaii-s. The 
weather was more calm. There were some dark 
blue rifts in the black sky, which revealed a star or 
two. Ferdinand said nothing in their progress to 
the Place except ojice, when he looked up to the 
sky, and said, as it were to himself, " She loved the 
stars." 

Glastonbury had some difficult}' in rousuig the 
man and his wife, who were the inmates of the 
Place : but it was not very late, and, fortunately, 
(hey had not retired for the night. Lights wci-c 
brought into Lady Armine's drawing-room. Glas- 
tonburj- led Ferdinand to a sofa, on which he 
rather permitted others to place him than seated 
himself. He totik no notice of any thing that was 
going on, but remained with his eyes 0[>ca, gazing 
feebly with a rather vacant air. 

Then the goinl Glastonbury.- looked to the arrange- 
ment of his sleeping-room, drawing the curtains, 
seeing that the bed was well aired and warmed, 
and himself adding blocks to the wood fire which 
soon kindled. Nor did he forget to prepare, with 
3 G 



bM 



D'ISRAE LI'S NOVELS. 



(he aid of the good woman, some hot potion that 
might soothe and comfort liis stricken and ex- 
hausted ciiarge, who in this moment of distress and 
desolation had come as it were and thrown himself 
on the bosom of liis earHest friend. When all was 
arranged, Glastonbury descended to Ferdinand, 
whom he found in exactly the same position as 
that in which he left him. He offered no resist- 
ance to the invitation of Glastonbury to retire to 
his chamber. He neither moved nor spoke, and 
yet seemed aware of all they were doing. Glas- 
tonbury and the stout serving-man bore him to his 
chamber, relieved him from his wet garments, and 
jilaced him in his earliest bed. When Glastonbury 
hade him good night, Ferdinand faintly pressed his 
hand, but did not speak ; and it was remarkable, 
that while he passively submitted to their undress- 
ing him, and seemed incapable of affording them 
the slightest aid, yet he thrust forth his hand to 
guard a lock of dark hair that was placed next to 
liis heart. 



CHAPTER LX. 

IN WHICH GLASTONBtTRT FINDS THAT A SERENE 
TEMPER DOES NOT ALWAYS BRING A SERENE 
LIFE. 

Those quiet slumbers, that the regular life and 
innocent heart of the good Glastonbury generally 
insured, were sadly broken this night, as he lay 
awake meditating over the distracted fortunes of the 
house of Armine. They seemed now indeed to be 
most turbulent and clouded ; and that brilliant and 
happy future, in which of late he had so fondly 
indulged, offered nothing but gloom and dis- 
quietude. Nor was it indeed the menaced dis- 
ruption of those tics whose consummation was to 
restore the greatness and splendour of the flimily, 
and all the pain, and disappointment, and mortifica- 
tion, and misery that must be its consequence, that 
alone made him sorrowful. Glastonbury had a 
reverence for that passion which sheds such a lustre 
over existence, and is the pure and prolific source 
of much of our better conduct; the time had been 
when he, too, had loved, and with a religious sanc- 
tity worthy of his character and oflice ; he had been 
for a long life the silent and hopeless votary of a 
passion almost ideal, yet happy though " he never 
told his love ;" and, indeed, although the uncon- 
scious mistress of his affections had been long re- 
moved from that world where his fidelity was al- 
most her only coinfort, that passion had not waned, 
and the feelings that had been inspired by her pre- 
sence were now cherished by her memory. His 
tender and romantic nature, which his venerable 
gray hairs had neither dulled nor hardened, made 
him deeply sympathize with his unhappy pupil ; 
tlie radiant image of Henrietta Temple, too, vividly 
impressed on his memory as it was, rose np before 
him ; he recollected his joy that the chosen partner 
of his Ferdinand's bosom should be worthy of her 
destiny ; he thought of this fair creature, perchance 
in solitude and sii-kness, a prey to the most mortify- 
ing and miserable emotions, with all her line and 
generous feelings thrown back upon herself; deem- 
ing herself deceived, deserted, outraged, where she 
had looked for nothing but fidelity, and fondness, 
and support; losing all confidence in the world and 
tlie world's ways ; but recently so lively with ex- 



pectation and airy with enjoyment, and now aim- 
less, hopeless, wretched — perhaps broken-hearted. 

The tears trickled down the pale cheek of Glas- 
tonbury, as he revolved in his mind these mournful 
thoughts ; and almost unconsciously he -.vrung nis 
hands as he felt his utter want of power to remedy 
these sad and piteous circumstances. Vei ne was 
not absolutely hopeless. There was p' er oi)en to 
the pious Glastonbury one perennial source of trusi 
and consolation. This was a fountain that was 
evet fresh and sweet, and he took refuge from the 
world's harsh courses and exhausting cares in its 
salutary flow and its refreshing shade; wherj, 
kneeling before his crucifix, he commended the un- 
happy Ferdinand and his family to the superintend- 
ing care of a merciful Omnipotence. 

The morning brought fresh anxieties, Glaston- 
bury was at the Place at an early hour, and found 
Ferdinand in a high state of fever. He had not 
slept an instant, was very excited, talked of de- 
parting immediately, and rambled in his discourse. 
Glastonbury blamed himself for having left him for 
a moment, and resolved to do so no more. He en- 
deavoured to soothe him ; assured him that if he 
would be calm, all would go well ; and they would 
consult together what was best to be done : and 
that he would make inquiries after the Temple 
family. In the mean time he despatched the 
servant for the most eminent physician of the 
county ; but, as hours must necessarily elapse 
before his arrival, the difficulty of keeping Ferdi- 
nand still was very great. Talk he would, and of 
nothing but Henrietta. It was really agonizing to 
listen to his frantic appeals to Glastonbury, to 
exert himself to discover her abode ; yet Glaston- 
bury never left his side ; and with promises, ex- 
pressions of confidence, and the sway of an affected 
calmness — for in truth dear Glastonbuiy waa 
scarcely less agitated than his patient — Ferdinand 
was prevented from rising, and the physician at 
length arrived. 

After examining Ferdinand, with whom he re- 
mained a very short space, this gentleman quietly 
invited Glastonbury to descend below, and they left 
the patient in the charge of the servant. 

" This is a bad case," said the physician. 

" Almighty God preserve him !" exclaimed the 
agitated Glastonbury. " Tell me the worst !" 

" Where are Sir RatcUffe and Lady Armine?" 

" At Bath." 

" They must be sent for instantly." 

"Is there any hope"!" 

" There is hope ; that is all. I shall now bleed 
him copiously, and then blister; but I can do little. 
We must trust to nature. I am afraid of the brain. 
I cannot account for his state by his getting wet, 
or his rapid travelling. Has he any thmg on his 
mind V 

" Much," said Glastonbury. 

The physician shook his head. 

" It is a precious life !" said Glastonbury, seizing 
his arm. " My dear doctor, you must not leave 
us." 

They returned to the bed-chainber. 

" Captain Armine," said the physician, taking 
his hand and seating himself on tlie bed, " you 
have a bad cold and some fever — I think we shouW 
lose a little blood." 

*• Can I leave Armine to-day, if I am blooded ?' 
inquired Ferdinand, eagerly. " For go I must." 

" I would not move to-day," said the physiciati. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



627 



I must, indeed I must. Mr. Glastonbury will 
tell you I must " 

"If you set off early to-morrow, you will get 
over as much ground in four-and-twcnty hours as 
if you went this evening," said the physician, fix- 
ing the bandage on the arm as he spoke, and nod- 
dhig to Mr. G!;isfonbury to prepare the basin. 

"To-morrow morning?" said Ferdinand. 

" Yes, to-morrow," said the physician, opening 
his lancet 

" Are you sure that I shall he able to set off to- 
morrow V said Ferdinand. 

" Quite," said the physician, opening the vein. 

The dark blood flowed sullenly ; the physician 
exchanged an anxious glance with Glastonbury ; at 
length the arm was bandaged up, a composing 
th-aught, with which the physician had been pre- 
pared, given to Ills patient, and the doctor and 
Glastonbury withdrew. The former now left Ar- 
minc for three hours, and Glastonbury prepared 
himself for his painful office of communicating 
to the parents the imminent danger of their only 
child. 

Never had a more difficult task devolved upon an 
individual than that which now fell to the lot of the 
good Glastonbury in conducting the affairs of a 
family labouring under such remarkable miscon- 
ceptions as to the position and views of its various 
members. It immediately occurred to him, that it 
was highly probable that Miss Grantluson, at such a 
crisis, would choose to accompany the parents of 
her intended husband. What incident, under the 
present circumstances, could be more awkward and 
more painful ? Yet how to prevent its occurrence ! 
How crude to communicate the real state of such 
affairs at anj' time by letter ! How impossible at 
tlie moment he was preparing the parents for the 
alarming, perhaps fatal, illness of their child, to 
enter on such subjects at all, much more when the 
very revelation, at a moment which required all 
their energy and promptitude, would only be occa- 
BJoning at Bath scenes scarcely less distracting and 
disastrous than those occurring at Armine. It \Vas 
clearly impossible to enter into any details at pre- 
sent; and yet Glastonbury, while he penned the 
gorrowful lines, and softened the sad communica- 
tion with his sympathy, added a somewhat sly post- 
•cript, wherein he impressed upon Lady Armine 
the advisability, for various reasons, that she should 
only be accompanied by her husband 



CHAPTER X. 

IK WlllCn FEIIDINANI) ARMINR IS MUCH COW- 
CEUNKn, 

TiiE contingency which Glastonbury feared, 
Kurely happened. Miss (Jrandison insisted upon 
immediately rushing to her Ferdinand ; and as the 
maiden aunt was still an invalid, and was quite in- 
capable of enduring the fatigues of a rapid and 
anxious journey, she was left behind. Within a 
few hours of the receipt of Glastonbury's letter, Sir 
Rdtcliffe and Lady Armine, and their niece, were 
«>n their way. 'i'hev found letters from Glaston- 
bury in London, which made them travel to Armine, 
even through the night 

In spite of all his remedies, the brain fever, 



which the physician foresaw, had occurred ; and 
vi'hen his family arrived, the life of Ferdinand was 
not only in danger, but desperate. It was impossi- 
ble even that the parents could .see their child, and 
no one was allowed to enter his cliamber but his 
nurse, the pliy.sician, and occasionally Glastonbury ; 
for this name, with others less familiar to the house- 
hold, sounded .so often on the frenzied lips of the 
sufferer, that it was recommended that Glastonbury 
should often be at his bedside. Yet he must leave 
it, to receive the wretched Sir Ratcliffc and his wife, 
and their disconsolate companion. Never was so 
much uiihappincss congregated together under one 
roof; and yet, perhaps, Glastonbury, though tho 
only one who retained the least connnand over him- 
self, was, with liis sad secret, the most wo-begone 
of tlic tribe. 

As for Lady Armine, she sat without the door of 
her son's chamber the whole day and night, clasp- 
ing a crucifix in her hands; nor would she ever 
undress, or lie down, except upon a sofa which was 
placed for her, but was absorbed in silent prayer. 
Sir Ratcliffe remained below, prostrate. The un- 
happy Katherine in vain offered the consolation she 
herself so needed ; and would have wamlered about 
that Armine of which .she had heard so much, and 
where she was to have been so happy, a forlorn and 
solitary being, had it not been for the attentions of 
the considerate Glastonburj', who embraced every 
opportunity of being her companion. His patience, 
his heavenly resignation, his pious hope, his vigi- 
lant care, his spiritual consolation, occasionally 
even the gleams of agreeable converse with which 
he attempted to divert her brooding mind, consoled 
and maintained her. How often did she look at 
his benignant countenance, and not wonder that 
the Armincs were so attached to this engaging and 
devoted friend. 

For three days did this unhappy family expect 
in teiTible anticipation that each m.omcnt would wit 
ness the last event in the life of tlieir son. His 
distracted voice caught too often the vigilant and 
agonized ear of his motlier ; yet she gave no evi- 
dence of the pang, except by clasping her crucifix 
with increased energy. She had promised the 
physician that she would command herself, that no 
sound should escape her lips, and she rigidly ful- 
filled the contract on which she was permitted to 
remain. 

On the eve of the fourth day Ferdinand, who 
had never yet closed his eyes, but who had become, 
during tlie last twelve hours, somewhat more com- 
posed, fell into a slumber. The physician lightly 
dropped the hand which he had scarcely ever 
quitted, and, stealing out of the room, beckoned, 
his finger pressed to his lij), to Lady Armine to 
follow him. Assured by the symbol that the worst 
had not yet happened, she followed the physician 
to the end of the gallery, and he then told her that 
irnmc^diale danger was past. Lady Armine swooned 
in his arms. 

" .\nd now, my dear madam," said the physician 
to her, when she had revived, " you must breathe 
some fresh air. Oblige me by descending." 

Lady Armine no longer refused ; she repaired 
with a slow stop to Sir RatclilVe : she leaned upon 
her husband's breast as she murmured to him her 
hopes. They went forth together. Katherine and 
Glastonbury were in the garden. The appearance 
of Lady Armine gave them hopes. There was a 
faint smile on her face which needed not words tc 



628 



D'ISRAELI S NOVELS. 



explain it. Katherine sprang forward, and threw 
her arms around her aunt's neck. 

" He may be saved, he may be saved," whispered 
the mother ; for in this hushed house of impending 
death tliey had lost almost the power, as well as the 
habit, of speaking in any other tone. 

" He sleeps," said the physician, " all present 
danger is past." 

" It is too great joy," murmured Katherine ; and 
Glastonbury advanced and caught in his arms her 
insensible form. 



CHAPTER Xr. 

IN WHICH FERDINAND BEGINS TO GET A LITTLB 
TROUBLESOME. 

From the moment of this happy slumber, Fer- 
dinand continued to improve. Each day the bul- 
letin was more favourable, until his progress, though 
glow, was declared certain, and even relapse was 
no longer apprehended. But his physician would 
not allow him to see any one of his family- It 
was at night, and during his slumbers, that Lady 
Armine stole into his room to gaze upon her be- 
loved child ; and if he moved even in the slightest 
degree, faithful to her promise and the injunction 
of the physician, she instantly glided behind his 
curtain, or a large Indian screen which she had 
placed there purposely. Often, indeed, did she re- 
main in this fond lurking-place, silent and trembling, 
when her child was even awake, listening to every 
breath, and envying the nurse, that might gaze on 
him undisturbed ; nor would she allow any suste- 
nance that he was ordered, to be prepared by any 
but her own fair, fond hands ; and she brought it 
herself even to his door. For Ferdinand himself, 
though his replies to the physician satisfactorily 
attested the healthy calmness of his mind, he in- 
deed oAerwise never spoke, but lay on his bed 
without repining, and seemingly plunged in mild 
and pensive abstraction. At length one morning 
he inquired for Glastonbury, who, with the sanction 
of the physician, immediately attended him. 

When he met the eye of that faithful friend, he 
tried to extend his hand. It was so wan, that 
Glastonbury trembled while he touched it. 

" I have given you much trouble," he said in a 
faint voice. 

" I think only of the happiness of your recovery," 
said Glastonbury. 

" Yes, I am recovered," murmured Ferdinand ; 
" it was not my wish." 

" O ! be grateful to God for this great mercy, 
my Ferdinand." 

" You have heard nothing 1" inquired Ferdi- 
nand. 

Glastonbury shook his head. 

" Fear not to speak ; I can struggle no more, I 
am resigned. I am very much changed." 

" You will be happy, dear Ferdinand," said 
Glastonbui^, te whom this mood gave hopes. 

" Never " ne said in a more energetic tone. 
" Never." 

" There are so many that love you," said Glas- 
tonbury, leading his thoughts to his family. 

" Love !" exclaimed Ferdinand, with a sigh, and 
in a tone almost reproachful. 

" Youi dear mother," said Glastonbury. 



" Yes ! my dear mother," replied Ferdinand, 
musingly. Then in a quicker tone. " Does she 
know of my illness 1 Did you write to them V 

" She knows of it." 

" She will be coming, then. I dread her coming, 
I can bear to see no one. You, dear Glastonbury, 
you — it is a consolation to see you, because you 
have seen" — and here his voice faltered — "you 
have seen her." 

" My Ferdinand, think only of your health ; and 
happiness, believe me, will yet be yours." 

" If you could only find out where she is," con- 
tinued Ferdinand, " and go to her. Yes ! my dear 
Glastonbury, good, dear Glastonbury, go to her," 
he added in an imploring tone ; " she would believe 
you ; every one believes you. I cannot go, I am 
powerless ; and if I went, alas ! she would not be- 
lieve me." 

" It is my wish to do every thing you desire," 
said Glastonbury, " I should be content to be ever 
labourmg for your happiness. But I can do nothing 
unless you are calm." 

" I am calm ; I will be calm ; I will act entirely 
as you wish. Only I beseech you see her." 

" On that head let us say no more," replied 
Glastonbury, who feared that excitement might 
lead to relapse ; yet anxious to soothe him, he 
added, " Trust in my humble services ever, and in 
the bounty of a merciful Providence." 

" I have had dreadful dreams," said Ferdinand. 
" I thought I was in a farmhouse ; every thing 
was so clear, so vivid. Night after night she 
seemed to be sitting on this bed. I touched her, 
her hand was in mine, it was so burning hot ! 
Once, ! once, once I thought she had forgiven 
me !" 

"Hush! hush! hush!" 

" No more : we will speak of her no more. When 
comes my mother ?" 

" You may see her to-morrow, or the day after." 

" Ah ! Glastonbury, she is here," 

" She is." 

" Is she alone ■?" 

" Your father is with her." 

" My mother and my father. It is well." Then 
after a minute's pause he added with some ear- 
nestness, " Do not deceive me, Glastonbury ; see 
what deceit has brought me to. Are you sure that 
they are quite alone ]" 

" There are none here but your dearest friends, 
none whose presence should give you the slightest 
care." 

" There is one," said Ferdinand. 

" Dear Ferdinand, let me now leave you, or sit 
by your side in silence. To-morrow you will see 
your mother." 

" To-morrow. Ah ! to-morrow. Once to me 
to-morrow was brighter even than to-day." He 
turned his back and spoke no more: Glastonbury 
glided out of the room. 



CHAPTER XIL 

CONTAINING THE INTIMATION OF A SOMEWHAT 
MTSTERIOUS ADVENTURE, 

It was absolutely necessary that Lady Armine's 
interview with her son should be confined merely 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



6-29 



to observations about his health. Any allusion to 
the past might not only proiluce a relapse of his 
fever, but occasion explanations, at all times most 
painful, but at the present full of difficulty and 
danger. It was therefore with feelings of no un- 
common anxiety, that Glastonbury prepared the 
mother for this first visit to her son, and impressed 
upon her the absolute necessity of not making any 
allusion at present to Miss Grandison, and espe- 
cially to her presence in the house. lie even made for 
this purpose a sort of half-confidant of the physician, 
who, in truth, had heard enough duruig the fever 
to excite his suspicions ; but this is a class of men 
essentialh" discreet, and it is well, for few are the 
family secrets ultimately concealed from them. 

The interview occurred without any disagreeable 
results. The next day, Ferdinand saw his father 
for a few minutes. In a few days, Lady Arminc 
was established as nurse to her son ; Sir Ratclitle, 
easy in his mind, amused himself with his sports ; 
and Glastonbury devoted himself to Miss Grandi- 
son. The intimacy, indeed, between the tutor of 
Ferdinand and his intended bride became daily 
more complete, and Glastonbury was almost her in- 
separable companion. She found him a very in- 
teresting one. He was the most agreeable guide 
amid all the haunts of Armino and its neighbour- 
hood, and drove her delightfully in Lady Armiiic's 
pony phaeton. He could share, too, all her pur- 
suits, and open to her many new ones. Though 
time had stolen something of its force from the 
voice of Adrian Glastonbury, it still was wondrous 
sweet ; his musical accomphshments were complete ; 
and he could guide the pencil or prepare the herbal, 
and indite fair stanzas in his fine Italian liand- 
writing in a lady's album. All his collections, too, 
■were at Miss Grandison's service. She handled 
with rising curiosity his medals, copied his choic e 
drawings, and even began to study heraldr}-. 
His interesting conversation, his mild and benig- 
nant manners, his captivating simplicity, and the 
elegant purity of his mind, secured her confidence 
and won her heart. She loved him as a father, 
and he soon exercised over her an influence almost 
irresistible. 

Every morning as soon as he awoke, every even- 
ing before he composed himself again for his night's 
repose, Ferdinand sent for Glastonbury, and always 
saw him alone. At first he requested his mother 
to leave the room, but Lady Annine, who attributed 
these regular visits to a spiritual cause, scarcely 
needed the expression of this desire. His first 
questions to Glastonbury were ever the same. 
" Had he heard any thing ? Were there any let- 
ters 1 He thought there might be a letter — was 
he sure 1 Had he sent to Bath — to London — for 
his letters'?" When he was answered in tlie ne- 
gative, he usually dwelt no more uj'on the subject. 
One morning he said to Glastonbury, " I kjiow 
Katherine is in the house." 

" Miss Grandison is here," replied Glaston- 
bury. 

" Why don't they mention her ? Is all known V 

" Nothing is known," said Glastonbury. 

" Why don't they mention her, then ? Are you 
sure all is not known?" 

" At my suggestion, her name has not been 
mentioned. I was unaware how j'ou might re- 
ceive the intelligence ; but tlie true cause of my 
suggestion is still a secret." 



" I must see her," said Ferdinand, " I must speak 
to her." 

" You can see her when you please," replied 
Glastonbury ; " but I would not speak upon the 
great suhject at present." 

" But she is existing all this time under a delu- 
sion. Every day makes my conduct to her more 
infamous." 

" Miss Grandison is a wise and most admirable 
young lady," said Glastonbury^ " I love her from 
the bottom of my heart ; I would recommend no 
conduct that could injure her, assuredly none that 
can disgrace you." 

" Dear Glastonbury, what shall I doT' 

" Bo silent; the time will come when you may 
speak. At present, however anxious she may be 
to see you, there are plausible reasons for your not 
meeting. Be patient, my Ferdinand." 

" Good Glastonbury, good, dear Glastonbury, I 
am too (juick and fretful. Pardon me, dear friend. 
You know not what I feel. Thank God you do 
not, but my heart is broken." 

When Glastonbury returned to the library, he 
found Sir Katclilfe playing with his dogs, and 
Miss Grandison copying a dravk'ing. 

" How is Ferdinand V inquired the father. 

"He mends daily," replied Glastonbury. "If 
only ,May-day were at hand instead of Christmas, 
he would soon be himself again ; but I dread the 
winter," 

"And yet the sun shines 1" said Miss Grandi- 
son. 

Glastonbury went to the window and looked at 
the sky. " I think, my dear lady, we might almost 
venture upon our promised excursion to the Abbey 
to-day. Such a day as this may not quickly be re- 
peated. We might take our sketch book." 

" It would be delightful," said Miss Grandison ; 
" but before I go, I must pick some flowers for Fer- 
dinand." So saying, she sprang from her seat, and 
ran out into tlie garden. 

" Kate is a sweet creature," said Sir Ratcliflfe to 
Glastonbuiy. "Ah! my dear Glastonbury, you 
know not what happiness I experience in the 
thought that she will soon be my daughter." 

Glastonbury could not refrain from sighing. He 
took up the pencil and touched her drawing. 

" Do you know, dear Glastonbury," resumed 
Sir Katclilfe, " I had little hope in our late visita- 
tion. I cannot say I had prepared myself for the 
worst, but I anticipated it. We have had so much 
unhappiness in our family, that I could not per- 
suade myself that the cup was not gomg to be 
dashed from our lips." 

" God is merciful," said Glastonbury. 

" You are his minister, dear Glastonbury,'-, and a 
worthy one. I know not what we should have 
done without you in this awful trial ; but, indeed, 
what could I have done Uiroughout life without 
you?" 

" Let us hope that every thmg is for the best,'' 
said Glastonbury. 

" And his mother, his poor mother — what would 
have become of her ! She never could have sur- 
vived his loss. As for myself, I would have quilted 
England forever, and gone into a monaster)-." 

'• Let us only remember that he lives," said 
Glastonbury. 

"And that we shall soon all be happj," said 
Sir Katcliife, in a more animated tone. " Tho 
3g3 



630 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



future is, indeed, full of solace. But we must take 
care of him ; he is too rapid in his movements. 
He has my father's blood in him, that is clear. I 
never could well make out why he left Bath so 
suddenly, and rushed down in so strange a manner 
to this place." 

" Youth is impetuous," said Glastonbury. 

" It was lucky you were here, Glastonbury." 

" I thank God that I was," said Glastonbury, 
earnestly ; then checking himself, he added — " that 
I have been of any use." 

" You are always of use. What should we do 
without you 1 I should long ago have sunk. Ah I 
Glastonbury, God in his mercy sent you to us." 

" See here," said Katherine, entering, her fair 
cheek glowing with animation ; " only dahlias, but 
they will look pretty, and enliven his room. ! 
that I might write him a little word, and tell him I 
am here ! Do not you think I might, Mr. Glas- 
tonbui7 V 

" He will know that you are here to-day," said 
Glastonbury. " To-morrow — " 

" You always postpone it," said Miss Grandison, 
in a tone half playful, half reproachful; "and yet 
it is selfish to murmur. It is for his good that I 
bear this bereavement, and that thought should con- 
sole me. Heigho !'' 

Sir Ratclitfe stepped forward and kissed his 
niece. Glastonbury was busied on the drawing : 
lie turned away his face, for a tear was trickling 
down his cheek. 

Sir Ratcliffe took up his gun. " God bless you, 
dear Kate," he said : " a pleasant drive and a choice 
sketch. We shall meet at dinner." 

" At dinner, dear uncle ; and better sport than 
yesterday." 

" Ha ! ha !" said Sir Ratcliife. " But Armine 
is not like Grandison. If I were in the old pre- 
serves, you should have no cause to sneer at my 
sportsmanship." 

Miss Grandison's good wishes were prophetic : 
Sir Ratcliffe found excellent sport, and returned 
home very late, and in capital spirits. It was the 
dinner hour, and yet Katherine and Glastonbury 
had not returned. He was rather surprised. The 
shades of evening were fast descending, and the 
distant lawns of Armine were already invisible ; 
the low moan of the rising wind might be just dis- 
tinguished ; and the coming night promised to be 
raw and cloudy, perhaps tempestuous. Sir Rat- 
cliffe stood before the crackling fire in the dining- 
room, otherwise in darkness — but the flame threw 
a bright yet glancing light upon the Snyders, so 
that the figures seemed really to move in the 
shifting shades, the eye of the infuriate boar almost 
to emit sparks of rage, and there wanted but the 
shouts of the huntsmen and the panting of the dogs 
to complete the tumult of the chase. 

Just as Sir Ratcliffe was anticipating some mis- 
chance to his absent friends, and was about to steal 
upon tiptoe to Lady Armine, who was with Ferdi- 
nand, to consult her, the practised ear of a man 
who lived much in the air caught the distant sound 
of wheels, and he went out to welcome them. 

" Why, you are late," said Sir Ratcliffe, as the 
phaeton approached the house. " All right, I hope." 

He stepped forward to assist Miss Grandison. 
The darkness of the evening prevented htm from 
observing her swollen eyes and agitated counte- 
nance. She sprang out of the carriage in silence, 
and immediately ran up into her room. As for 



Glastonbury, he only observed it was very cold, and 
entered the house with Sir Ratclitfe. 

" This fire is hearty," said Glastonbuiy, warm- 
ing himself before it ; " you have had good sport, I 
hope ! We are not to wait dinner for Miss Gran- 
dison, Sir Ratcliffe. She will not come down this 
evening ; .she is not very well." 

" Not very well ! Ah ! the cold, I fear. You 
have been very imprudent in staying so late. I 
must run and tell Lady Armine." 

" Oblige me, I pray, by not doing so," said 
Glastonbury ; " Miss Grandison most particularly 
requested that she should not be disturbed." 

It was with difBculty that Glastonbury could con- 
trive that Miss Grandison's wishes should be com- 
plied with ; but at length he succeeded in getting 
Sir Ratcliffe to sit down to dinner, and affecting a 
cheerfulness which was, indeed, far from his spirit. 
The hour of ten at length arrived, and Glastonbury, 
before retiring to his tower, paid his evening visit 
to Ferdinand. 



CHAPTER Xin. 

IN^ WHICH THK FAMILY PEIIPLEXITIES RATHER 
INCHEASE THAN DIMIXISH. 

If ever there were a man who deserved a serene 
and happy life, it was Adrian Glastonbury. He 
had pursued a long career without injuring or of- 
fending a human being ; his character and conduct 
were alike spotless ; he was void of guile ; he had 
never told a falsehood, never been entangled in the 
slightest deceit ; he was very easy in his circum- 
stances ; he had no relations to prey upon his purse 
or his feelings; and though alone in the world, 
was blessed with such a sweet and benignant tem- 
per, gifted with so many resources, and adorned 
with so many accomplishments, that he appeared to 
be always employed, amused, and content. And 
yet, by a strange contrariety of events, it appeared 
this excellent person had become placed in a situa- 
tion which is generally the consequence of impe- 
tuous passions not very scrupulous in obtaining their 
ends. That breast, which heretofore would have 
shrunk from being analyzed only from the refined 
modesty of its nature, had now become the reposi- 
tory of terrible secrets; the day could scarcely pass 
over without finding him in a position which ren- 
dered equivocation on his part almost a necessity; 
while all the anxieties inseparable from pecuniary 
embarrassments were forced upon his attention, 
and his feelings were racked from sympathy with 
individuals who were bound to him by no other tie, 
but to whose welfare he felt himself engaged to sa- 
crifice all his pursuits, and devote all his time and 
labour. And yet he did not murmur, although he 
had scarcely hope to animate him. In whatever 
light he viewed coming events, they apjiearcd omi- 
nous only of evil. All that he aimed at now was 
to soothe and support, and it was his unshaken 
confidence in Providence that alone forbade him 
to despair. 

When he repaired to the Place in the morning, 
he found every thing in confusion. Miss Grandison 
was very unwell; and Lady Armine, frightened by 
the recent danger from which they had escaped, 
very alarmed. She could no longer conceal from 
Ferdinand that his Katherine was here, and perhaps 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



631 



Lady Arminc was somewhat surprised at the calm- 
ness with which her son received the intelligence. 
But Miss Grandison was not only very unwell, but 
very obstinate. She would not leave her room, but 
insisted that no medical advice should be called in. 
Lady Ariniiie protested, supplicated, adjured ; Miss 
Grandison appealed to Mr. Glastonbury ; and Glas- 
tonbury, who was something of a physician, was 
called in, and was obliged to assure I-ady Arminc 
that Miss Grandison was only sufiering from a cold, 
and only required repose. A very warm friendship 
subsisted between Lady Armine and her niece. 
She had always been Katherine's favourite aunt, 
and during the past year there had been urgent 
reasons why Jjady Armine should have cherished 
this predisposition in her favour. Lady Armine 
was a very fascinating person, and all her powers 
had been employed to obtain an influence over the 
heiress. They had been quite successful. Miss 
Grandison looked forward almost with as much plea- 
sure to being Lady Armine's daughter as Iier son's 
bride. The intended mother-in-law was in turn as 
warm-hearted as her niece was engaging ; and event- 
ually Lady Armine loved Katheiine, not merely 
because she was to marry her son, and make his 
fortune. 

In a few days, however, Miss Grandison an- 
nounced she was quite recovered, and Lady Armine 
again devoted her unbroken attention to her son, 
who was now about to rise for the first time from 
his bed. But, although Miss Grandison was no 
longer an invalid, it is quite certain thai if the atten- 
tion of the other members of the family had not 
been so entirely engrossed, that a very great change 
in her behaviour could not have escaped their no- 
tice. Her flowers and drawings seemed to have 
lost their relish ; her gayety to have deserted her. 
She passed a great portion of the morning in her 
own room, and although it was announced to her 
that Ferdinand was aware of her being an inmate 
of the Place, and that in a day or two they might 
meet, .she scarcely e\ inced, at this prospect of resum- 
ing his society, as much gratification as might 
have been expected ; and though she daily took 
care that his chamber should still be provided with 
flowers, it might have been remarked that the note 
she had been so an.xious to send him, was never 
written. But how much, under the commonest 
course of circumstances, happens in all domestic cir- 
cles, that is never observed, or never remarked, till 
the observation is too late ! 

At length the day arrived when Lady Armine 
invited her niece to visit her son. Miss Grandison 
expressed her readiness to accompany her aunt, but 
took an opportunity of requesting Glastonbury to 
join them ; and all three proceeded to the chamber 
of the invalid. 

The white curtain of the room was drawn, but 
though the liglit was softened, the apartment was 
by no means obscure. Ferdinand was sitting in 
an easy chair, supported by pillows. A black hand- 
kerchief was just twined round his forehead, for his 
head had been shaved, except a few curls on the 
side and front, which looked stark and lustreless. 
He was so thin and pale, and his eyes and cheeks 
were so wan and hollow, that it was scarcely credi- 
ble that in so short a space of time a man could 
have become such a wreck. W hen he saw Kathe- 
rine he involuntarily dropped his eyes, but extended 
nis hand to her with some etfort of earnestness. 
She was almost as pale as he. but she took his hand. 



It was so light and cold, it felt so much like death, 
that the tears stole down her cheek. 

" You hardly know me, Katherine," said Ferdi- 
nand, very feebly. "This is good of you to visit a 
sick man." 

Miss Grandison could not reply, and Lady Ar- 
mine made an observation to break the awkward 
pause. 

"And how do you like Armine ?" said Ferdi- 
nand. " I wish that I could be your guide. But 
Glastonbury is so kind !" 

A hundred times Miss Grandison tried to reply, to 
speak, to make the commonest observation, but it was 
in vain. She grew paler every moment; her lips 
moved, but they sent forth no sound. 

" Kate is not well," said Lady Armine. " She 
has been very unwell. This visit," she added in a 
whisper to Ferdinand, " is a little too much f jr her," 

Ferdinand sighed. 

"Mother," he at length said, "you must ask 
Katherine to come and sit here with you; if indeed 
she will not feel the imprisonment." 

Miss Grandison turned in her chair, and hid her 
face with her handkerchief. 

" My sweet child," said Lady Armine, rising and 
kissing her, " this is too much for you. You really 
must restrain yourself. Ferdinand will soon be 
himself again, he will indeed." 

Miss Grandison sobbed aloud. Glastonbury was 
much distressed, but Ferdinand avoided catching 
his eye ; and yet, at last, Ferdinand said with an 
effort and in a very kind voice, " Dear Kate, come 
and sit by me." 

Miss Grandison went into hysterics, Ferdinand 
sprang from his chair and seized her hand ; Lady 
Armine tried to restrain her son ; Glastonbury held 
the agitated Katherine. 

" For God's sake, Ferdinand, be calm," exclaimed 
Lady Armine. "This is most unfortunate. Dear, 
dear Katherine — but slie has such a heart ! All the 
women have in our family, but none of the men, 
'tis so odd. Mr. (ilastonbuiy, water if you please, 
that glass of water — sal volatile ; where is the sal 
volatile 1 My own, own Katherine, pray, pray re- 
strain yourself! Ferdinand is here; remember 
Ferdinand is here, and he will soon be well ; soon 
quite well. Believe me, he is already quite another 
thing. There, drink that, darling, drink that. You 
arc better now?" 

" I am so foolish," said Miss Grandison, in a 
mournful voice. " I can never pardon myself for 
this. Let me go." 

Glastonbury bore her out of the room; Lady Ar- 
mine turned to her son. He was lying back in his 
chair, his hands covering his eyes. The mother 
stole gently to him, and wiped tenderly his brow, 
on which hung the light drops of perspiration, oc- 
casioned by his recent exertion. 

" We have done too much, my own Ferdinand. 
Yet who could have expected that dear girl would 
have been so aflectcd 1 Glastonbury was indeed 
right in preventing you so long from meeting. And 
yet it is a blessing to see that she has so fond a 
heart. You are fortunate, my Ferdinand ; you will 
indeed be happy with her." 

Ferdinand groaned. 

" I shall never be happy," he murmured. 

" Never happy, my Ferdinand ! O I you must 
not be so low-spirited. Think how much better 
you are ; think, my Ferdinand, what a change there in 
for the better. You will soon be well, dearest, and 



633 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



then, my love, you Icnow you cannot help being 
happy." 

" Mother," said Ferdinand, " you are deceived, 
you are all deceived — 1, I — " 

" No ! Ferdinand, indeed we are not. I am con- 
fident, and I pniise God for it, that you are getting 
better every day. But you have done too much, 
that is the truth. I will leave 3'ou now, love, and 
send the nurse, for my presence excites you. Try 
to sleep, darling." And Lady Armine rang the 
bell and quitted the room. 



CHAPTER XIV 

IX WHICn SOME LIRHT TS THnoWN UPOX SOMF. 
CIRCU^ISTANCES WHICH WERE liEFOUE RA- 
THER MTSTEHIOCS. 

Lapt Armixe now proposed that the family 
should meet in Ferdinand's room after dinner; but 
Glastonbury, whose opinion on most subjects gene- 
rally prevailed, scarcely approved of this suggestion. 
It w.as, therefore, but once acted upon during the 
week that followed the scene described in our last 
chapter, and on that evening Miss Grandison had 
so very severe a headach, that it was quite impos- 
sible for her to join the circle. At length, however, 
Ferdinand made his appearance below, and esta- 
bhshed himself in the library : it now, therefore, 
became absolutely necessary that Miss Grandison 
should steel her nerves to the altered state of her 
betrothed, which had at first apparently so much 
affected her sensibility, and, by the united influence 
of hal)it and Mr. Glastonbury, it is astonishing 
what progress she made. She even at last could 
so command her feelings, that she apparently 
greatly contriliuted to his amusement. She joined 
in the family concerts, once even read to him. 
Every morning, too, she brought him a flower, and 
often offered him her arm. And yet Ferdinand 
could not resist observing a very great difference in 
her behaviour towards him since he had last quitted 
her at Bath. Far from conducting herself as he 
had nervously apprehen<led, as if her claim to be 
his companion were irresistilile, her carriage, on 
the contrary, indicated the most retiring disposition; 
she annoyed him with no expressions of fondness, 
and listened to the kind words which he occasion- 
ally urged himself to bestow upon her, with a sen- 
timent of grave regard and placid silence, which 
almost filled him v\'ith astonishment. 

One morning, the weather being clear and fine, 
Ferdinand insisted that his mother, who had as yet 
scarcely quitted his side, should drive out with Sir 
Ratcliffe ; and, as he would take no refusal. Lady 
Armine agreed to comply. The carriage was 
ordered, was at the door ; and as Lady Armine 
bade him adieu, Ferdinand rose from his seat and 
took the arm of Miss (rrandison, who seemed on 
the point of retiring ; for Glastonbury remained, 
and therefore Ferdinand was not without a com- 
panion. 

" I will see you go off," said Ferdinand. 

"Adieu!" said Lady Armine. "Take care of 
him, dear Kate," and the phaeton was soon out of 
eight. 

" It is more like May than January," said Ferdi- 
nand to his cousin. " I fancy I should like to walk 
a little." 

" Shall I send for Mr. Glastonbury ?" said Ka- 
iherine. 



" Not if my arm be not too heavy for you," said 
Ferdinand. So they walked slowly on, perhaps 
some fifty yards, until they arrived at a garden-seat, 
very near the rose tree whose flowers Henrietta 
Temple had so much admired. It had no flowers 
now, but seemed as desolate as their unhappy loves. 
" A moment's rest," said Ferdinand, and sighed. 
" Dear Kate, I wish to speak to you." 
Miss Grandison turned very pale. 
" I have something on my mind, Katherine, of 
which I would endeavour to relieve myself" 

Miss Grandison did not reply, but she trembled. 
" It concerns you, Katherine." 

Still she was silent, and expressed no astonish- 
ment at this strange address. 

" If I were any thing now but an object of pity, 
a miserable and broken-hearted man," continued 
Ferdiiiantl, " I might shrink from this communica- 
tion ; I might delegate to another this office, humi- 
liating as it might then be to me, painful as it must, 
under any circumstances, be to you. But," and 
here his voice faltered, " but I am far beyond the 
power of any mortification now. The world, 
and the world's ways touch me no more. There 
is a duty to fuUil — I will fulfil it. I have offended 
against you, my sweet and gentle cousin — griev- 
ously, bitterly, infamously offended." 

"No, no, no !" murmured Miss Grandison. 
" Katherine, I am unworthy of you ; I have de- 
ceived you. It is neither for your honour nor your 
happiness that these tics, which our friends antici- 
pate, should occur between us. But, Katherine, 
you are avenged." 

" ! I want no vengeance !" muttered Miss 
Grandison, her face pale as marble, her e\'es con- 
vulsively closed. " Cease, cease, Ferdinand; this 
conversation is madness; you will be ill again." 

" No, Katherine, I am calm. Fear not for me. 
There is much to tell; it must be told, if only that 
you should not believe that I was a systematic 
villain, or that my feelings were engaged to another 
when I breathed to you those vows — " 

" O ! any thing but that ; speak of any thing 
but that !" 

Ferdinand took her hand. 

" Katherine, listen to me. I honour you, my 
gentle cousin, I admire, I esteem you ; I could die 
content if I could but see you happy. With your 
charms and virtues, I thought that we might be 
happy. My intentions were as sincere as my be- 
lief in our futiu-e felicity. O ! no, dear Katherine, 
I could not ti'ifle with so pure and gentle a bosom." 
"Have I accused you, Ferdinand!" 
" But you will — when you know all." 
" I do know all," said Miss Grandison, in a hol- 
low voice. 

Her hand fell from the weak and trembling grasp 
of her cousin. 

" You do know all !" he at lenglh exclaimed. 
" And can you, knowing all, live under the same 
roof with me ? Can j'ou see me ? Can you listen 
to me 1 Is not my voice torture to you 1 Do you 
not hate and despise me?" 

" It is not my nature to hate any thing ; least 
of all could I hate you." 

" And could you, knowing all, still minister to 
all my wants and watch my sad necessities ! This 
gentle arm of yours, could you, knowing all, let me 
lean uj'on it this morning ? O ! Katherine, a 
happy lot be yours, i'ln you deserve one !" 

" Ferdinand, I ha\e acted as duty, religion, and. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



633 



t mv he, some otlicr considerations, prompted me. 
Mv feelings have not been so much considered 
that the)- need now he analyzed." 

" Keproach me, Kath.crinc — I deserve your re- 
proaches." 

" Mine may not he the only reproaches that you 
have deserved, Ferdinand ; hut permit me to re- 
mark, from me you have received none. I pity 
you, I sincerely pity you." 

" Glastonbury has told you ?" said Ferdinand. 

"'i'hat communication is among the other good 
offices we owe him," replied Miss Grandison. 

" He told you '!" said Ferdinand, inquiringly. 

"All that was necessarj- I should know for your 
honour, or, as some might think, for my ovi'n hap- 
piness ; no more, I would listen to no more. I 
had no idle curiosity to gratify. It is enough that 
your heart is another's ; I seek not, I wish not to 
know that person's name." 

"I cannot mention it," said Ferdinand ; "but 
there is no secret from you. Glastonbury may, 
should tell all." 

" Amid the wretched, she is not the least mise- 
rable," said Miss Grandison. 

" O ! Katherine," said Ferdinand, after a mo- 
ment's [tause, '• tell me that you do not hate me ; 
tell me that you pardon me; tell me that you think 
me more ni;i(l than wicked !" 

" Ferdinand,"' said Miss Grandison, " I think we 
are both unfortunate." 

" I am without hope," said Ferdinand : " but 
you, Katherine, your life must still be bright and 
fair." 

" I can never be happy, Ferdinand, if you are 
not. I am alone in the world. Vour family are 
my only relations ; I cling to them. Your mother 
is my mother ; I love her with the passion of a 
child. I looked upon our union only as the seal 
of that domestic feeling that had long hound us all. 
My happiness now entirely depends upon your 
family, theirs I feel is staked upon you. It is the 
conviction of the total desolation that must occur, 
if our estrangement be suddenly made known to 
them — and you, who are so impetuous, decide 
upon any rash course, in consequence — that has 
induced ine to sustain the painful part I now up- 
hold. This is the reason that I would not reproach 
you, Ferdinand, that I would not quarrel with vou, 
that I would not desert them in this hour of their 
afQictit>n." 

" Katherine, beloved Katherine !" exclaimed the 
distracted Ferdinand, "why did we ever partT' 

"No, Ferdinand, let us not deceive ourselves. 
For ine, that separation, however fruitful, at the 
present moment, 4n morlilication and unhappiness, 
must not he considereil altogether an event of un- 
mingled mist'ortune. In my opinion, t'erdinand, 
it is better to Ix; despised for a moment, tlian to be 
neglected for a life." 

" Despised ! Katherine, for God's sake spare 
me ; for God's sake do not use such language I 
Despised ! Katlierine, at this moment I declare 
most soK^nnly all that I feel is, how thoroughly, 
how infamously unworthy I am of you! Dearest 
Kaiheriiir, we cannot recall the past, we cannot 
amend it, but let me assure you that at this very 
hour tlierc is no being on earth I more esteem, 
more reverence, than yourself." 

" It is well, Ferdinand. I would not willingly 
Dclieve that your feelings towards me were other- 
wise than kind and generous. But let us under- 



stand each other. I shall remain at present undef 
this roof. Do not misapprehend my views. I seek 
not to recall your aftcctions. The past has proved 
to mc that we are completely unlitted for each 
other. I have not those dazzling quaUties that 
could enchain a fiery brain like yours. I know 
myself; I know you; and there is nothing that 
would (ill me with more terror now than our anti- 
cipated union. Anil, now, after this frank conver- 
sation, let our future intercourse be cordial and 
unembarrassed ; let us remember we are kinsfolk. 
The feelings between us should bjy^ture be kind 
and amiable : no incident has occurred to disturb 
them ; for I have not injured or oU'ended you ; and 
us for your conduct towards me, from the bottom 
of my heart I pardon and forget it." 

" Katherine," said Ferdinand, with streaming 
eyes, " kindest, most generous of women ! My 
heart is too moved, my spirit too broken, to express 
what I feel. We are kinsfolk ; let us be more. 
You say my motlier is your mother. Let me 
assert the privilege of that admission. Let me be 
a brother to you ; you shall thid me, if I live, a 
faithful one." 



CHAPTER XV. 

WHICH LEAVES AFFAIIIS IN' GEXEHAI, IW A 
SCAIICKLY M0HE SATISFACTOIH POSITION THAJT 
THE FOHMEIl ONE. 

Fehdixand felt much calmer in his mind after 
this conversation with his cousin. Heralfectionate 
attention to him now, instead of fdling him, as it 
did before, with remorse, was really a source of 
consolation, if that be not too strong a phrase to 
describe the state of one so thoroughly wretched as 
Captain Armine ; for his terrible illness and im- 
pending death had not in the slightest degree 
allayed or aflected his profound passion for Hen- 
rietta Temple. Her image unceasingly engaged 
his thoughts; he still clung to the wild idea that 
she might yet be his. But his health improved so 
slowly, that there was faint hope of his speedily 
taking any steps to induce such a result. All 
his inquiries after her — and Glastonbury, at his 
suggestion, had not been iJle — were quite fruitless. 
He made no douht that she had quitted England. 
What might not happen, far away from liim, and 
believing herself betrayed and deserted ? Often, 
when he brooded over these terrible contingencies, 
he regretted his recovery. 

Yet his family — thanks to the considerate con- 
duct of his admirable cousin — were still content 
and hap[ty. His slow convalescence now was their 
only source of anxiety. They regretted the unfa- 
vourable season of the year: they h)oked forward 
with hope to the genial influence of tlie coming 
spring. That was to cure all their cares ; and vet 
they might well suspect, when they watched his 
ever ptensive and often sutlering, countenance, that 
there were deeper causes tlian physical dehility and 
bodily i)ain to account for that moody and wo-t)e- 
gone expression. Alas ! how changed from that 
Ferdinand Armine, so full of hope, and courage, 
and youth, and beauty, that had hurst upon their 
enraptured vision, on his return from Malta. 
Where was that gayety now that made all eyes 
sparkle, tliat vivacious spirit that kindled energy in 
every bosom ? How miserable to see him crawling 



634 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



about with a wretched stick, with his thin, pale 
face, and tottering limbs, and scarcely any other 
pursuit than to creep about the plaisance, where, 
when the day was fair, his servant would place a 
campstool opposite the cedar tree where he had 
first beheld Henrietta Temple ; and there he would 
sit, until the unkind winter breeze would make him 
shiver, g;zin<^ on vacancy; yet peopled to his 
mind's eye with beautiful and fearful apparitions. 

And it is love, it is the most delightful of human 
passions, that can oring about such misery ! Why 
will its true course never run smooth I Is there a 
spell upon our heart that its finest emotions should 
lead only to despair 1 When Ferdinand Armine, 
in his reveries, dwelt upon the past; when he re- 
called the hour that he had first seen her, her first 
glance, the first sound of her voice, his visit to Du- 
cie, all the passionate scenes to which it led — 
those sweet wanderings through its enchanted 
bowers — those bright mornings, so full of expecta- 
tion that was never balked — those soft eyes, so re- 
dolent of tenderness that could never cease — when 
from the brigb.t, and glowing, and gentle scenes his 
memory conjured up, and all the transports and the 
thrill that surrounded them like an atmosphere of 
love — he turned to his shattered and broken-hearted 
self, the rigid heaven above, and what seemed to 
his, perhaps unwise and ungrateful, spirit, the me- 
chanical sympathy and commonplace aflbction of 
his companions — it was as if he had wakened from 
some too vivid and too glorious dream, or as if he 
had fallen from some Irighter and more favoured 
planet upon our cold, dull earth. ;■ 

And yet it would seem that the roof of Armine 
Place protected a family that might ■yield to few in 
the beauty and engaging qualities of its inmates, 
their liappy accomplishments, and their kind and 
cordial hearts. And all were devoted to him. It 
was on him alone the noble spirit of'diis father 
dwelt still with pride and joy ; it was to soothe and 
gratify him that his charming mother exerted all 
her graceful care and all her engaging gifts. It was 
for him, and his sake, the generous heart of his 
cousin had submitted to mortification without a 
nmrmur, or indulged her unhappiiiess only in soli- 
tude ; and it was for him that Glastonbury exer- 
cised a devotion that might alone induce a man to 
think with complacency both of his species and 
himself. But the heart, the heart, the jealous and 
despotic heart ! it rejects all substitutes, it spurns 
all compromise, and it will have its purpose or it 
will break. 

What may he the destiny of Ferdinand Armine, 
whether a brighter light is to fall on his gloomy 
fortunes, or whether his sad end may add to our 
moral instances another example of the fatal conse- 
quences of unbridled passions and ill-regulated 
conduct, will be recorded in the future books of 
fhis eventful history. 



BOOK V. 



CHAPTER I. 

CONTAINING THE APPEARANCE ON OUll STAGE OF 
A NEW AND IMPORTANT CHARACTER. 

The Marruess op Montfort was the grand- 
son of tliat nobleman who had been Glastonbury's 



earliest patron. The old duke had been dead some 
years; his son had succeeded to his title, and 
Digby, that youth whom the reader may recollect 
was about the same age as Ferdinand Armine, and 
was his companion during that happy week in 
London which preceded his first military visit to 
the Mediterranean, now bore the second title of the 
family. 

The young marquess vv'as an excellent specimen 
of a class superior in talents, inteihgcnce, and ac- 
complishments, in public spirit and in private vir- 
tues, to any in the world — -the English nobility. 
His complete education had been carefully con- 
ducted ; and although his religious creed, (for it 
will be remembered that he was a Catholic.) had 
deprived him of the advantage of matriculating at 
an English university, tlie zeal of an able and 
learnc<^l tutor, and the resources of a German alma 
mater, had afforded every opportunity to the de- 
velopement of his considerable talents. Nature had 
lavished upon him other gifts besides his distin- 
guished intelligence and his amiable temper : his 
personal beauty was remarkable, and his natural 
grace was not !i»y evident than his many acquired 
accomplishments. 

On quilting the university of Bonn, Lord Mont- 
fort had passed several years on the continent of 
Europe, and had visited and resided at most of its 
courts and capitals — an admired and cherished 
guest : for, deliarred at the period of Our story from 
occupying the seat of his ancestors in the senatf 
his native country offered no very urgent claims 
upon his presence. He had ultimately fixed upon 
Rome as his principal residence, for he was devoted 
to the arts, and in his palace were collected some 
of the rarest specimens of ancient and modern in- 
vention. 

At Pisa, Lord Montfort iiad made the acquaint- 
ance of Mr. Temple, who was residing in that city 
for the benefit of his daughter's health ; who, it was 
feared by her physician, was in a decline. I sav, 
the acquaintance of Mr. Temple ; for Lord Mont- 
fort was aware of the existence of his daughter only 
by the occasional mention of her name; for Miss 
Tenjple was never seen. The agreeable manners, 
varied information, and accomplished mind of Mr. 
Temple, had attracted and won the attention of the 
young nobleman, who shrank in general from the 
travelling f^nglish, and all their arrogant ignorance. 
Mr. Temple was in turn equally pleased with a 
companion alike refined, amiable, and enlightened ; 
and their acquaintance would have ripened into 
intimacy, had not the illness of Henrietta, and her 
repugnance to see a third person, and the unwill- 
ingness of her father that she should be alone, 
olTered in some degree a bar to its cultivation. 

Yet Henrietta was glad that her fatlier had 
found a friend and was amused, and impressed 
upon him not to think of her, but to accept Lord 
Montfort's invitations to his villa. But Mr. Tem- 
ple invariably declined them. 

" I am always uneasy when I am from you, 
dearest," said Mr. Temple: " I wish you would 
go about a little. Believe me, it is not for myself 
that I make the suggestion, but I am sure you 
would derive benefit from the exertion. I wish 
you would go with me and see Lord Montfort's 
villa. There would be no one there but himself. 
He would not in the least annoy you, he is so 
quiet; and he and I could stroll about, and look at 
the busts, and talk to each other. You would 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE, 



635 



iiarJly know he w is present. He is such a very 
quiet person." 

Henrietta shook her head, and Mr. Temple 
would not urge the request. 

Fate, however, had decided that Lord Montfort 
and Henrietta Temple should beeome acquainted. 
iShc had more tlian once expressed a wish to see 
Uie Campo Santo; it was almost the only wish 
that she had expressed since siie left England. Her 
father, pleased to Ihid that any thing could interest 
her, w;is in tiie habit of almost daily reminding her 
of ihis desire, and suggesting tivat she should gra- 
tity it. But there was ever an excuse for procras- 
tination. When the hour of exertion came, she 
would say, with a fiiint smile, " ]Vot to-day, dearest 
papa ;" anil then arranging her shawl, as if even 
in this soft elinie she shivered, compo.sed lierself 
upon lliat sofa which novv she scarcely ever 
quitted. 

And this was Henrietta Temple ! that gay and 
glorious being, so full of graceliil power and beau- 
tiful energy, tbat seemed born for a throne, and to 
command a nation of adoring subjects I What are 
those political revolutions, whose strange and 
mighty vicissitudes we are ever dilating on, com- 
pared with tbe moral mutations that are passing 
daily under our own eye; uprooting the iiearts of 
families, shattering to pieces domestic circles, scat- 
tering to the winds the plans and prospects of a 
generation, and blasting, as with mildew, the ripen- 
ing harvest of long cherished affection. 

''It is here that I would he buried," said Hen- 
rietta Temple. 

They were standing, the father and daughter, in 
the Campo Santo. She had been gayer tiiat morn- 
ing: her father had seized a happy moment, and 
she had gone fortii — to visit the dead. 

That vast and cloistered ecmctciy was silent and 
undisturbed: not a human being was there save 
themselves and the keeper. The sun shone 
brightly on the austere and ancient frescoes, and 
Henrietta stood opposite tluit beautiful sarcopha- 
gus, that seemed prepared and fitting to receive 
her destined ashes. 

" It is here that I would be buried," said she. 

Her father almost unconsciously turned his head 
to gaze upon the countenance of his daughter, to 
see if there were indeed reason that she should talk 
of death. That countenance was changed since 
the moment I first feebly attempted to picture it. 
That flashing eye had lost something of its bril- 
liancy, that superb form something of its roundness 
and tliat staglike state; the crimson glory of that 
mantling clieek had faded like the fading eve; and 
yet — it might be thought, it might be suffering, 
perhaps the anticipation of approachuig death, and 
as it were the imaginary contact with a serener 
existence ; but certainly there was a more spiritual 
expression diffused over tbe whole appearance of 
Henrietta Temple, and wliich by many might be 
preferred even to that more lively and glowing 
iieauty which, in her happier hours, made her the 
very queen of flowers and sunshine. 

"It is strange, dear papa," she continued, "that 
my first visit should be to a cemeter}-." 

At this moment their attention was attracted by 
the somid of the distant gates of the cemetery open- 
ing, and several persons soon entered. This party 
consisted of some of the authorities of the city, and 
some porters bearing on a slab of verd antique a 
magnificent cinerary vase, that was about to be 



placed in the Campo. In reply to his inquiries 
Mr. Temple learned that the vase had been recently 
excavated in Catania, and that it had been pur 
chased, and presented to the Campo by the Mar- 
quess of Montfort. Henrietta would have hurrieU 
her father away, but, with all her haste, tliey had 
not reached the gates before Lord Montfort ap- 
peared. 

Mr. Temple found it impossible, although Henri- 
etta pressed his arm in token of disapprobation, not 
to present Lord Montfort to his daughter. He 
then admired his lordshijj's urn, and then his lord- 
ship requested that he might have the pleasure of 
showing it to them himself. They turned; Lord 
Montfort explained to them its rarity, and pointed 
out to them its beauty. His voice was soft and low, 
his manner simple but rather reserved. While he 
paid that deference to Henrietta which her sex de- 
manded, he addressed himself chiefly to her father. 
Siie was not half so much annoyed as she had im- 
agined : she agreed with her fatiier that he was a 
very quiet man ; she was even a little interested by 
his conversation, which w-as elegant yet full of intel • 
ligenee ; and she was delighted that he did not seera 
to require her to play any part in the discourse, bu 
appeared quite content in being her father's friend. 
Lord Montfort pleased her very much, if only for 
this circumstance, that he seemed to be attached to 
her father, and to appreciate him. And this was al- 
ways a great recommendation to Henrietta Temple. 

The cinerary urn led to a little controversy be- 
tween Mr. Temple and his friend ; and Lord Mont- 
fort wished that Mr. Temple would some day call 
on him at his house in the Lung' A mo, and he 
would show hirn some specimens whicli he thought 
might influenee his opinion. " I hardly dare to ask 
you to come novv," said his lordshij), looking at 
Miss Temple ; " and yet Miss Temple might like 
to rest." 

It was evident to Henrietta that her father would 
be very pleased to go, and yet that he was about to 
refuse for lifer sake. She could not bear that he 
should be deprived of so nuich and sjuch refined 
amusement, and be doomed to an luiinteresting 
morning at home, merely to gratify her humour. 
She tried to speak, but could not at first connnand 
her voice; at length she expressed her wish thai. 
Mr. Temple should avail himself of the i:.-. itation. 
Lord Montfort bowed lowly, Mr, Temple seemed 
very gratified, and they all turned together and 
quitted the cemetery. 

As they walked along to the house, conversation 
did not flag. Lord Montfort expressed his admira- 
tion of Pisa. " Silence and art are two great 
charms," said his lordship. 

At length they arrived at his palace. A vene- 
rable Italian received them. They jiassed through 
an immense hall, in which were statues, ascended 
a magnificent double staircase, and entered a range 
of saloons. One of them was furnished with more 
attention to comfort than an Italian cares for ; and 
herein was the cabinet of urns and vases his lord- 
ship had mentioned. 

"This is little more than a barrack," said Lord 
Montfort ; " but I can find a sofa for Miss Temple." 
So saying, he arranged with great care the cushions 
of the couch, atid, when she seated herself, placed a 
footstool near her. " I wish you would allow me 
some day to welcome you at Rome," said tlie young 
marquess. " It is there that I indeed reside." 

Lord Montfort and Mr. Temple examined the 



636 



^'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



contents of the cabinet. There w^as one vase which 
Mr. Temple greatly admired for the elegance of its 
form. His host immediately brought it and placed 
it on a small pedestal near Miss Temple. Yet he 
scarcely addressed himself to her, and Henrietta ex- 
perienced none of that troublesome attention, from 
which, in the present state of her health and mind, 
she shrank. While Mr. Temple was interested 
with his pursuit, Lord Montfort went to a small 
cabinet opposite, and brought forth a curious casket 
of antique gems. " Perhaps," he said, placing it 
by Miss Temple, " the contents of this casket might 
amuse you ;" and then he walked away to her 
father. 

In the course of an hour a servant brought in 
some fruit and wine. 

" The grapes are from my villa," said Lord 
Montfort. " I ventured to order them, because I 
have heard their salutary effects have heen marvel- 
lous. Besides, at this season, even in Italy, they 
are rare. At least you cannot accuse me of pre- 
scribing a very disagreeable remedy," he added with 
a slight smile, as he handed a plate to Miss Tem- 
ple. She moved to receive them. Her cushions 
slipped from behind her, Lord Montfort immediately 
arranged them with the greatest skill and care. He 
was so kind that she really wished to thank him ; 
but before she could utter a word, he was again 
conversing with her father. 

At length Mr. Temple indicated his intention to 
retire ; and spoke to his daughter. 

" This has been a great exertion for you, Henri- 
etta," he said ; " this has indeed been a busy day." 

" I am not wearied, papa ; and I am sure we 
have been very much pleased." It was the firmest 
tone in which she had spoken for a long time. 
There was something in her manner which recalled 
to Mr. Temple her vanished animation. Tlie af- 
fectionate father looked for a moment quite happy. 
The sweet music of these simple words dwelt on 
his ear. 

He went forward and assisted Henrietta to rise ; 
she closed the casket with care, and delivered it 
herself to her considerate host. Mr. Temple bid 
him adieu; Henrietta bowed and nearly extended 
her hand. Lord Montfort attended them to the 
gate — a carriage was waiting there. 

" Ah ! we have kept your lordship at home," 
said Mr. Temple. 

" I took the liberty of ordering the caiTiage for 
Miss Temple," said his lordship. " I feel a little 
responsible for her kind exertion to-day." 



CHAPTER II. 

JN WUICn LORD MOXTFOUT CONTRIVES THAT MISS 
TEMPLE SHOULD BE LEFT ALONE. 

" And how do you Uke my friend, Henrietta ?" 
said Mr. Temple, as they drove home. 

" I like your friend very much, papa. He is 
quite as quiet as you said ; he is almost the only 
person I have seen since I quitted England, who 
has not jarred my nerves. I felt quite son-y that I 
had so long prevented you both from cultivating 
each other's acquaintance. He does not interfere 
with me in the least." 

" I wish I had asked him to look in upon us in 
the evening," said Mr. Temple, rather inquiringly. 



"Not to-day," said Henrietta. "Another day 
dearest papa." 

The next day Lord Montfort sent a note to Mr. 
Temple, to inquire after his daughter, and to press 
upon her the importance of eating his grapes. His 
servant left a basket. The rest of the note was 
about cinerary urns. Mr. Temple, while he thanked 
him, assured him of the pleasure it would give both 
his daughter and himself to see him in the evening. 
This was the first invitation to his house that Mr. 
Temple had ventured to give, though they had 
now known each other for some time. 

In the evening Lord Montfort appeared. Hen- 
rietta was lying on her sofa, and her father would 
not let her rise. Lord Montfort had brought Mr. 
Temple some English journals, which he had re- 
ceived from Leghorn. The gentlemen talked a 
little on foreign politics ; and discussed the charac- 
ter of several of the most celebrated foreign minis- 
ters. Lord Montfort gave an account of his visit to 
Prince Esterhazy. Henrietta was amused. Ger- 
nSan politics and society led to German literature. 
Lord Montfort on this subject seemed completely 
informed. Henrietta could not refrain from joining 
in a conversation for which she v/as fully qualified. 
She happened to deplore her want of books. Lord 
Montfort had a library ; but it was at Rome ; no 
matter ; it seemed that he thought nothing of send- 
ing to Rome. He made a note very quietly of some 
books that Henrietta expressed a wish to see, and 
liegged that Mr. Temple would send the memoran- 
dum to his servant. 

" But surely to-morrow will do," said Mr. Tern 
pie. " Rome is too far to send to this evening." 

" That is an additional reason for instant depa*" 
ture," said his lordship, very calmly. 

Mr. Temple summoned a servant. 

" Send this note to my house," said his lordship. 
" My courier will bring us the books in four days," 
he added, turning to Miss Temple. " I am sorry 
you should have to wait, but at Pisa I really have 
nothing." 

From this day, Lord Montfort passed every even- 
ing at Mr. Temple's house. His arrival never dis- 
turbed Miss Temple ; she remained on her sofa. 
If she spoke to him, he was always ready to con- 
verse with her, yet he never obtruded his society. 
He seemed perfectly contented with the company 
of her fiither. Yet Vt'ith all this calmness and re- 
serve, theiT was no air of affected indifference, no 
intolerable nonchalance ; he was always attentive, 
always considerate, often kind. However appa- 
rently engaged with her father, it seemed that his 
vigilance anticipated all her wants. If she moved, 
he was at her side ; if she required any thing, it 
would appear that he read her thoughts, for it was 
always offered. She found her sofa arranged as if 
by magic. And if a shawl were for a moment 
missing. Lord Montfort always knew where it had 
been placed. In the mean time, every morning 
brought something for the amusement of Mr. Tem- 
ple and his daughter ; books, prints, di'awings. 
newspapers, journals, of all countries, and carica- 
tures from Paris and London, were mingled with 
engravings of Henrietta's flivourite Campo Santo. 

One evening Mr. Temple and his guest were 
speaking of a very celebrated professor of the uni- 
versity. Lord ]*Iontfort described his extraordinary 
acquirements and discoveries, and his rare simpli- 
city. He was one of those eccentric geniuses that 
are sometimes found in decayed cities with ancient 



HEXIHETTA TEMPLE. 



637 



Institutions of learning. Henrietta was interested 
m his description ; almost without thought she ex- 
pressed a wish to see him. 

" He shall come to-morrow," said Lord Montfort, 
" if you please. Believe me," he added, in a tone 
of great kindness, " that if you could prevail upon 
yourself to cultivate Italian society a little, it would 
repay you." 

The professor was brought. Miss Temple was 
very much entertained. In a few days he came 
again, and introduced a friend scarcely less dis- 
tinguished. The society was so easy, that even 
Henrietta found it no burden. She remained upon 
her sofa; the gentlemen drank their coilee and 
conversed. One morning, Lord Montfort had pre- 
vailed on her to visit the studio of a celebrated 
sculptor. The artist was full of enthusiasm for 
his pursuit, and showed them, with pride, his gieat 
work, a Diana that might have made one envy 
Endymion. The sculptor declared it was the 
perfect resemblance of Miss Temple, and appealed 
to her father. Mr. Temple could not deny the very 
striking likeness. Miss Temple smiled ; she looked 
almost herself again ; even the reserved Lord Mont- 
fort was in raptures. 

" ! it is very like," said his lordship. " Yes ! 
now it is exactly like. Miss Temple does not often 
smile ; but now one would believe she really was 
the model." 

They were bidding the sculptor farewell. 

'' Do you like him ]" whispered Lord Montfort 
to Miss Temple. 

" Extremely ; he is full of ideas." 

" Shall I ask him to come to you this even- 
ing." 

"Yes! do." 

And so it turned out that in time Henrietta found 
herself the centre of a little circle of eminent and 
accomplished men. Her health improved as she 
brooded less over her sorrows. 

It delighted her to witness the pleasure of her 
father. She was not always on her sofa now. 
Lord Montfort had sent her an English chair, wliich 
suited her delightfully. 

They even began to take drives with him in tlie 
country an hour or so before sunset. The country 
round Pisa is rich as well as picturesque. And 
their companion always contrived that there should 
be an object in their brief excursions. He spoke, 
too, the dialect of the country, and they paid, 
under his auspices, a visit to a Tuscan farmer. All 
this was agreeable; even Henrietta was persuaded 
tliat it was better than staying at home. The 
variety of pleasing objects diverted her mind in 
spite of herself. She had some duties to perform 
in this world yet remaining. There washer father ; 
her father who had been so devoted to her — who 
had never uttered a single reproach to her for all 
her faults and follies, and who, in her hour of tribu- 
lation, had clung to her with such fidelity. Was 
it not some source of satisfaction to see liim again 
comparatively happy 1 How selfish for her to mar 
this graceful and innocent enjoyment ! She exerted 
herself to contribute to the amusement of her 
father and his kind friend, as well as to share it. 
The colour returned a little to her cheek ; some- 
times she burst for a moment into something like 
her old gayety, and, though these ebullitions 
were often followed by a gloom and moodiness, 
against whit-h she found it in vain to contend, still, 
on the whole, the change for the better was decided, 



and Mr. Temple yet hoped that in time his sight 
might again be blessed, and his Ufe illustrated by 
his own brilliant Henrietta. 



CHAPTER m. 

IN WHICH MH. TEMPLE AND HIS DACGHTEll, 'WITH 
TllEin NEW FHIESI), MAKE AN UNEXPECTED 
EXCCRSION. 

One delicious morning, remarkable even in the 
south. Lord Montfort called upon them in his 
carriage, and proposed a little excursion. Mr. Tem- 
ple- looked at his daughter, and was charmed that 
Henrietta consented. She rose from her seat, indeed, 
with unwonted animation, and the three friends 
liad soon quitted the city and entered its agreeable 
environs. 

" It was wise to pass the winter in Italy," said 
T>ord Montfort, " but to see Tuscany in perfection, 
I should choose the autumn. I know nothing more 
picturesque, than the carts laden with grapes, and 
drawn by milk-white steers." 

They drove gayly along at the foot of green hills, 
crowned ever and anon by a convent or a beautiful 
stone pine. The landscape attracted the admira- 
tion of Miss Temple. A Palladian villa rose from 
the bosom of a gentle elevation, crowned with 
these picturesque trees. A broad terrace of niarble 
extended in front of the villa, on which were ranged 
orange trees. On cither side spread an olive grove. 
The sky was without a cloud, and deeply blue, the 
bright beams of the sun illuminated the building. 
The road had wound so curiously into this last 
branch of the Apennine, that the party found them- 
selves in a circus of hills, clothed with Spanish 
chestnuts and olive trees, from which there was ap- 
parently no outlet. A soft breeze, which it was 
evident had passed over the wild flowers of the 
mountains, refreshed and charmed their senses. 

" Could you believe we were only two hours' 
drive from a city V said Lord Montfort. 

" Indeed," said Henrietta, " if there be peace in 
this world, one would think that the dweller in 
that beautiful villa enjoyed it." 

" He has little to disturb him," said Lord Mont- 
fort ; " thanks to his destiny and his temper." 

" I believe we make our miseries," said Henri- 
etta, w'ith a sigh. " After all, nature always ofiers 
us consolation. But who lives herel" 

" I sometimes steal to this spot," repUed his lord- 
ship. 

" ! this then is your villa ! Ah ! you have sur- 
prised us." 

" I aimed only to amuse you." 

" You are very kind. Lord Montfort," said Mr. 
Temple, " and we owe you much." 

They stopped — they ascended the terrace — they 
entered the villa. A few rooms only were furnished, 
but their appearance indicated the taste and pursuits 
of its occupier. Busts and books were scattered 
about ; a table was covered with the implements 
of art ; and the principal apartment opened into an 
English garden. 

'• Tl-.is is one of my native tastes," said Lord 
Montfort, " that will, I think, never desert me." 

The memory of Henrietta was recalled to the 
flowers of Ducie and of Armine. Amid all the 
sweets and sunshine she looked sad. She walked 
3H 



638 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



away from her companions ; she seated herself on 
the terrace — her eyes were suffused with tears. 
Lord Montfort took the arm of Mr. Temple, and 
led him away to a bust of Germanicus. 

" Let me sliow it to Henrietta," said Mr. Tem- 
ple ; " I must fetch her." 

Lord Montfort laid his hand gently on his com- 
panion. The emotion of Henrietta had not escaped 
his quick eye. 

" Miss 'I'emple has made a great exertion," he 
said. " Do not think me pedantic, but I am some- 
thing of a physician. I have long perceived that 
although Miss Temple should be amused, she must 
sometimes be left alone." 

Mr. Temple looked at his companion ; but the 
countenance of Lord Montfort was inscrutable. 
His lordship oflered him a medal, and then opened 
a portfolio of Marc Antonius. 

" These are very rare," said Lord Montfort ; " I 
bring them into the country with me, for really at 
Rome there is no time to study them. By-the-by, 
I have a plan," continued his lordship, in a some- 
what hesitating tone ; " I wish I could induce you 
and Miss Temple to visit me at Rome." 

Mr. Temple shrugged his shoulders and sighed. 

" I feel conlldent that a residence at Rome would 
benefit Miss Temple," said his lordship, in a voice 
a little less calm than usual. "There is much to 
see, and I woidd take care that she should see it in 
a manner which would not exhaust her. It is the 
most delightful climate, too, at this period. The 
sun shines here to-day, but the air of these hills at 
this season is sometimes treacherous. A calm life, 
with a variety of objects, is what she requires. Pisa 
is calm, but for her it is too dull. Believe me, 
there is something in the blended refinement and 
interest of Rome, that she vvould find exceedingly 
beneficial. She would see no one but ourselves ; 
society shall be at her command if she desires it." 

" My dear lord," said Mr. Temple, " I thank 
you from the bottom of my heart for all your con- 
siderate sympathy ; but I cannot flatter myself that 
Henrietta could avail herself of your really friendly 
offer. My daughter is a great invalid. She " 

But here Miss Temjile joined them. 

"We have a relic of a delicate temple here," 
said Lord Montfort, directing her gaze to another 
window. " You see it now to advantage — the 
columns glitter in the sun. There, perhaps, was 
worshipped some wood-nymph or some river god." 

The first classic ruin that she had yet beheld 
attracted the attention of Miss Temple. It was 
not far, and she acceded to the proposition of Lord 
Montfort to visit it. That little rainhle was delight- 
ful. The novelty and the beauty of the object 
greatly interested her. It was charming also to 
view it under the auspices of a guide so full of 
information and feeling. 

" Ah I" said Lord Montfort. " If I might only 
be your cicerone at Rome!" 

" What say you, Henrietta 1" said Mr. Temple, 
with a smile. " Shall wc go to Rome ?" 

The proposition did not alarm Miss Temple as 
much as her father anticipated. Lord Montfort 
pressed the suggestion with delicacy ; he hinted at 
some expedients by which the journey might he 
rendered not very laborious. But as she did not 
reply, his lordship did not press the subject ; 
sufficiently pleased, perhaj)s, that she had not met 
H with an immediate and decided negative. 

When they returned to the villa they found a 



collation prepared for them worthy of so elegant 
an abode. In his capacity of a host, Lord Mont- 
fort departed a little from that placid and even con- 
strained demeanour which generally characterizctl 
him. His manner was gay and flowing ; and he 
poured out a goblet of Monte Pulciano and pre- 
sented it to Miss Temple. 

" You must pour a libation," said he, " to the 
nymph of the fane." 



CHAPTER IV. 

SHOWING THAT IT IS THE FIUST STEP THAT IS 

i:vi:r the most i)ifficui.t. 

AiiouT a week after this visit to the villa, Mr. 
Temple and his daughter were absolutely induced 
to accompany Lord Montfort to Rome. It is im- 
possible to do justice to the tender solicitude with 
which his lordship made all the arrangements for 
the journey. Wherever they halted, they found 
preparations for their reception ; and so admirably 
had every thing been concerted, that Miss Temple 
at length found herself in the Eternal City, with 
almost as little fatigue as she had reached the 
Tuscan villa. 

The palace of Lord Montfort was in the most dis- 
tinguished quarter of the city, and situated in the 
midst of vast gardens full of walls of laurel, arches 
of ilex, and fountains of lions. They arrived at 
twilight, and the shadowy hour lent even addi- 
tional space to the huge halls and galleries. Yet m 
the suite of rooms prepared for the reception of Mr, 
Temple and his daughter, every source of comfort 
seemed to have been collected. The marble floors 
were covered with Indian mats and carj)ets, the 
windows were well secured from the air which might 
have i)roved fatal to an invalid, while every species 
of chair, and couch, and sofa courted the languid or 
capricious form of Miss Temple — and she was ever 
favoured with an English stove, and guarded by an 
Indian screen. The apartments were supphcd with 
every book which it could have been supposed might 
amuse her: there were guitars of the city and of 
Florence, and even an English piano ; a library of 
the choicest music; and all the materials of art. 
The air of elegance and cheerful comfort that per- 
vaded these apartments, so unusual in this land, 
the bright blaze of the fire, even the pleasant wax- 
lights, all combined to deprive the moment of that 
feeling of gloom and exhaustion which attends an 
arrival at a strange place at a late hour — and Hen- 
rietta looked around her, and almost fancied she 
was once more at Ducie. Lord Montfort introduced 
his fellow-travellers to their apartments, presented 
to them the servant who was to assume the manage- 
ment of their little household, and then remindirig 
them of their mutual promises, that they were to Im3 
entirely their own masters, and not trouble then)- 
selves about him any more than if they were at 
Pisa, he shook them both by the hand, and bad« 
them good-night. 

It nmst be confessed that the acquaintance of 
Lord Montfort had afforded great consolation to 
Henrietta Temple. It was impossible to be insen- 
sible to the sympathy and solicitude of one so 
highly gifted and so very amiable. Nor should it 
be denied that this homage, from one of his distin- 
guished rank, was entirely without its charm. 'J'« 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



639 



find ourselves, when deceived and deserted, unex- 
pectedly an object of regard and consideration, will 
bring balm to most bosoms ; but to attract, in such 
a situation, the friendship of an individual whose 
deferential notice, under any circumstances, must 
be flattering; and to be admired by one wliom all 
admire — these are accidents of fortune which few 
could venture to despise. And Henrietta had now 
few opportunities to brood over tlie past ; a stream 
of beautiful and sublime olijects passed unceasingly 
before her vision. Her lively and refined taste, and 
her highly-cuhivated mind, could not refrain from 
responding to these glorious spectacles. She saw 
before her all that she had long read of, all that she 
had long mused over. Her mind became each day 
more serene and harmonious, as she gazed on these 
ideal creations, and dwelt on their beautiful repose. 
Her companion, too, exerted every art to prevent 
these amusements from degenerating into fatiguing 
expeditions. The Vatican was open to Lord Mont- 
fort, when it was open to none others. Short vi- 
sits, but numerous ones, was his system ! Some- 
times they entered merely to see a statue or a pic- 
ture thej were reading or conversing about the pre- 
ceding eve ; and then they repaired to some mo- 
dern studio, where their entrance always made the 
sculptors' eyes sparkle. At dinner there was always 
some distinguished guest, whom Henrietta wished 
to see; and as she thomughly understood the lan- 
guage, and spoke it indeed with fluency and grace, 
she was tempted to enter into conversations, where 
all seemed delighted that she played her part. 
Sometimes, indeed, Henrietta would fly to her 
chamber to sigh, but suddenly the palace resounded 
with tones of the finest harmony, or the human 
voice, with its most felicitous skill, stole upon her 
from the distant galleries. Although Lord Montfort 
was not himself a musician, and his voice could not 
pour forth those fatal sounds that had ravished her 
soul from the lips of Ferdinand Armine, he was 
well acquainted with the magic of music ; and while 
he hated a formal concert, the most eminent perform- 
ers were often at hand in his palace to contribute at 
the fitting moment to the delight of his guests. 
Who could withstand the soft influence of a life so 
elegant and serene, or refuse to yield up their spirit 
to its gentle excitement and its mild distraction ? 
The colour returned to Henrietta's check and the 
lustre to her languid eye ; her form regained its airy 
spring of health ; the sunsliine of her smile burst 
forth once more. 

It would have been impossible for an indilTerent 
person not to perceive that l^ord Montfort witnessed 
these changes with feelings of no slight emotion. 
Perhaps he prided himself upon his skill as a physi- 
cian, but he certainly watched the apparent conva- 
lescence of his friend's daughter with zealous inte- 
rest. And yet Henrietta herself was not aware that 
Lord Montfort's demeanour to her differed in any 
degree from what it was at Pisa. She had never 
Dcen alone with him in her life ; she certainly spoke 
more to him than she used, but then she spoke more 
to everybody ; and I^ord Montfort certainly seemed 
to think of nothing but her pleasure, and conve- 
nience, and comfort; but he did and said every thing 
so quietly, that all this kindness and solicitude ap- 
peared to be the habitual impulse of his generous 
nature. He certainly was more intimate, much 
more intimate, than during the first week of their 
acquaintance, but scarcely more kind; for she re- 
membered he had arranged her sofa tlie very first 



day they met, though he did not even remain U 
receive her thanks. 

One day a discussion rose about Italian society 
between Mr. Temple and his host. His lordship 
was a great admirer of the domestic character and 
private life of the Italians. He maintained that 
there was no existing people who more completely 
fulfilled the social duties than this much scandalized 
nation, respecting whom so many silly prejudices 
are entertained by the Engli.sh, whose travelling 
fellow-countrymen, by-the-by, seldom enter into 
any society but that tainted circle that must exist in 
all capitals. 

" You have no idea," he said, turning to Henri- 
etta, " what amiable and accomplished people are 
the better order of Itidians. I wish you would let 
me light up this dark house some night and give 
you an Italian party." 

" I should like it very much," said IMr. Temple. 

Whenever Henrietta did not enter her negative, 
Lord Montfort always implied her assent, and it was 
resolved that the Italian party should be given. 

All the best ilunilies in Konie were present, and 
not a single P^nglish pierson. There were some, 
perhaps, whom Lord Montfort might have wished 
to have invited, but Miss Temple had chanced to 
express a wish that no English might be there, and 
he instantly acted upon her suggestion. 

The palace was magnificently illuminated. Hen- 
rietta had scarcely seen before its splendid treasures 
of art. Lord Montfort, in answer to her curiosity, 
had always playfully depreciated them, and said that 
they must be left for rainy days. The most splen- 
did pictures and long rows of graceful or solemn 
statues, were suddenly revealed to her; rooms and 
galleries were opened that had never been observed 
before ; on all sides cabinets of vases, groups of im- 
perial busts, rare bronzes, and vivid masses of tesse- 
lated pavement. Over all these choice and beau- 
tiful objects, a clear yet soft light was diffused, and 
Henrietta never recollected a spectacle more com- 
plete and effective. 

These rooms and galleries were scon filled with 
guests, and Henrietta could not be insensible to the 
graceful and engaging dignity with which Lord 
Montfort received the Roman world of fashion. 
That constraint which at first she had attributed to 
reserve, but which of late she had ascribed to mo- 
desty, now^ entirely quitted him. Frank, yet always 
dignified, smiling, apt, and ever felicitous, it seemed 
that he had a pleasing word for every ear, and a 
particular smile for every face. She stood at some 
distance lea-iing on her father's arm, and watching 
bim. Suddenly he turned and looked around. I 
was they whom he wished to catch. He came up 
to Henrietta and said, "I wish to introduce you to 

the Princess . She is an old lady, but of the 

first distinction here. I would not ask this favour 
of you, unless I thought you would be pleased." 

Henrietta could not refuse his request Lord 
Montfort presented her and her father to the prin- 
cess, the most agreeable and important person in 
Rome ; and having now provided for their imme- 
diate amusement, he had time to attend to his guests 
in general. An admirable concert now in .some de- 
gree hushed the general conversation. The voices 
of the most beautiful women in Rome echoed in 
those apartments. When the music ceased, the 
guests wandered about the galleries, and at length 
the principal saloons were filled with dancers. Lord 
Montfort approached Miss Temple. "There is one 



640 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



'oom in the palace you have never yet visited," he 
«aid, " my tribune ; 'tis open to-night for the first 
time." 

Henrietta accepted his offered arm. "And how 
do you Uke the princess?" he said as they walked 
along. " It is agreeable to live in a country where 
your guests amuse themselves." 

At the end of the principal gallery, Henrietta 
perceived an open door, which admitted them into 
a small octagon chamber, of Ionic architecture. The 
walls were not hung with pictures, and one work 
of art alone solicited their attention. Elevated on 
a pedestal of porphyry, surrounded by a rail of bronze 
arrows of the lightest workmanship, was that statue 
of Diana, which they had so much admired at Pisa. 
The cheek, by an ancient process, the secret of 
which has been recentlv regained at Rome, was 
tinted with a delicate glow. 

" Do you approve of it," said Lord Montfort to 
the admiring Henrietta. " Ah ! dearest Miss Tem- 
ple," he continued, " it is my happiness that the rose 
has also returned to a fairer cheek than this." 



CHAPTER V. 

■WHICH COJfTAIJfS S05IE FARTHER PAINFUL EXPLA- 
NATIONS. 

The reader will not, perhaps, be very much sur- 
prised that the Marquess of Montfort soon became 
the declared admirer of Miss Temple. His lordship 
made the important declaration after a very different 
fashion to the unhappy Ferdinand Armine; he 
made it to the lady's father. Long persuaded that 
Miss Temple's illness had its origin in the mind, and 
believing that in that case the indisposition of a 
young lady had probably arisen, from one cause or 
another, in the disappointment of her affections, 
Lord Montfort resolved to spare her feelings, unpre- 
pared, the pain of a personal appeal. The beauty, 
the talent, the engaging disposition, and the languid 
melancholy of Miss Temple, had excited his admi- 
ration and his pity, and had finally won a heart ca- 
pable of deep affections, Imt gifted with great self- 
control. He did not conceal from Mr. Temple the 
conviction that impelled him to the course which 
he had thought proper to pursue, and this delicate 
conduct relieved Mr. Temple greatly from the una- 
voidable embarrassment of his position. Mr. Tem- 
ple contented himself with communicating to Lord 
Montfort, that his daughter had indeed entered into 
an engagement with one who was not worthy of 
her affections, and that the moment her father had 
been convinced of the character of the individual, 
he had quitted England with his daughter. He 
expressed his unqualified approbation of the over- 
ture of Lord Montfort, to whom he was indeed sin- 
cerely attached, and which gratified all those worldly 
feelings from which Mr. Temple was naturally not 
exempt. In such an alliance Mr. Temple recognised 
the only mode by which his daughter's complete 
recovery could be secured. Lord Montfort in him- 
self offered every thing which it would seem that 
the reasonable fancy of woman could desire. He 
was young, handsome, amiable, accomplished, sin- 
cere, and exceedingly clever ; while, at the same 
time, as Mr. Temple was well aware, his great po- 
sition would insure that reasonable gratification of 
vanity from which none are free, which is a fertile 



source of happiness, and which would, at all time* 
subdue any bitter recollections which might occa- 
sionally arise to cloud the retrospect of his daugh- 
ter. 

It was Mr. Temple who, exerting all the arts of 
his abandoned profession, now indulging in intima- 
tions and now in panegyric, conveying to his 
daughter, with admirable skill, how much the inti- 
mate acquaintance with Lord Montfort contributed 
to his happiness, gradually fanning the feeling of 
gratitude to so kind a friend, which had already 
been excited in his daughter's heart, into one of 
zealous regard, and finally seizing his opportunity 
with practised felicity — it was Mr. Temple who at 
length ventured to communicate to his daughter 
the overture which had been confided to him. 
Henrietta shook her head. 

" I have too great regard for Lord Montfort, to 
accede to his wishes," said Miss Temple. " He de- 
serves something better than a bruised spirit, if not 
a broken heart." 

"But, my dearest Henrietta, you really take a 
wrong, an impracticable view of affairs. Lord Mont 
fort must be the best judge of what will contribute 
to his own happiness." 

" Lord Montfort is acting under a delusion," 
replied Miss Temple. " If he knew all that had 
occurred, he would shrink from blending his life 
with mine." 

" Lord Montfort knows every thing," said tlie 
father ; " that is, every thing he should know." 

" Indeed !" said Miss Temple. " I wonder he does 
not look upon me with contempt, at the least with 
pity." 

" He loves you, Henrietta," said her father. 
" Ah ! love, love, love ! name not love to me. 
No, Lord Montfort cannot love me. It is not love 
that he feels." 

" You have gained his heart, and he offers you 
his hand. Are not these proofs of love V 

" Generous ! good young man !" exclaimed Hen 
rietta; "I respect, I admire him. I might have 
loved him. But it is too late." 

" My beloved daughter, O ! do not say so ! For 
my sake do not say so," exclaimed Mr. Temple. 
" I have no wish — I have had no wish, my child, 
but for your happiness. Lean upon your father, 
listen to him, be guided by his advice. Lord Mont- 
fort possesses every quality which can contribute 
to the happiness of woman. A man so rarely 
gifted I never met. There is not a woman in the 
world, however exalted her rank, however admirable 
her beauty, however gifted her being, who might 
not feel happy and honoured in the homage of such 
a man. Believe me, my dearest daughter, that this 
is a union which must lead to happiness. Indeed, 
were it to occur, I could die content. I should have 
no more cares, no more hopes. All would then 
have happened that the most sanguine parent, even 
with such a child as you, could wish or imagine. 
We should be so happy ! For his sake, for my 
sake, for all our sakes, dearest Henrietta, grant his 
wish. Beheve me, believe me, he is in'decd worthy 
of you." 

" I am not worthy of him," said Henrietta, in a 
melancholy voice. 

" Ah ! Henrietta, who is like you !" exclaimed 
the fond and excited father. 

At this moment the servant announced that Lord 
Montfort would, with their permission, wait upon 
them. Henrietta seemed plunged in thought, 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



641 



Suddenly she said, "I cannot rest until this is] 
settled. Papa, leave me with him a few moments 
alone." Mr. Temple retired. 

A faint blush rose to tlie check of her visiter 
when he perceived that Miss Temple was alone. 
He seated himself at her side, but he was unusually 
constrained. 

" My dear Lord Montfort," said Miss Temple, 
very calmly, " I have to sj)cak upon a jiainful sul> 
ject, but I have undergone so much suffering, that 
I shall not shrink from this. Papa has informed 
me this morning that you have been pleased to pay 
me the highest compliment that a man can pay a 
woman. I wish to tliaiik you for it. I wish to 
acknowledge it in terms the strongest and the 
warmest I can use. I am sensible of the honour, 
the high honour that you have intended me. It is 
indeed an honour of which any woman might be 
proud. You have offered me a heart of which I 
know the worth. No one can appreciate the value 
of your character better than myself. I do justice, 
full justice, to your virtues, your accomplishments, 
your commanding talents, and your generous soul. 
Except my father, there is no one who holds so 
high a place in my affections as yourself. You 
have been my kind and true friend; and a kind and 
true friendship, faithful and sincere, I return you. 
More than friends we never can be, for I have no 
heart to give." 

" Ah ! dearest Miss Temple," said Lord Mont- 
fort, in an agitated tone, " I ask nothing but that 
friendship; but let me enjoy it in your constant 
society ; let the world recognise my right to be your 
consoler." 

" You deserve a better and a brighter fate, my 
lord. I should not be your friend if I could enter 
into such an engagement." 

" The only aim of my life is to make you happy," 
said Lord Montfort. 

" I am sure that I ought to be happy with such 
a friend," said Henrietta Temple, " and I am happy. 
How different is the world to me to what it was 
before I knew you ! Ah ! why will you disturb 
this life of consolation! Why will you call me 
back to recollections that I would fain banish? 
Why"— 

"Dearest Miss Temple," said Lord Montfort, 
" do not reproach me! You make me wretched. 
Remember, dear lady, that I have not sought tins 
conversation ; that if I were presumptuous in my 
plans and hopes, I at least took precautions that I 
should be the only sufferer by their non-fulfilment." 

" Best and most generous of men ! I would not 
for the world be unkind to you. Pardon my dis- 
tracted words. But you know all 1 Has papa told 
you all 1 It is my wish." 

" It is not mine," replied Lord Montfort; "I wish 
not to penetrate your sorrows, but only to soothe 
them." 

" ! if we had but met earlier," said Henrietta 
Temple ; " if we had but known each other a year 
ago ! when I was — not worthy of you — but more 
worthy of you. But now, with health shattered, 
the lightness of my spirit vanished, the freshness 
of my feelings gone — no ! my kind friend, my dear 
and gentle friend, my affection for you is too sin- 
cere to accede to your request ; and a year hence, 
Lord Montfort will thank me for my denial." 

" I scarcely dare to speak," said Lord Montfort, 
in a low tone, as if suppressing his emotion. " If I 
were to express my feelings, I might agitate you. 
81 



I will not then venture to reply to what you have 
urged : to tell you I think you the most beauliful 
and engaging being that ever breathed ; or how I 
dote upon your pensive spirit, and can sit for hours 
together gazing on the language of those dark eyes. 
O ! Miss Temple, to me you never could have been 
more beautiful, more fascinating. Alas ! I may not 
even breathe my love ; I am unfortunate. And yet, 
svi'eet lady, pardon this agitation I have occasioned 
you ; try to love me yet ; endure at least my pre- 
sence ; and let me continue to cherish that intimacy 
that has thrown over my existence a charm so in 
expressible." So saying, he ventured to take her 
hand, and pressed it with devotion to his Ups. 



CHAPTER VI. 

WHICH CONTAINS AN EVKNT NOT I.KSS IMPORTANT 
THAN THE ONE WHICH CONCLUDEU OUIl FOUHTH 
CHAPTER OF THE FOUIITH BOOK. 

Lord Montfort was scarcely disheartened by 
this interview with Miss Temple. His lordship 
was a devout bchever in the influence of time. It 
was unnatural to suppose that one so young and so 
gifted as Henrietta could ultimately maintain that 
her career was terminated because her affections had 
been disappointed by an intimacy which was con- 
fessedly of so recent an origin as the fatal one in 
question. Lord Montfort differed from most men 
m this respect, that the consciousness of this inti- 
macy did not cost him even a pang. He preferred, in- 
deed, to gain the heart of a w oman like Miss Tem- 
ple, who, without having in the least degree for- 
feited the innate purity of her nature and the native 
freshness of her feelings, had yet learned in some de- 
gree to penetrate the mystery of the passions, to one 
so untutored in the world's ways, that she mighthave 
bestowed upon him a heart less experienced indeed, 
but not more innocent. He was convinced that the 
affection of Henrietta, if once obtained, might be 
relied on, and that the painful past would only 
make her more finely appreciate his high-minded 
devotion, and amid all the dazzling characters and 
seducing spectacles of the world, cling to him with 
a finner gratitude and a more faithful fondness. 
And yd Lord Montfort was a man of deep emo- 
tions, and of a very fastidious taste. He was a man 
of as romantic a temperament as Ferdinand Ar- 
mine; but with Lord Montfort, life W'as the romance 
of reason, with Ferdinand, the romance of imagina- 
tion. The first was keeidy alive to ail the imper- 
fections of our nature, but he also gave that nature 
credit for all its excellencies. He observed finely, 
he calculatetl nicely, and his result was generally 
happiness. Ferdinand, on the contrary, neither 
observed nor calculated. His imagination created 
fantasies, and his impetuous passions struggled to 
realize them. 

Although Jjord Montfort carefully abstained 
from pursuing the subject which nevertheless en- 
grossed his thoughts, he had a vigilant and skilful 
ally in Mr. Tcmj>le. That gentleman lost no op- 
portunity of pleading his lordship's cause, while he 
appeared only to advocate his own ; and this was 
the most skilful mode of controlling the judgment 
of his daughter. 

Henrietta Temple, the most affectionate and dj 
tiful of children, left to reflect, sometimes asked hci 
3 u 3 



642 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



self whether she vnere justifiecl, that from what she 
endeavoured to believe was a mere morbid feeling, 
from accomplishing the happiness of that parent 
who loved her so well 1 There had been no conceal- 
ment of her situation, or of her sentiments. There 
had been no deception as to the past. Lord Mont- 
fort knew all. She had told him she could only 
bestow a broken spirit. Lord Montfort aspired only 
to console it. She was young. It was not probable 
that the death which she had once sighed for would 
be accorded to h^r. Was she always to lead this 
life ? Was her father to pass the still long career 
which probably awaited him, in ministering to the 
wearisome caprices of a querulous invalid 1 This 
was a sad return for all his goodness — a gloomy 
catastrophe of all his bright hopes. And if she 
could ever consent to blend her life with another's, 
what individual could offer pretensions which might 
ensure her tranquillity, or even hafipiness, equal to 
those proffered by Lord Montfort 1 Ah ! who 
was equal to him ? — so amiable, so generous, so 
interesting ! 

It was in such a mood of mind that Henrietta 
would sometimes turn with a glance of tenderness 
and gratitude to that being who seemed to breathe 
only for her solace and gratification. If it be 
agonizing to be deserted, there is at least consola- 
tion in behig cherished. And who cherished her ] 
One whom all admired — one, to gain whose ad- 
miration, or even attention, every woman sighed. 
What was she before she knew Montfort 1 If she 
had not known Montfort, what would she have 
been even at this present] She recalled the hours 
of anguish, the long days of bitter mortification, the 
dull, the wearisome, the cheerless, hopeless, un- 
eventful hours that were her lot when lying on her 
solitary sofa at Pisa, brooding over the romance of 
Armine and all its passion — the catastro[ihe of 
Ducie, and all its baseness. And now there was 
not a moment without kindness, without sympathy, 
without considerate attention and innocent amuse- 
ment. If she were querulous, no one murmured ; 
if she were capricious, every one yielded to her fan- 
cies ; but if she smiled every one was happy. Dear, 
noble Montfort, thine was the magic that had 
worked this change ! And for whom were all these 
dioice exertions made? For one whom another 
had trifled with, deserted, betrayed ! And Mont- 
fort knew it. He dedicated his life to the consola- 
tion of a despised woman. Leaning on the arm 
of Lord Montfort, Henrietta Temple might meet 
the eye of Ferdinand Armine and his rich bride, at 
least without feeling lierself an object of pity ! 

Time had flown on. The Italian spring, with 
all its splendour, illumed the glittering palaces and 
purple shores of Naples. Lord Montfort and his 
friends were returning from Capua in his galley. 
Miss Temple was seated between her fiither and 
their host. The Ausonian clime, the beautiful 
scene, the sweet society, had all combined to pro- 
duce a day of exquisite enjoyment. Henrietta 
Temple could not refrain from expressing her de- 
light. Her eye sparkled like the star of eve that 
glittered over the glowing mountains ; her cheek 
was as radiant as the sunset. 

" Ah ! what a happy day has tliis been !" she 
eacclaimed. 

The gentle pressure of her hand reminded her 
of the delight her exclamation had afforded one of 
her companions. Strange to say, that pressure 
was returned. With a trembling heart Lord Mont- 



fort leaned back in the galley ; and yet, ere the 
morning sun had flung its flaming beams over the 
city Henrietta Temple was his betrothed. 



BOOK VL 
CHAPTER L 

WHICH CONTAINS A REMAHKABLE CHANGE OF 
FORTUNE. 

Although Lord Montfort was now the received 
and recognised admirer of Miss Temple, their in- 
tended union was not immediate. Henrietta was 
herself averse to such an arrangement, but it was 
not necessary for her to urge this somewhat un- 
gracious desire, as Lord Montfort was anxious that 
she should be introduced to his family before their 
marriage, and that the ceremony should be performed 
in his native country. Their return to England, 
therefore, was now meditated. That event was 
hastened by an extraordinary occurrence. 

Good fortune in this world, they say, is seldom 
sing.le. Mr. Temple at this moment was perfectly 
content with his destiny. Easy in his own circum- 
stances, with his daughter's future prosperity about 
to be provided for by a union with the heir to ons 
of the richest peerages in the kingdom, he had no- 
thing to desire. His daughter was happy, he enter- 
tained the greatest esteem and affection for his 
future son-in-law, and the world went well with 
him in every respect. 

It was in this fulness of his happiness that 
destiny, with its usual wild caprice, resolved " to 
gild refined gold, and paint the lily ;" and it was 
determined that Mr. Temple should wake one 
morning among the wealthiest commoners of Eng- 
land. 

There happened to be an old baronet, a great 
humourist, without any very wear relations, who 
had been a godson of Mr. Temple's grandfather. 
He had never invited or encouraged any intimacy 
or connexion with the Temple family, but had 
always throughout life kept himself aloof from any 
acquaintance with them. Mr. Temple, indeed, had 
only seen him once, but certainly under rather dis- 
advantageous circumstances. It was when Mr, 
Temple was minister at the German court, to 
which we have alluded, that Sir Temple Devereux 
was a visiter at the capital at which Mr. Templo 
was resident. The Minister had shown him some 
civilities, which was his duty : and Henrietta had 
appeared to please him. But he had not remained 
long at this place ; had refused at the time to b« 
more than their ordinaiy guest ; and had never, by 
any letter, message, or other mode of communication, 
conveyed to them the slightest idea that the hos- 
pitable minister and his charming daughter had 
dwelt a moment on his memory. And yet Sir 
Temple Devereux had now departed from the world. 
where it had apparently been the principal object 
of his career to avoid ever making a friend, and 
had left the whole of his immense fortune to the 
Right Honourable Pelliam Temple, by this bequest 
proprietor of one of the finest estates in the county 
of York, and a very considerable personal property, 
the accumulated savings of a large rental and h 
long life. 

This was a great event, Mr. Temple had the 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



643 



most profound respect for property. It was impos- 
Biblc for the late baronet to have left his estate to 
on intlivulual who could more thoroughly appreciate 
its possession. Even personal property was not 
without its charms — hut a large landed estate, and 
a large landed estate in the county of York, and that 
large landed estate in the county of York flanked 
by a good round sum of three per cent, consols 
duly recorded in the Rotunda of Threadneedle 
street — it was a combination of wealth, power, con- 
eideration, and convenience, which exact!)' hit the 
ideal of Mr. Temple, and to the fascination of which 
I should rather think the taste of few men would 
be insensilile. ATr. Temjile being a man of family, 
had none of the awkward embarrassments of 
parvenu to contend with. " It was the luckiest 
thing in the world," he would say, " that poor Sir 
Temple was my grandfather's godson, not only be- 
cause in all probability it olilaiiied us his fortune, 
but because he bore the name of Temple ; we shall 
settle down in Yorkshire scarcely as strangers, we 
shall not be looked upon as a new family, and in a 
little time the whole affair will be considered rather 
one of inheritance than beiiuest. But, after all, 
what is it to me ] It is only for your sake, Digby, 
tliat I rejoice. I think it will please your family. 
I will settle every thing innnediately on Henrietta. 
They shall have the gratification of knowing that 
their son is about to marry the richest heiress in 
England." 

The richest heiress in England ! Henrietta 
Temple the richest heiress in England ! Ah ! how 
many feelings will that thought arise ! Strange to 
say, the announcement of this extraordinary event 
brought less joy than might have been supposed to 
the heiress herself. 

It was in her chamber and alone, that Henrietta 
Temple mused over this freak of destiny. It was 
m vain to conceal it, her thoughts recurred to Fer- 
dinand. They might have been so happy ! Why 
was he not true ! And perhaps he had sacrificed 
himself to his family, perhaps even personal distress 
had driven him to the fatal deed. Her kind, femi- 
nine fancy conjured up everj' possible extenuation 
of his dire offence. She grew very sad. She could 
not believe that he was flilse at Ducie ; O, no ! she 
never could believe it ! He must have been sincere : 
and if sincere, O ! what a heart was lost there ! 
What would she have not given to have been the 
means of saving him from all his sorrows ! She 
recalled his occasional melancholy, his desponding 
words, and how the gloom left his brow and his 
eyes brightened when she fondly prophesied that 
she would restore the house. She might restore it 
now ; and now he was another's, and she — what 
was she ? A slave like him. No longer her own 
mistress, at the only moment she had the power to 
save him. Say what they like, there is a pang in 
balked ailcction, for which no wealth, power, or 
place, watchful indulgence or sedidous kindness, 
•an compensate. Ah ! the heart, the heart ! 



CHAPTER n. 

»r WHICn THF, READER IS AOAIIT IHTRODUCED 
ro CAPTAIJI ARMINK, DURING HIS TISIT TO 
tON'DOir. 

Wf. must not forget our friends at Armine Place. 
^ei^ career was not as eventful as tliat of the 



Temple family. Miss Grandison had resolved upon 
taking a house in London for the season, and had 
obtained a promise from her uncle and aunt to be 
her guest Lady Armirie's sister was to join them 
from Bath. As for Ferdinand, the spring had 
gradually restored him to health, but not to his 
former frame of mind. He remained moody and 
indolent, incapable of exertion, and a prey to the 
darkest humours ; circumstances however occurred, 
which rendered some energy on his part absolutely 
necessary. His creditors grew importunate, and 
the arrangement of his affairs, or departure from his 
native land, was an alternative now become ine- 
vitable. The month of April, which witnessed the 
arrival of the Temples and Lord Montfort in Eng- 
land, welcomed also to IjOiidon Miss Grandison 
and her guests. A few weeks after, Ferdinand, 
who had evaded the journey with his family, and 
who would not on any account become a guest of 
his cousin, settled himself down at a quiet hotel in 
the vicinity of Grosvenor Square; but not quite 
alone, for almtxst at the last hour Glastonbury had 
requested permission to accompany him, and Fer- 
dinand, who dul}' valued the society of the only 
person with whom he could converse about his 
broken fortunes and his blighted hopes without 
reserve, acceded to his wish with the greatest satis- 
faction. 

A" sudden residence in a vast metropolis, after a 
life of rural seclusion, has, without doubt, a >ery 
peculiar effect upon the mind. The immense po- 
pulation, the multiplicity of objects, the important 
interests hourly impressed upon the intelligence, 
the continually occurring events, the noise, the 
bustle, the general and widely-spread excitement, 
all combine to make us keenly sensible of 6ur in 
dividual insignificance ; and those absorbing pas 
sions, that in our solitude, fed by our imagination, 
have assumed such gigantic and substantial shapes, 
rapidly subside, by an almost imperceptible process, 
into less colossal proportions, and sec:n invested, as 
it were, with a more shadowy aspect. As Ferdi- 
nand Armine jostled his way through the crowded 
streets of London, urged on by his own harassing 
and inexorable affairs, and conscious of the im- 
pending peril of his career, while power and wealth 
dazzled his eyes in all directions, he began to Ipok 
back upon the passionate past with feelings of less 
keen sensation than heretofore, and almost to regret 
that a fatal destiny, or his impetuous soul, had en- 
tiiled upon him so much anxiety, and prompted 
him to reject the glittering cup of fortune that had 
been proffered to him so opportunely. He sighed 
for enjoyment and repo.se : the memory of his re- 
cent sufferings made him shrink from that reckless 
indulgence of the passions, of which the conse- 
quences had been so severe. 

It was in this mood, exhausted by a vi?it to his 
lawyer, that he stepped into a military club, of 
which he was a member, and took up a newspaper. 
Caring little for politics, his eye wandered over, 
uninterested, its pugnacious leading articles and 
tedious parliamentar)' reports; and he was about 
to throw it down, when a paragraph caught his 
notice, which instantly engrossed all his attention. 
It was in " the Morning Post" that he thus read : — 

"The Marquis of Montfort, the eldest son of the 
Duke of , whose return to England we recent- 
ly noticed, has resided for several years in Italy. 
His lordship is considered one of the most accotn- 
pUshcd noblemen of the day, and was celebrated at 



644 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Rome for his patronag'e of the arts. Lord Mont- 
fort will shortly he united to the beautiful Miss 
Temple, the only daughter of the Right Honoura- 
ble Pelham Temple. Miss Temple is esteemed one 
of the richest heiresses in England, as she will 
dou!)tless inherit the whole of the immense fortune 
to which her father so unexpectedly acceded : Mr. 
Temple is a widower, and has no son. Mr. Tem- 
ple was formerly our minister at several of the Ger- 
man courts, where he was distinguished by his 
abilities, and his hospitality to his travelUng coun- 
trymen. It is said that the rent-roll of the York- 
shire estates of the late Sir Temple Devereux is not 
less than £15,000 per annum. The personal pro- 
perty also is very considerable. We understand 
that Mr. Temple has purchased the mansion of the 
Duke of ****, in Grosvenor Square. Lord Mont- 
♦ort accompanied Mr. Temple and his amiable 
daughter to this country." 

What a wild and fiery chaos was the mind of 
Ferdinand Armine, when he read this paragraph. 
The wonders it revealed succeeded each other with 
such rapidity, that for some time he was deprived 
of the power of reflection. Henrietta Temple in 
England ! — Henrietta Temple one of the greatest 
heiresses in the country ! — Henrietta Temple about 
to be immediately married to another I His Hen- 
rietta Temple, the Henrietta Temple who had join- 
ed her lips to his, whom he adored, and by whom 
he had been worshipped ! — The Henrietta Temple 
whose beautiful lock was at this very moment on 
his heart 1 — The Henrietta Temple, for whom he 
had forieited fortune, family, power, almost life ! 

O, woman, woman ! Put not thy trust in woman ! 
And yet, could he reproach her ! Did she not be- 
lieve herself trifled with by him, outraged, deceived, 
deluded, deserted ? And did she, could she love 
another ] Was there another, to whom she had 
poured forth her heart as to him, and all that beau- 
tiful flow of fascinating and unrivalled emotion ? 
Was there another, to whom she had pledged her 
pure and passionate soul 1 Ah ! no ; he would 
not, he could not believe it. Light and false Hen- 
rietta could never be. She had been seen, she had 
been admired, she had been loved — who that saw 
her would not admire and love ] and he was the 
victim of her pique, perhaps of her despair. 

But, she was not yet married. They were, ac- 
cording to these lines, to be soon united. It appear- 
ed they had travelled together ; that thought gave 
him a pang. Could he not see her? Could he 
not explain all 1 Could he not prove his heart had 
ever been true and fond ? Could he not tell her 
ail that had happened, all that he had suffered, all 
the madness of his misery ; and could she resist 
that voice whose accents had once been her joy, 
that glance which had once filled her heart with 
rapture 1 And, when she found that Ferdinand, 
her own Ferdinand, had never deceived her, was 
worthy of her choice affection, and suffering even 
at this moment for her sweet sake, what were all 
the cold-blooded ties in which she had since in- 
volved herself] She was his, by an older and 
more ardent bond — should he not claim his right ? 
Oould she deny it ! 

Claim what 1 The hand of an heiress ! Should 
11 be said that an Armine came crouching for lucre, 
where he ought to have commanded for love ? 
Never ! Whatever she might think, his conduct 
had been faultless to her. It was not for Henrietta 
to complain. She was not the victim, if one, in- 1 



deed, there might chance be. He had loved her ; 
she had returned his passion ; for her sake he had 
made the greatest of sacrifices, forfeited a splendid 
inheritance, and a fond and faithful heart. When 
he had thought of her before, pining perhaps in some 
foreign solitude, he had never ceased reproaching 
himself for his conduct, and had accused himself 
of deception and cruelty ; but now, in this moment 
of her flush prosperity, " esteemed one of the 
richest heiresses in England," (he ground his teeth 
as he recalled that phrase,) and the affianced bride 
of a great noble, (his old companion. Lord Mont- 
fort, too; what a strange thing is life!) proud, 
smiling, and prosperous, while he was alone, with 
a broken heart, and worse than desperate fortunes, 
and all for her sake, his soul became bitter ; he re- 
proached her with want of feeling; he pictured her 
as void of genuine sensibility, he dilated on her in- 
difference since they had parted ; her silence, so 
strange, now no longer inexplicable ; the total want 
of interest she had exhibited as to his career ; he 
sneered at the lightness -of her temperament ; he ■ 
cursed her caprice ; he denounced her mfernal 
treachery ; in the (Jistorted phantom of his agonized 
imagination, she became to him even an object of 
hatred. ■ 

Poor Ferdinand Armine ! it was the first time 
he had experienced the maddening pangs of jea- 
lousy. 

Yet how he had loved this woman ! How he 
had doted on her. And now they might have been 
so happy ! There is nothing that depresses a man 
so much as the conviction of bad fortune. There 
seemed, in this sudden return, great fortune, and 
impending marriage of Henrietta Temple, such a 
combination as far as Ferdinand Armine was con- 
cerned, of vexatious circumstances; it would ap- 
pear that he had been so near perfect happiness 
and missed it, that he felt quite weary of existence, 
and seriously meditated depriving himself of it. 

It so happened that he had promised this day to 
dine at his cousin's ; for Glastonbury, who was 
usually his companion, had accepted an invitation 
this day to dine with the noble widow of his old 
patron. Ferdinand, however, found himself quite 
incapable of entering into any society, and he hur- 
ried to his hotel to send a note of excuse to Brook 
street. As he arrived, Glastonbury was just about 
to step into a hackney-coach, so that jp'erdinand 
had no opportunity of communicating his sorrows 
to his friend, even had he been inclined. 



CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH GLASTONBURT MEETS THE TERY I.*.ST 
PERSON IN THE WORLD HE EXPECTED, AND THS 
STRANGE CONSEQUENCES. > 

When Glastonbury arrived at the mansion of 
the good old dutchess, he found nobody in the 
drawing-room but a young man of very distin 
guished appearance, whose person was unknown 
to him, but who, nevertheless, greeted him with 
remarkable cordiahty. The good Glastonbury re 
turned, with some confusion, his warm salutation. 

" It is many years since we last met, Mr. Glaa 
tonbury," said the young man. " I am not sur- 
prised you have forgotten me. I am Lord Mont- 
fort ; Digby, perhaps vou recollect V 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



645 



" My Jear child ! my dear lord ! You have in- 
lecd changed ! You are a man, and ^ am a very 
old one." 

" Nay ! my dear sir, I do assure you I ohscrve 
little change. Believe me, I have often recalled 
your imago in my long absence, and I find now 
that my memory has not deceived me." 

Glastonbury and his companion fell into some 
conversation about his lordship's travels, and resi- 
dence at Rome, in the midst of which their hostess 
entered. 

'' I have asked you, my dear sir, to meet our 
family circle," said her grace, " for I do not think I 
can well ask you to meet any who love you better. 
It is long since you have seen Digby." 

" Mr. Glastonbury did not recognise me, grand- 
mamma," said Lord Montfort. 

" These sweet children have all grown out of 
j'our sight, Mr. Glastonbury," said the dufchess, 
"but the)' are very good. And as fot Digby, I 
really think he comes to see his poor grandmother 
every day." [ 

The duke and dutchess, and two vcrj' young 
daughters, were now announced. 

" I Vv-as so sorry that I was not at home when you 
called, Glastonbury," said his grace, " but I thought 
I should soon hear of you at grimdmamma's." 

" And, dear Mr. Glastonbury, why did you not 
come up and see me V said the younger dutchess. 
" And, dear Mr. Glastonburj', do you remember 
meV said one beautiful daughter. 

"And me, Mr. Glastonbury, me ; I am Isabella." 
Blushing, smiling, bowing, constrained from the 
novelty of his situation, and yet eveiy now and 
then quite at ease when his ear recalled a familiar 
voice, dear Mr. Glastonbury was very gratified and 
very happy. The duke took him aside, and they 
were soon engaged in conversation. 

" How is Henrietta to-day, Digby ?" inquired 
Isabella. " I left her an hour ago ; we have been 
riding, and expected to meet you all. She will be 
here immediately." 

There was a knock, and soon the drawing-room 
door opened, and Miss Temple was announced. 

" I must make papa's apologies," said Henrietta, 
advancing and embracing the old dutchess. " I hope 
he may get here in the evening : but he bade me 
remind your grace thut your kind invitation was 
only provisionally accepted." 

" He is quite right," said the old lady ; " and in- 
deed I hardly expected him, for he told me there 
was a public dinner which he was obliged to at- 
tend, I am sure that our dinner is a very private 
one, indeed," continued the old lady with a smile 



hand of the duke, and opposite their hostess ; the 
two young ladies in the middle. Ail the guests had 
been seated without Glastonburj' and Henrietta re- 
cognising each other; and, as he sat on the same 
side of the table as Miss 'J'emple, it was not until 
Lord Montfort asked Mr. Glastonbury to take wine 
with him that Henrietta heard a name that might 
well, indeed, turn her pale. 

Glastonbury ! It never entered into her head at 
the moment that it was the Mr. Glastonbury ! whom 
she had known. Glastonbury! — what a name I 
What dreadful associations did it not induce ! She 
looked forward — she caught the well-remend)ered 
visage — she sunk back in her chair. But Henri- 
etta Temple had a strong mind; this was surely an 
occasion to prove it. Mr. Glaslonburj's attention 
was not attracted to her : he knew, indeed, there 
was a lady at the table called Henrietta, but he was 
engrossed with his neighbours, and his eye never 
caught the daughter of Mr. Temple. It was not 
until the ladies rose to ritire that Mr. Glastordiury 
beheld that form which he had not forgotten, and 
looked upon a lady whose name was associated in 
his memory with the most disastrous and mournful 
moments of his life. Miss Temple followed the 
dutchess out of the room, and Glastonbury, per- 
plexed and agitated, resumed his seat. 

But Henrietta was tlie prey of emotions far more 
acute and distracting. It seemed to her that .she 
had really been unacquainted with the state of her 
heart until this sudden apparition of Glastonburv. 
How his image recalled the past I She had school- 
ed herself to consider it all a dream ; now it lived 
before her. Here was one of the principal per- 
fi)rmers in that fatal tragedy of Armine. Glaston- 
bury in the house — under the same roof as she ! 
Where was Ferdinand 1 There was one at hand 
who could tell her. Was he married 1 She had 
enjoyed no opportunity of ascertaining since her 
return: she had not dared to ask. Of course he 
was maiTied ; but was he happy T And Glaston- 
bury, who, if he did not know all, knew so much — 
how strange it must be to (ilastonbury to meet 
her ! Dear Glastonbury ! She had not forgotten the 
days when she so fondly listened to Ferdinand's 
charming narratives of all his amiable and simple 
life ! Dear, dear Glastonbvu'y, whom she was so 
to love ! And she met him now, and did not speak 
to him, or looked upon him as a stranger; and he, 
he would, perhaps, look upon her with pity, cer- 
tainly with pain. O ! life — what a heart-breaking 
thing is life ! And our affections, our sweet and 
pure affections, fountains of such joy and solace, 
that nourish all things, and make the most barren 



" It is really a lainily party, though there is one ' and rigid soil teem with life and beauty — ! why 



do we disturb the flow of their sweet waters and 
pollute their immaculate and salutary source ! 
Ferdinand, Ferdinand Armine, why were you 
false T 

The door opened. Mr. Glastonbury entered, fol- 
lowed by the dulie and his son. Henrietta was sit- 



member of the family here whom you do not know, 
my dear Miss Temple, and whom I am sure, you 
will love as much as all of us 4J0. Digby, where is 
1" 

At this moment dinner was announced. Lord 
Montfort offered his arm to Henrietta. "There, 

lead the way," said the old lady ; "the girls must ' ting in an easy chair — one of Lord .Montfort's sis- 
beau themselves, for I have no young men to-day ters, seated on an ottoman at her side, held hei 
for them. I suppose man and wife must be parted, hand. Henrietta's eye met Glastonbury's; she 
60 I must take my son's arm ; Mr. Glastonbury, 1 bowed to him. 

you will hand down the dutchess." But, before " How your hand trembles, Henrietta !" said the 
Glastonbury's name was mentioned, Henrietta was 1 young lady, 
halfway down stairs. Glastonburv' approached her with a hesitating 

The duke and his son presided at the dinner, step. He blushed faintly — he looked exceedingly 
Henrietta sat on one side of Lord .Montfort, his ! perplexed — at lemrth he reached her, and stood be- 
mother on the other. Glastonbury sat on the right J fore her, and said nothing. 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



"You have forgotten me, Mr. Glastonbury," 
said Henrietta ; for it was absolutely necessary that 
some one should break the awkward silence, and 
she pointed to a chair at her side. 

" That would indeed be impossible," said Glas- 
tonbury. 

" ! you knew Mr. Glastonbuiy before," said 
the young lady. " Grandmamma, only think, Hen- 
rietta knew Mr. Glastonbury before." 

" We were neighbours iu Nottinghamshire," said 
Henrietta in a quick tone. 

" Isabella," said her sister, who was seated at the 
piano, " the harp awaits you." Isabella rose. Lord 
Montfort was approaching Henrietta, when the old 
dutchess called to him. 

Henrietta and Glastonbury were alone. 

" This is a strange meeting, Mr. Glastonbury," 
said Henrietta. 

What could poor Glastonbury say ! Something 
he murmured, but not very much to the purpose. 
" Have you been in Nottmghamshire lately V said 
Henrietta. 

" I left it about ten days back with" (and here G las- 
tonbury stopped) " witli a friend," he concluded. 

" I trust all your friends arc well," said Henriet- 
ta, in a tremulous voice. 

" No — yes — tliat is," said Glastonbury, " some- 
thing better than they were." 

" I am sorry that my fither is not here," said 
Miss Temple ; " he has a lively remembrance of all 
your kindness." 

" Kindness, I fear," said Glastonbury, in a me- 
lancholy tone, " that was most unfortunate." 

" We do not deem it so, sir," was the reply. 

"My dear young lady," said Glastonbury, but 
his voice faltered as he added, " we have had great 
unhappiness." 

" I regret it," said Henrietta ; " you had a mar- 
riage, I believe, expected in your family 1" 

" It has not occurred," said Glastonbury. 

" Indeed !" 

"Alas! madam," said her companion, " if I 
might venture indeed to speak of one whom I will 
not name, and yet — " 

" Pray speak, sir," said Miss Temple, in a kind, 
yet hushed voice. 

" The child of our affections, madam, is not what 
he was. God, in his infinite mercy, has visited him 
with great afflictions." 

" You speak of Captain Armine, sir I" 

" I speak, indeed, of my broken-hearted Ferdi- 
nand; I would I could say yours. ! Miss Tem.- 
ple, he is a wreck." 

" Yes ! yes !" said Henrietta, in a low tone. 

"What he has endured," continued Glaston- 
bury, "passes all description of mine. His life has 
indeed been spared, but under circumstances that 
almost make me regret he lives." 

" He has not married V muttered Henrietta. 

" He came to Ducie to claim his bride, and she 
was gone," said Glastonbury ; " his mind sunk un- 
der the terrible bereavement. For weeks he was a 
maniac ; and, though Providence spared him again 
to us, and his mind, thanks to God, is again whole, 
he is the victim of a profound melancholy, that 
sseems to defy alike medical skill and worldly vicis- 
situde." 

"Digby, Digby !" exclaimed Isabella, who was 
at the harp, " Henrietta is fainting." 

Lord Montfort rushed forward just in time to 
seize her cold hand. 



" The room is too hot," said one sister. 

" The coffee is too strong," said the other. 

" Air," said the young dutchess. 

Lord Montfort carried Henrietta into a distant 
room. There was a balcony opening into a gar- 
den. He seated her on a bench, and never quitted 
her side, but contrived to prevent any one approach- 
ing her. The women clustered together. 

" Sweet creature !" said the old dutchess, " she 
often makes me tremble ; she has but just recover- 
ed, Mr. Glastonbury, from a long and terrible ill 
ness." 

" Indeed !" said Glastonbury. 

" Poor dear Digby," continued her grace, " thi? 
will quite upset him again. He was in such spi- 
rits about her health the other day." 

" Lord Montfort]" inquired Glastonbury. 

" Our Digby. You know that he is to be mar- 
ried to Henrietta next month." 

" Holy Virgin !" muttered Glastonbury ; and, 
taking up Lord Montfort's hat by mistake, he 
seized advantage.of the confusion, and effected his 
escape. 



CHAPTER IV. 

IN WHICH iwn. GLASTONBURY INFORMS CAPTAIS 
AHMINE OF HIS MEETING WITH MISS TEMPT.E. 

It was still an early hour when Mr. Glaston 
bury arrived at his hotel. He understood, however, 
that Captain Armine had already returned and re- 
tired. Glastonbury knocked gently at his door, and 
was invited to enter. The good man was pale and 
agitated. Ferdinand was already in bed. Glas 
tonbury took a chair and seated himself by his 
side. 

"My dear friend, what is the matter 1" saio 
Ferdinand. 

" I have seen her — I have seen her," said Glaa 
tonbury. 

" Henrietta ! seen Henrietta !" inquired Ferdi 
nand. 

Glastonbury nodded assent, but with a mosl 
rueful expression of countenance. 

" What has happened ? what did she say I" 
asked Ferdinand in a quick voice. 

" You are two innocent lambs," said Glaston- 
bury, wringing his hands. 

" Speak — speak, my Glastonbury." 

"I wish that my death could make you both 
happy," said Glastonbury : " but I fear that would 
do you no good." 

" Is there any hope !" said Ferdinand. 

" None," said Glastonbury. " Prepare yourself, 
my dear chikl, for the worst." 

" Is she married 1" inquired Ferdinand. 

" No ; but she is going to be." 

" I know it," said Ferdinand. 

Glastonbury stared. 

" You know it ? what, to Digby ?" 

" Digby, or whatever his name may be ; damn 
him." 

" Hush ! hush !" said Glastonburj'. 

" May all the curses " 

" God forbid," said Glastonbury, interrupting 
liim, 

" Unfeeling, fickle, false, treacherous " 

" She is an angel," said Glastonbury, " a v«-y 
angel. She has fainted, and nearly in my arms." 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



647 



" Fainted ! nearly in your anns ! O ! tell me 
ail, tell me all, (Jlastonliury," exclaimed Ferdinand, 
starting up in his bed with an eager voice and 
sparkling eyes. " Does she love mc 1" 

" I fear so," said Glastonbury. 

" Fear !" 

" O ! how I pily her poor innocent heart," said 
Glastonbury. 

" When. I told her of all your sufferings — " 

" Did you tell her I What then V 

" And she herself has barely recovered from a 
long and terrible illness." 

" My own Henrietta ! Now I could die happy," 
said Ferdinand. 

"I thought it would break your heart," said 
Glastonbury. 

" It is the only happy moment I have known for 
months," said Ferdinand. 

" I was so overwhelmed that i lost my presence 
of mind," said Glastonbury. " I really never 
meant to tell you any thing. I do not know how 
I came into your room." 

" Dear, dear Glastonbury, I am myself again !" 

" Only think," said Glastonbury, " I never was 
80 unhappy in my life." 

" I have endured for the last four hours the tor- 
tures of the damned," said Ferdinand, " to think 
that she was going to be married, to be married to 
another ; that she was happy, proud, prosperous, 
totally regardless of me, perhaps utterly forgetful of 
the past, and that I was dying like a dog in this 
cursed caravanserai — O ! Glatitonbury, nothing that 
I have ever endured has been equal to the hell of 
this day ! And now you have come and made me 
comparatively happy. I shall get up directly." 

Glastonburj' looked quite astonished ; he could 
not comprehend how tliis fatal intelligence could 
nave produced effects so directly contrary to those 
he had anticipated. However, in answer to Ferdi- 
nand's reiterated inquiries, he contrived to give a 
detailed account of every thing that had occurred, 
and Ferdinand's running commentary continued to 
be one of constant self-congratulation. 

" There is however one misfortune," said Fer- 
dinand, " with which you are unacquainted, my 
dear friend." 

" Indeed !" said Glastonbury, " I thought I knew 
enough." 

" Alas ! she has become a great heiress !" 

"Is that itl" said Glastonbury. 

" 'Tis the devil," said Ferdinand. " Were it 
not for that, by the soul of my grandfather, I would 
tear her from the arms of this stripling!" 

" Stripling !" said Glastonbury. " I never saw 
a truer nobleman in my hfe." 

" The dense," said Ferdinand. 

" Nay ! second scarcely to yourself. I could not 
believe my eyes," continued Glastonbury. " He 
was but a child when I saw him last, but so were 
you, Ferdinand. Believe me, he is no ordijiary 
rival." 

" Good-looking 1" 

"Altogether of a most princely presence. I 
have rarely met a personage so highly accomplished, 
or who more quickly impressed you with liis moral 
and intellectual excellence." 

"And they are positively engaged 1" 

*' To be married next month," replied Glaston- 
bury. 

" O ! Glastonbury, why do I live '" exclaimed 
Ferdinand, "why did I recover !" 



" My dear child, but just now you were compa- 
ratively happy." 

" Happy ! you cannot mean to insult me 
Happy ! O ! is there in this world a thing so d3- 
plorablc as I am !" 

" I thought I did wrong to say any thing," said 
Glastonbury, speaking as it were to himself, " I 
have got a wrong hat too !" 

Ferdinand made no observation. He turned 
himself in his bed, with his face averted from 
Glastonbury. 

" Good night," said Glastonbury, after remaining 
some time in silence. 

"Good night," said Ferdinand, in a faint and 
mournful tone. 



CHAPTER V. 

WHICH, ox THE WHOLE, IS PEHHAPS AS RE- 
MAUKABLE A CUAPTEK AS ANY IN THE WOIIK. 

WnETCHEi) as he was, the harsh business of 
life could not be neglected; Captain Armine was 
obliged to be in Lincoln's Inn by ten o'clock the 
next morning. It was on his return from his lawyer, 
as he was about to cross Berkley Square, that a 
carriage suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, 
and a female hand apparently beckoned to him from 
the window. He was at first very doubtful, whe- 
ther he were indeed the person to whom the signal 
was addressed, but as on looking around, there was 
not a single human being in sight, he at length 
slowly approached the equipage, from which a 
white handkerchief now waved with considerable 
agitation. Somewhat perplexed by this incident, 
the mystery was, however, immediately explained 
by the voice of Lady Bellair. 

" You wicked man," said her little ladyship, in 
a great rage. " O ! how I hate you ! I could cut 
you into minced meat ; that I could. Here I have 
been giving parties every night, all for you too. 
And yftu have been in town ; never called on me. 
Tell me your name. How is your wife 7 O ! 
you arc not married. You should marry ; I hate 
a ci-devant jeime Iwmme. However, you can wait 
a little. Here, James, Thomas, Peter, what is your 
name, open the door and let him in. There, get 
in, get in ; I have a great deal to say to you." 
And Ferdinand found that it was absolutely neces- 
sary to comply. 

"Now, where shall we go?" said her ladyship ; 
" I have got till two o'clock. I make it a rule to 
be at home every day from two till six, to receive 
my friends. You must come and call upon me. 
You may come every day if you like. Do not 
leave your card. I hate people v\-ho leave cards. I 
never see them ; I order all to be burned. I cannot 
bear people who leave bits of paper at my house. 
Do you want to go anywhere ! — You do not I — 
Why do not you 7 How is your worthy father. 
Sir Peter ? — Is his name Sir Peter or Sir Paul ! — 
Well, never mind ; you know who I mean. And 
your charming mother, my favourite friend ? — She 
is charming ; she is quite one of my favourites. — 
And were not you to marry 1 — Tell me, why have 
you not? — Miss — Miss — you know whom I mean, 
whose grandfather was my son's tViend. In town 
are they ? — Where do they live 1 — Brook Street ! 
— I will go and call upon them. There, pull th« 
string, and tell him where tliey live." 



648 



D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



And so, in a few minutes, Lady Bellair's car- 
riage stopped opposite the house of Miss Grandison. 

" Are they early risers V said her ladyship ; " I 
get up every morning at six. I dare say they will 
not receive me, but do you show yourself, and then 
they caimot refuse." 

In consequence of this diplomatic movement, 
Lady Bcllair efiectcd an entrance. Leaning on 
the arm of Ferdinand, her ladyship was ushered 
into the morning-room, where she found Lady Ar- 
niine and Katherine. 

" My dear lady, how do you do ? And my sweet 
miss ! — O ! your eyes are so bright, that it makes 
me young to look upon them ! I quite love you, 
that I do. — Your grandfather and my poor son 
were bosom friends. — And, my dear lady, where 
have you been all this time ? Here have I been 
giving parties every night, and all for you ; all for 
my Bath friends ; teUing everybody about you ; 
talking of nothing else ; everybody longing to see 
you ; and you have never been near me. My din- 
ner parties are over; I shall not give any more 
dinners until June. But I have three evenings 
yet ; to-night you must come to me, to-night, and 
Thursday, and Saturday ; you must come on all 
three nights. — O ! why did you not call upon me ] 
I should have asked you to dinner. — I would have 
asked you to meet Lord Colonnade and Lady Ionia I 
They would have just suited you ; they would 
have tasted you ! — But I tell you what I will do ; 
I will come and dine with you some day. — Now, 
when will you have me 1 — Let me see, when am I 
free 1" So saying, her ladyship opened a little red 
book, which was her inseparable companion in 
London. " All this week I am ticketed ; Monday, 
the Derricourts — dull, but then he is a duke. 
Tuesday I dine with Bonmot; we have made it 
up; he gives me a dinner. Wednesday — Wednes- 
day — where is Wednesday 1 General Faneviile, 
my own party, Thursday, the Maxburys — had 
dinner, but good company. Friday, Waring Cutts 
— a famous house for eating ; but that is not in 
my way ; however, I must go, for he se^ds me 
pines. And Saturday I dine off a rabbit, by my- 
self, at one o'clock, to go and see my dear, darling 
Lady St. Julian at Richmond. So it cannot be 
this or next week. I will send you a note ; I will 
tell you to-night And now I must go, for it is 
five minutes to two — I am always at home from 
two to six — I receive my friends — you may come 
every day — and you must come to see my new 
squirrel ; my darling, funny, little grandison gave 
it to me — and, my dear miss, where is that wicked 
Lady Grandison ! Do you ever see her, or are 
you enemies 1 — She has got the estate, has not 
she ? — She never calls upon me — tell her she is 
one of my greatest favourites — O I why does not 
she come 1 — I .should have asked her to dinner ; 
and now all my dinners are over till June. Tell 
me where she lives, and I will call upon her to- 
morrow." 

So saying, and bidding them all farewell very cor- 
dially, her ladyship took Ferdinand's arm and retired. 

Captain Armine returned to his mother and 
cousin, and sat an hour with them, until their car- 
riage was arniouncei Just as he was going away. 
he ODserved Lady Bellair's little red book, which 
hhe had left behind. 

"Poor Lady Bellair ! what will she do I" said 
Miss Grandison; "we must take it to her imme- 
diatfjl"-" 



" I will leave it," said Ferdinand, "I shall pasi 
her house." 

Bellair House was the prettiest mansion in May 
Fair. It was a long building, in the Italian style, 
situated in the midst of gardens, which, though not 
very extensive, were laid out with so much art and 
taste, that it was veiy difBcult to believe that you 
were in a great city. The house was furnished 
and adorned with all that taste for which Lady 
Bellair was distinguished. All the receiving-room.s 
were on the ground floor, and were all connecteJ. 
Ferdinand, who remembered Lady Bellair's in- 
junctions not 1,0 leave cards, attracted by the spot, 
and not knowing what to do with himself, deter- 
mined to pay her ladyship a visit, and was ushered 
into an octagon library, lined with well-laden 
dwarf-cases of brilliant volumes, crownei'; with no 
lack f>f marble busts, bronzes, and Et''v,s:can vases. 
On each side opened a magnificent saloon, fur- 
nished in that classic style which t'ne late accom- 
plished and ingenious Mr. Hope first rendered po- 
pular in this country. The wings, projecting far 
into the gardens, comprised respectively a dining- 
room and a conservatory of considerable dimen- 
sions. Isolated in the midst of the gardens was a 
long building, called the summer-room, lined with 
Indian matting, and screened on one side from the 
air merely by Venetian blinds. The walls of this 
chamber were almost entirely covered with carica- 
tures and prints of the country seats of Lady Bell- 
air's friends, all of which she took care to visit. 
Here also were her parrots, and some birds of a 
sweeter voice, a monkey, and the fiimous squiprel. 

Lady Bellair was seated in a chair, the back of 
which was much higher than her head; at her side 
was a little table with writing materials, and on 
which also was placed a magnificent bell, by Ben- 
venute Cellini, with which her ladyship summoned 
her page, who, in the mean time, loitered in the 
hall. 

" You have brought me my hook !" she ex- 
claimed, as Ferdiirand entered with the mystical 
volume. " Give it me — give it me. Here I can- 
not tell Mrs. Fancourt what day I can dine with 
her. I am engaged all this week and all next, and 
I am to (line with your dear family when I like. 
But Mrs. Fancourt must choose her day, because 
they will keep. You do not know this gentleman?" 
she said, turning to Mrs. Fancourt. " Well, I 
shall not introduce you ; he will not suityou ; he is a 
fine gentleman, and only dines with dukes." 

Mrs. Fancourt consequently looked very anxious 
for an introduction. 

" General Faneviile," Lady Bellair continued to 
a gentleman on her left, " what day do I dine with 
you ? Wednesday. Is our party full ] You 
must make room for him ; he is my greatest fa- 
vourite. All the ladies are in love with him." 

General Faneviile expressed his deep sense of tho 
high honour ; Ferdinand protested he was engaged 
on Wednesday ; Mrs. Fancourt looked very disap- 
pointed that she had thus lost another opportunity 
of learning the name of so distinguished a per- 
sonage. 

There was another knock. Mrs. Fancourt de- 
parted. Lady Maxbury, and her daughter, Lady 
Selina, were announced. 

" Have you got him V asked Lady Bellair, very 
eagerly, as her new visiters entered. 

" He has promised most positively," answered 
Lady Maxbury. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



C19 



" Dear, good creature !" exclaimed Lady Bellair, 
"you arc the dearest creature that I know ! And 
vou are cluirming," slie continued, addressing her- 
self to Lady Sclina; "if I were a man, I would 
marry you directly. There, now, he (turning to 
Ferdinand) cannot marry you, because he is mar- 
ried already; but he should, if he were not. And 
how will he come 1" inquired Lady Bellair. 

" He will find his way," said Lady Maxbury. 

" And I am not to pay any thing V inquired 
Lady Bellair. 

" Not any thing," said Lady Maxburj-. 

" I cannot bear paying," said Lady Bellair. " But 
will he dance, and will he bring his bows and 
arrows ? Lord Dorfield protests 'tis nothing with- 
out the bows and arrows." 

" What, the New Zealand chief. Lady Bellair?" 
inquired the general. 

"Have you seen himl" inquired Lady Bellair, 
eagerly. 

" Not yet," replied the gentleman. 

" Well, then, you will see him to-night," said 
Lady Bellair, with an air of triumph. " He is 
coming to me to-night." 

Ferdinand rose, and was about to depart. 

" You nuist not go without .seeing my squirrel," 
said her ladyship, " that my dear funny grandson 
gave me — he is such a funny boy ! You must see 
it, you must see it," added her ladyship in a pe- 
remptory tone. " There, go out of that door ; and 
you will find 3'our way to my summer-room, and 
tliere you will find my squirrel." 

The restless Ferdinand was content to quit the 
hbrary, even with the stipulation of first visiting the 
squirrel. He walked through a saloon, entered the 
conservatory, emerged into the garden, and at 
length fo\uid himself in the long summer-room. 
At the end of the room a lady was seated looking 
over a liook of prints ; as she heard a footstep she 
raised her eyes, and the thunderstruck Ferdinand 
beheld — Henrietta Temple ! 

He was literally speechless ; he felt rooted to the 
ground; all power of thought and motion alike de- 
serted him. There he stood confounded and aghast. 
Nor indeed was his companion less disturbed. She 
remained with her eyes fixed on Ferdinand, with 
an ex[)ression of fear, astonishment, and distress 
impressed upon her features At length Ferdi- 
nand in some degree rallied, and he followed the 
first impulse of his mind — when mind indeed re- 
turned to him — he moveu to retire. 

He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if 
human voice indeed it were that sent forth tones so 
full of choking anguish, pronounced his name. 

"Captain Armine !" said the voice. 

How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to 
his first impulse, he still proceeded to the door. 

" Ferdinand !" said the voice. 

He st'ijiped, he turned, she waved her hand 
wildly, and then leaning her arm on the table, bu- 
ried her face in it. Ferdinand walked to the table 
at which she was sitting ; she heard his footsteps 
near her, yet she neither looked up nor spoke. At 
length he said in a still yet clear voice, " I am 
here." 

" I have seen Mr. Glastonburj'," she muttered. 

" I know it," he replied. 

" Your illness has distressed me," she said, after 
a slight [)ause, her face still concealed, and speak- 
ing in a very hushed tone. Ferdinand made no 
82 



reply : and there was another pause, which Misa 
Temple broke. 

" I would that we were at least friends," she 
said. The tears came into Ferdinand's eyes when 
she said this, for her tone, though low, was now 
sweet. It touched his heart. 

" Our mutual feelings now are of Uttle conse- 
quence," he replied. 

She sighed, but made no reply. At length Fer- 
dinand said, " Farewell, Miss Temple." 

She started, she looked up, her mournful coun- 
tenance harrowed his hearts He knew not what 
to do ; what to say. He could not bear her glance, 
he in his turn averted his eyes. 

" Our miser)', is — has been great," she said, in a 
firmer tone, " but was it of my making 1" 

" The miserable can bear reproaches : do not 
spare me — my situation, however, proves my sin- 
cerit)'. I have erred, certainly," said Ferdinand ; 
" I could not believe that you could have doubted 
me. It was a mistake," he added, in a tone of 
great bitterness. 

Miss Temple again covered her face, as she said, 
" I cannot recall the past : I wish not to dwell 
upon it. I desire only to express to you the inte- 
rest I take in your welfare, my hope that you may 
yet be happy. Yes ! you can be happy, Ferdinand 
— Ferdinand, tor my sake you will be happy." 

" O ! Henrietta, if Henrietta I indeed may call 
you, this is worse than that death I curse myself 
for having escaped." 

" No, Ferdinand, say not that. Exert yourself 
only exert yourself, bear up against irresistible fate. 
Your cousin — ever)' one says she is so amiable — 
surely — " 

" Farewell, madam, I th.ank yon for your coun- 
sel." 

" No, Ferdinand, you shall not go, you shall not 
go, in anger. Pardon me, pity me, I spoke for 
your sake, I spoke for the best." 

" I, at least, will never be false," said Ferdinand, 
with energy. " It shall not be said of me, that I 
broke vows consecrated by the finest emotions of 
our nature. No, no, I have had my dream ; it was 
but a dream ; but while I live, I will live upon its 
sweet memory." 

" Ah ! Ferdinand, why were you not frank, why 
did you conceal your situation from me ]" 

" No explanations of mine can change our re- 
spective situations," said Ferdinand ; " I content 
myself therefore by saying, that it was not .Miss 
Temple who had occasion to criticise my conduct." 

" You are very bitter." 

" The lady whom I injured, pardoned me. She 
is the most generous, the most amiable of her sex ; 
if only in gratitude for all her surpassing good- 
ness, I would never affect to offer her a heart 
which never can be hers. Katherine is indeed 
more than woman. Amid my many and almost 
unparalleled sorrows, one of my keenest pangs is 
the recollection that I should have clouded the life, 
even for a moment, of that admirable person. Alas ! 
alas ! that in all my miserj', the only woman who 
sympathizes with my wretchedness, is the woman 
whom I have injured. And so delicate as well as 
so generous ! She would not even inquire the 
name of the individual who had occasioned our 
mutual desolation." 

" Would tliat she knew all!" murmured Henri 
etta, " would tliat I knew her !" 
3 I 



650 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Your acquaintance could not influence affairs. 
My very affection for my cousin, the complete ap- 
preciation wliich I now possess of her character, 
before so little estimated and so feebly compre- 
hended by me, is the very circumstance, that, with 
my feelings, would prevent our union. She may 
— I am confident she will yet, be happy. I can 
never make her so. Our engagement in old days 
was rather the result of family arrangements than 
of any sympathy. I love her far better now than I 
did then, and yet she is the very last person in the 
world that I would marry. I trust, I believe that 
my conduct, if it have clouded for a moment her 
life, will not ultimately, will not long obscure it; 
and she has every charm and virtue, and accident 
of fortune, to attract the admiration and attention 
of the most favoured. Her feelings towards me at 
any time could have been hut mild and calm. It 
is a mere abuse of terms to style such sentiments 
love. But," added he, sarcastically, " this is too 
delicate a subject for ine to dilate on to Miss Tem- 
j»le." 

"For God's sake do not be so bitter,"' she ex- 
claimed ; and then she added, in a voice half of 
anguish, half of tenderness, " let me never be 
taunted by those lips ! ! Ferdinand, why cannot 
we be friends'!" 

" Because we are more than friends. To me 
such a word from your lips is mere mockery. Let 
us never meet. That alone remains for us. Little 
did I suppose that we ever sjiould have met again. 
I go nowhere — I enter no single house ; my visit 
here this morning was one of these whimsical va- 
garies which cannot be coimted on. This old lady, 
indeed, seems, somehow or other, connected with 
our destiny. I believe I am greatly indebted to 
her ■?" 

The page entered the room. " Miss Temple," 
said the lad, " my lady bid me say the dutchess and 
Lord Montfort were here." 

Ferdinand started — and darting, almost uncon- 
sciously, a glance of fierce reproach at the misera- 
ble Henrietta, he rushed out of the room ; and 
made his escape from BcUair House without re- 
entering the library. 



CHAPTER VL 

CONTAINING AN EVENING ASSEMBLY AT BELLAIR 
HOUSE. 

Seated on an ottoman in the octagon library, 
occasionally throwing a glance at her illuminated 
and crowded saloons, or beckoning, with a fan al- 
most as long as herself, to a distant guest. Lady 
Bellair received the world on the evening of the 
day that had witnessed the strange renconti'e be- 
tween Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Armine. 
Her page, who stood at the library door in a new 
fancy dress, received the announcement of the com- 
pany from the other servants, and himself commu- 
nicated the information to his mistress. 

" Mr. Million do Stockviile, my lady," said the 
page. 

" Hem !" said her ladyship, rather gruffly, as, 
with no very amiable expression of countenance, 
she bowed, with her haughtiest dignity, to a rather 
comnidU-Iooking personage in a very gorgeously 
embroidered waistcoat. 



" I>ady Ionia Colonnade, my lady." 

Lady Bellair bestowed a smiling nod on this fair 
and classic dame, and even indicated, bv a move- 
ment of her fan, that she might take a seat on her 
ottoman. 

" Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Armine, my lady, and 
Miss Grandison." 

" Dear, good people !" exclaimed Lady Bellair, 
" how late you are ! and where is your wicked 
son ] There, go into the next room, go, go, and 
see the wonderful man. Lady Ionia, you musi 
know Lady Armine ; she is like you ; she is one of 
my favourites. Now, then, there all of you go to- 
gether. I will not have anybody stay here, ex- 
cept my niece. This is my niece," Lady Bellaii 
added, pointing to a veiy young lady seated by hei 
side ; " I give this party for her." 

" General Faneville, my lady." 

" You are very late," said Lady Bellair. 

"I dined at Lord Rochfort's," said the genera), 
bowing. 

" Rochfort's ! ! where are they ? — where are 
the Rochfort's '! they ought to be here. I must — 
I will see them. Do you think Lady Rochfort 
wants a nursery governess ! Because I have a 
charming person who would just suit her. Go and 
find her out, general, and inquire; and if she do 
not want one, find out some one who does. Ask 
Lady Maxbury. There, go — go." 

" Mr. and Miss Temple, my lady." 

" O ! my darling !" said Lady Bellair, " my real 
darling ! sit by me. I sent Lady Ionia away, be- 
cause I determined to keep this place for you. I 
give this party entirely in your honour, so you 
ought to sit here. You are a good man," she con- 
tinued, addressing Mr. Temple ; " but I can't love 
you as well as your daughter." 

" I should be too fortunate," said Mr. Temple, 
smiling. 

" I knew you when you eat pap," said Lady 
Bellair, laughing. 

" Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, my lady." 

Lady Bellair assumed her coldest and haughtiest 
glance. Mrs. Montgomery appeared more gorgeous 
than ever. The splendour of her sweeping train 
almost required a page to support it ; she held a 
bouquet which might have served for the centre- 
piece of a dinner-table. A slender youth, rather 
distinguished in appearance, simjily dressed, with a 
rose-bud just twisted into his black coat, but whose 
person distilled odours whose essence might have 
exhausted a conservatory, lounged at her side. 

" May I have the honour to present to your lady- 
ship Lord Catchimwhocan," breathed forth Mrs. 
Montgomery, exulting in her companion, perhaps 
in her conquest. 

Lady Bellair gave a short and ungracious nod. 
Mrs. Montgomery recognised Mr. and Miss Temple. 
There, go, go," said Lady Bellair, interrupting 
her, " nobody must stop here ; go and see the 
wonderful man in the next room." 

" Lady Bellair is so strange," whimpered Mrs. 
Montgomery in an apologetical whisj)er to Miss 
Temple, and she moved away, covering her retreat 
by the graceful person of Lord Catchimwhocan. 

" Some Irish guardsman, I suppose," said Lady 
Bellair. " I never heard of him ; I hate guards- 
men." 

" Rather a distinguished looking man, I think," 
said Mr. Temple. 

" Do you think so 1" said Lady Bellair, who was 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



651 



always influenced by flip last word. " I will ask 
him for Thursday and Saturday. I think I must 
have known his grandfather. I must tell him not 
to go about with that horrid woman. She is so very 
fine, and she uses inusk ; she puts me in mind of 
the Queen of Siieba," said the little lady, laughini^, 
" all precious stones and frankincense, I quite 
hate her.'' 

" I thooRht she was quite one of your favourites, 
Lady Bellair !" said Henrietta Temple, rather ma- 
liciously. 

" A Bath favourite, my dear, a Bath fiivourite. 
I wear my old bonnets at Batli, and use my new 
friends ; but in town I have old friends and new 
dresses." 

" Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady." 

" ! my dear Lady Frederick, now I will give 
you a treat. I will introduce you to my sweet, 
sweet friend, whom I am always talking to you of 
You deserve to know her; you will taste her, 
there, sit down, sit by her, and talk to her, and 
make love to her." 

" Lady Womandeville, my lady." 

" Ah ! she will do for the lord — she loves a lord. 
My dear lady, you come so late, and yet I am al- 
ways so glad to see you. I have such a charming 
friend for you, the handsomest, most fashionable, 
witty person, quite captivating, and his grand- 
father was one of my dearest friends. What is his 
name 1 what is his name 1 Lord Catchimwhocan. 
Mind, I introduce you to him, and ask him to your 
house very often." 

Lady Womandeville smiled, expressed her de- 
light, and moved on. 

' Lord Montfort, who had arrived before the Tem- 
ples, approached the ottoman. 

" Is the dutchess here V inquired Henrietta, as 
she shook hands with him. 

"And Isabella," he replied. Henrietta arose, 
and, taking his arm, bid adieu to Lady Bellair. 

" God bless you," said her ladyship, with great 
emphasis. '■ I will not have you speak to that 
odious Mrs. Floyd, mind." 

When Lord Montfort and Henrietta .succeeded 
in discovering the dutchess, she was in the con- 
servatory, which was gayly illumined with coloured 
lamps among the shrubs. Her grace was con- 
Tersing with great cordiality with a lady of very 
prepossessing appearance, and in w hom the traces 
of a beauty once distinguished were indeed still 
considerable, and her companion, an extremely 
pretty person, in the very bloom of girlhood. Lord 
Montfort and Henrietta were immediately intro- 
duced to these ladies, as Lady Arminc and Miss 
Grandison. After the scene of the morning, it was 
not very easy to deprive Miss Temple of her equa- 
nimity ; after that shock, indeed, no incident con- 
nected with the Armine family could be very sur- 
prising ; she was even desirous of becoming ac- 
quainted with Miss Grandison, and she congi-atu- 
lated herself upon the opportunity which had so 
speedily offered itself to gratify her wishes. The 
dutchess was perfectly delighted with Lady Ar- 
mine, whose manners, indeed, were very fascinat- 
ing; between the families there was some distant 
connection of blood, and Lady Armine, too, had 
always retained a lively sense of the old duke's 
services to her son. Henrietta had even to listen 
to inquiries made after Ferdinand, and she learned 
that he was recovering from an almost fatal illness, 
that he could not yet endure the fatigues of society, 



and that he was even living at a hotel for tl " — • 
of quiet. Henrietta watched the countena. 
Katlierine, as Lady Armine gave this informati^ • 
It was serious, but not disturbed. Her grace di-^ 
not separate from her new friends the whole of the 
evening, and they parted with a mutually cxi)rcssed 
wish that they might speedily and often meet. The 
dutchess pronounced Lady Armine the most 
charming person she ever met, while, on the other 
hand, Miss Grandison wa.s warm in her admira- 
tion of Henrietta Temple and Lord Montfort, w hom 
she thought quite worthy even of so rare a prize. 



CHAPTER Vn. 

CONTAISIXG A TElir IMPOUTAXT COMMC^flCA- 
TIO.\. 

Between the unexpected meeting with Captain 
Armine in the morning, and the evening assembly 
at Bellair House, a communication had been made 
by Miss Temple to Lord Montfort, which ought 
not to be quite unnoticed. She had returned home 
with his mother and himself, and her silence and 
depression had not escaped him. Soon after their 
arrival they were left alone, and then Henrietta 
said, " Digby, I wish to speak to you !" 

" My own !" said Lord Montfort, as he seated 
himself by her on the sofa ; and took her hand. 

Miss 7\'mi)le was calm, but he would have been 
a light observer, who had not detected her sup- 
pressed agitation, 

'• Dearest Digby," she continued, " you are so 
generous and so kind, that I ought to feel no re- 
luctance in speaking to you upon this subject ; and 
yet it pains me very much," She hesitated — 

" I can only express my sympathy with any 
sorrow of yours, Henrietta," said Lord Montfort, 
" Speak to me as you always do, with that frank- 
ness which so much delights me." 

" Let your thoughts recur to the most painful 
incident of my life, then," stud Henrietta, 

" If you require it," said Lord Montfort, in a 
serious tone, 

" It is not my fault, dearest Digby, that a single 
circumstance connected with that unhappy event 
should be unknown to you, I wished originally 
that you should know all, I have a thousand times 
since regretted that your consideration for my feel- 
ings should ever have occasioned an imperfect con- 
fidence between us ; and something has occurred 
to-day, which makes me lament it most bitterly," 

" No, no, dearest Henrietta; you feel too keenly," 
said Lord Montfort. 

" Indeed, Digby, it is so," said Henrietta, very 
mournfully. 

" Speak, then, dearest Henrietta." 

"It is necessary that you should know tlio name 
of that person who once exercised an influence over 
my feelings, which I never atlected to disguise to 
you," 

" Is it indeed necessary V inquired Lord Mont- 
fort, 

" It is for my happiness," replied Henrietta. 

"Then, indeed, I am anxious to learn it," 

"He is in this country," s.aid Henrietta; "he is 
in this town ; he may be in the same room with you 
to-morrow ; he has been in the same room with me 
even this day," 



652 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



" Indeed !" said Lord Montfort. 

" He bears a name not unknown to you," said 
Henrietta, " a name, too, that I must teach myself 
to mention, and yet " 

Lord Montfort rose and took a pencil and a sheet 
of paper from tiie table. " Write it," he said in a 
most kind tone. 

Henrietta took the pencil, and wrote — " Ar- 

MINK." 

" The son of Sir Ratcliffe V said Lord Montfort, 
" The same," replied Henrietta. 
"You heard then of him last night?" inquired 
her companion. 

" Even so ; of that, too, I was about to speak." 

" I am aware of the connexion of Mr. Glaston- 
bury with the Armine family," said Lord Montfort, 
very quietly. 

There was a dead pause. At length Montfort 
said, " Is there any thing you wish me to do !" 

" Much," said Henrietta. "Dearest Digby," she 
continued, after a moment's hesitation, "do not 
misinterpret me ; my heart, if such a heart be indeed 
worth possessing, is yours. I can never forget who 
solaced me in all my misery ; I can never forget all 
your delicate tenderness, my Digby. Would that 
I could make a return to you more worthy of all 
your goodness; but, if the grateful devotion of my 
life can repay you, you shall be satisfied." 

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. " It 
is of you, and of your happiness, that I can alone 
think," he murmured. 

"Now let me tell you all," said Henrietta, with 
desperate firnmess. " I have done this person great 
injustice." 

"Hah!" said Lord Montfort. 

" It cuts me to the heart," said Henrietta. 

" You have then misconceived his conduct 1" in- 
quired Lord Montfort. 

" Utterly." 

" It is indeed a terrible situation for you," said 
Lord Montfort ; " for all of us," he added, in a lower 
tone. 

" No, Digby ; not for all of us ; not even for my- 
self; for, if you are happy, I will be. But for him 
— yes ! I will not conceal it from you — I feel for 
him." 

" Your destiny is in your own hands, Henrietta." 

" No, no, Digby ; do not say so," exclaimed Miss 
Temple, very earnestly ; " do not speak in that tone 
of sacrifice. There is no need of sacrifice ; there 
shall be none. I will not — I do not falter. Be you 
firm. Do not desert me in this moment of trial. It 
is for su}>port I speak ; it is for consolation. We 
are bound together by ties the purest, the holiest. 
Who shall sever them 1 No ! Digby, we will lie 
happy ; but I am interested in the destiny of this 
unhappy person. You — you can assist me in ren- 
dering it more serene ; in making him, perhaps, not 
less happy than ourselves." 

" I would spare no labour," said Lord Montfort. 

" ! that you would not !" exclaimed Miss 
Temple. "You are so good, so noble! You would 
sympathize even with him. What other man in 
your situation would !" 

" What can be done V 

" Listen : he was engaged to his cousin, even on 
that fatal day when we first met ; a lady with every 
charm and a<lvantage that one would think could 
make a man hapjiy ; young, noble, and beautiful ; 
of a most amiable and generous disposition, as her 



subsequent conduct has proved ; and of irnmeiise 
wealth." 

" Miss Grandison "?" said Lord Montfort. 

" Yes : his parents looked forward to their imion 
with delight, not altogether unmixed with anxiety. 
The Armines, with all their princely possessions, 
are gi-eatly embarrassed, from the conduct of the 
last head of their house. Ferdinand himself has, I 
grieve to say, inherited too much of his grandfather's 
imprudent spirit ; his aflairs, I fear, are terribly in- 
volved. When I knew him, papa was, as you are 
aware, a very poor man. This marriage would 
have cured all : my Digby, I wish it to take place," 

" How can we effect it?" asked Lord Montfort. 

" Become his friend, dear Digby. I alwaj's think 
you can do any thing. Yes ! my only trust is in 
you. 0, my Digby ! make us all liajipy." 

Lord Montfort rose, and walked up and down the 
room, apparently in profound meditation. At length 
he said, " Rest assured, Henrietta, that to secure 
your happiness nothing shall be ever wanting on 
my part. I will see Mr. Glastonbury on this sub- 
ject. At present, dearest, let us think of lighter 
things." 



CHAPTER VIII. 

WHICH IS RATHER STRANGE. 

It was on the morning after the assembly at 
Bellair House that Ferdinand was roused from his 
welcome slumbers, for he had passed an almost 
sleepless night, by his servant bringing him a note^ 
and telling him that it had been left by a lady in a 
carriage. He opened it, and read as follows : — 

" Silly, silly Captain Armine ! why did you not 
come to my Vauxhall last night? I wanted to 
present you to the fairest damsel in the world, who 
is a great fortune too, but that you don't care about. 
When are you going to be married ? Miss Grandi- 
son looked charming, but disconsolate without her 
knight. Your mother is an angel, and the Dutchess 

of is quite in love with her. Your father, too, 

is a very worthy man. I love your family' very 
much. Come and call upon poor old doting bed- 
ridden H. B., who is at home every day from two 
to six to receive her friends. Has charming Lady 
Armine got a page ? I have one that would just 
suit her. He teases my poor squirrels, that I am 
obliged to turn him away ; but he is a real treasiu'e. 
That fine lady, Mrs. Montgomery Floyd, would 
give her cars for him ; but I love your mother much 
more, and so she shall have him. He shall come 
to her to-night. All the world takes tea with H. B. 
on Thursday and Saturday." 

" One o'clock !" said Ferdinand. " I may as well 
get up, and call in Brook Street, and save my mo 
ther from this threatened infliction. Heigho ! Day 
after day, and each more miserable than tlie other. 
How will this end ?" 

When Ferdinand arrived in Brook Street, he> 
went up stairs witiiout being announced, and found 
in the drawing-room, besides his mother and Kathe- 
rine, the dutchess. Lord Montfort, and Henrietta 
Temple. 

The young ladies were in their riding-habits, 
Henrietta appeared before him, the same Henriett;i 
whom he had met, for the first time, m the plaisanco 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



653 



at Armlne. Retreat was impossible. Her grace 
received Ferdinand very cordially, and reminded 
him of old days. Henrietta bowed, but she was 
sitting at some distance with Miss Grandison, look- 
ing at some work. Her occupation covered her 
confusion. Lord Moatlbrt came forward with ex- 
tended hand. 

" I have the pleasure of meeting a very old friend," 
said his lordship. 

Ferdinand just touched his lordship's finger, and 
bowed rntlier stiOly ; then turning to his mother he 
gave her Lady Uellair's note. " It concerns you 
more than myself," he observed. 

'•You were not at Lady Bellair's last night, 
Captain Arniine," said her grace. 

" I never go anywhere," was the answer. 

" He has been a great invalid," said Lady Ar- 
mine. 

" Where is Glastonbury, Ferdinand ]" said Lady 
Armine. " He never comes near us." 

" He goes cvei-y day to the British Museum." 

" I wish he would take me," said Katherine. 

" I have never been. Have you V she inquired, 
turning to Henrietta. 

" I am ashamed to say never," replied Henrietta. 
" It seems to me that London is the only city of 
which I know nothing." 

" Ferdinand," said Katherine, " I wish you 
would go with us to the Museum some day. Miss 
Temple would like to go. You know Miss Tem- 
ple," she added, as if she of course supposed he had 
not that pleasure. 

Ferdinand bowed ; Lord Montfort came forward, 
and turned tlie conversation to Egyptian antiquities. 
VV'hen a quarter of an hour had passed, Ferdinand 
thought that he might now withdraw. 

"Do you dine at home, Katherine, to-day 1" he 
inquired. 

Miss Grandison looked at Miss Temple; — the 
foung ladies whispered. 

"Ferdinand," said Katherine, "what are you 
going to do ?" 

" Nothing — particular." 

" We arc going to ride, and Miss Temple wishes 
you would come with us." 

" I should be very happy ; but I have some busi- 
ness to attend to." 

" O ! dear Ferdinand, that is what you always say. 
You really appear to me to be the most busy person 
in the world." 

" Pray come, Captain Armine," said Lord Mont- 
fort. 

" Thank you; it is really not in my power." His 
hat was in his hand ; he was begging her grace to 
bear his compliments to the duke, when Henrietta 
rose from her scat, and, coming up to him, said — 
•• Do, Captain Armine, come with us ; I ask it as a 
favour." 

That voice ! O ! it came o'er his ear " like 

the sweet south" — it unmanned him quite. He 
scarcely knew where he was. He trembled from 
head to foot. His colour deserted him, and the un- 
lucky hat fell to the ground ; and yet she stood 
before him awaiting his reply — calm, quite calm — 
t^erious — apparently a little anxious. The dutchess 
was in earnest conversation with his mother. Lord 
Montfort had walked up to Miss Grandison, and 
apparently was engaged in arranging a pattern for 
her. Fenlinand and Henrietta were quite unob- 
served. He looked up — he caught her eye — and 
then he whispered — " This is hardly fair." 



She stretched forth her hand, took his hat, and 
laid it on the table ; then, turning to Katherine, she 
said, in a tone which seemed to admit of no doubt, 
" Captain Armine will ride with us ;" and she 
seated herself bj- Lady Armine. 

The expedition was a little delayed by Ferdinand 
having to send for his horse; the others had, in the 
mean time, arrived. Yet this half hour, by some 
contrivance, did at length disappear. Lord Mont- 
fort continued talking to Miss Grandison. Henri- 
etta remained seated by Lady Armine. Ferdinand 
revolved a great question in his mind — and it was 
this : Was Lord Montfort aware of the intimate ac- 
quaintance between himself and Miss Temple ? 
And what was the moving principle of her present 
conduct 1 He conjured up a thousand reasons, but 
none satisfied him. His curiosity was excited, and, 
instead of regretting his extracted promise to join 
the cavalcade, he rejoiced that an ojiportunitj' was 
thus afforded him of perhaps solving a problem in 
the secret of which he now began to feel extremely 
interested. 

And yet in truth when Ferdinand found himself 
really mounted, and riding by the side of Henrietta 
Temple once more, for Lord Montfort was very im- 
partial in his attentions to his fair companions, and 
Ferdinand continually found himself next to Hen- 
rietta, he really began to think the world was be- 
witched, and was almost skeptical whether he was 
or was not Ferdinand Armine. The identity of his 
companion too was so complete : Henrietta Temple 
in her riding-habit was the verj- image most keenly 
impressed upon his memory. He looked at her and 
stared at her with a face of curious perplexity. She 
did not, indeed, speak much ; the conversation was 
always general, and chiefly maintained by Lord 
Montfort, who, though usually silent and reserved, 
made on this occasion the most successful efforts to 
be amusing. His attention to Ferdinand too was 
remarkable; it was impossible to resist such ge- 
nuine and unaffected kindness. It smote Ferdi- 
nand's heart that he had received his lordship's first 
advances so ungraciously. Compunctitm rendered 
him now doubly courteous ; he was even once or 
twice quite gay. 

The day was as fine as a clear sky, a warm sun, 
and a warm western breeze could render it. 
Tempted by so much enjoyment, their ride was 
very long. It was late, much later than they ex- 
pected, when they returned home by the green lanes 
of pretty Willesden, and the Park was quite empty 
when they emerged from the Edgewarc Road into 
Oxford Street. 

" Now the best thing we can all do is to dine in 
St. James's Square," said Lord Montfort. " It is 
ten minutes past eight, good people. We shall just 
be in time, and then wc can send messages to 
Grosvenor Square and Brook Street. What say 
you, Armine? you will come, of course?" 

" Thank you, if you would excuse me." 

"No, no; why excuse you?" said Lord Mont- 
fort: "I think it shabby to desert us now, after all 
our adventures." 

" Really you are verj^ kind, but I never dine out." 

"Dine out! What a phrase I You will not 
meet a human being ; perhaps not even my father. 
If you will not come it will spoil cverj- thing." 

" I cannot dine in a frock." said Ferdinand. 

"I shall," said Lord Montfort, "and these ladiet 
must dine in their habits, I suspect." 

" ! certainly, certainly," said the ladies. 
3i 2 



654 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Do come, Ferdinand," said Katherine. 

" I ask you as a favour," said Henrietta, turning 
to him and speaking in a low voice. 

" Well," said Ferdinand, slirugging his shoulders. 

"That is well," said Lord Montfort; "now let 
MS trot throiigh the Park, and the groom can call 
in Grosvenor Square and Brook Street, and gallop 
after us. This is amusing, is it notl" 



CHAPTER IX. 

■WHICH IS ON THE WHOLE ALMOST AS PEHPLEXING 
AS THE PRECEDING ONE. 

When Ferdinand found himself dining in St. 
James's Square, in the very same room where he 
had passed so many gay hours during that boyish 
month of glee which preceded his first joining his 
regiment, and then looked opposite to him and saw 
Henrietta Temple, it seemed to him that, by some 
magical process or other, his life was acting over 
again, and the order of the senses and characters 
had, by some strange mismanagement, got con- 
fused. Yet he yielded himself up to the excite- 
ment which had so unexpectedly influenced him; 
he was inflamed by a species of wild delight, which 
he could not understand, nor stop to analyze ; and 
when the dutchess retired with the young ladies to 
their secret conclave in the drawing-room, she said, 
" I like Captain Armine very much, he is so full of 
spirit and imagination. When we met him this 
morning, do you know I thought him rather stiff 
and fine 1 I regretted the bright boyish flow that I 
60 well recollected, but I see I was mistaken." 

" Ferdinand is very much changed," said Miss 
Grandison. " He was once the most brilUant per- 
son I think that ever lived ; almost too brilliant; 
everybody by him seemed so tame ! But since 
his illness he has quite changed. I have scarcely 
heard him speak or seen him smile these six months. 
There is not in the whole world a person so wretch- 
edl)*jiltered. He is quite a wreck. I do not know 
what is the matter with him to-day. He seemed 
once almost himself." 

" He indulged his feelings too much, perhaps," 
said Henrietta; " he lived perhaps too much alone 
af>er — after so severe an illness." 

" O ! no, it is not that," said Miss Grandison. 
" It is not exactly that. Poor Ferdinand I he is to 
be pitied. I fear he will never be happy again." 

" Miss Grandison should hardly say that," said 
the dutchess, "if report speaks truly." 

Katherine was about to reply, but checked her- 
self. 

Henrietta arose from her seat rather suddenly, 
and asked Katherine to touch the piano. The 
dutchess took up the Morning Post. 

" Poor Ferdinand ! he used to sing once so beau- 
tifully too !" said Katherine to Miss Temple in a 
hushed voice: "he never sings now." 

" You must make him," said Henrietta. 

Miss Grandison shook her head. 

" You have influence vs'ith him ; you should ex- 
ert it," said Henrietta. 

" I neiiher have, nor desire to have, influence 
with him," said Miss Grandison. "Dearest Miss 
Temple, the world is in error with respect to my- 
imlf and my cousin ; and yet I ought not to aav. to 



you what I have not thought proper to confess even 
to my aunt." 

Henrietta leaned over and kissed her forehead. 
" Say what you like, dearest Miss Grandison : you 
speak to a friend, who loves you, and will respect 
your secret." 

The gentlemen at this moment entered the room, 
and interrupted this interesting conversation. 

"You must not quit the instrument. Miss Gran- 
dison," said Lord Montfort, seating himself by her 
side. Ferdinand fell into conversation with the 
dutchess ; and Miss Temple was the amiable victim 
of his grace's passion for ecarte. 

" Captain Armine is a most agreeable person," 
said Lord Montfort. 

Miss Grandison rather stared. " We were just 
speaking of Ferdinand," she replied. " and I was 
lamenting his sad change." 

" Severe illness, illness so severe as his must for 
the moment change anyone; we shall soon see 
him himself again." 

" Never," said Miss Grandison, mournfully. 

" You must inspire him," said Lord Montfort. 
" I perceive you have great influence with him." 

" I give Lord Montfort credit for much acuter 
perception than that," said Miss Grandison. 

Their eyes met; even Lord Montfort 's dark 
vision shrank before the searching glance of Miss 
Grandison. It conveyed to him that his purpose 
was not undiscovered. 

" But you can exert influence, if you please," 
said Lord Montfort. 

" But it may not please me," said Miss Grandi- 
son. 

At this 7Tioment Mr. Glastonbury was an- 
nounced. He had a general invitation, and was 
frequently in the habit of paying an evening visit 
when the family were disengaged. When he found 
Ferdinand, Henrietta, and Katherine, all assembled 
together, and in so strange a garb, his perplexity 
was wondrous. The tone of comparative ease too 
with which Miss Temple addressed him completed 
his confusion. He began to suspect that soma 
critical explanation had taken place. He looked 
around for information. 

" We have all been riding," said Lord Montfort. 

"So I perceive," said Glastonbury. 

" And, as we were too late f()r dinner, took re- 
fuge here," continued his lordship. 

" I observe it," said Glastonbury. 

" Miss Grandison is an admirable musician, sir." 

" She is an admirable lady in every respect," 
said Glastonbury. 

" Perhaps you will join her in some canzonette ; 
I am so stupid as not to be able to sing. I wish I 
could induce Captain Armine." 

" He has left off singing," said Glastonbury, 
mournfully. " But Miss Temple 1" added Glaston- 
bury, bowing to that la;!y. 

"Miss 'J'emple has left off singing too," said 
Lord Montfort, very quietly. 

" Come, Mr. Glastonbury," said the dutchess, 
"time was when you and I have sung together. 
Let us try to shame these young folks." So saying 
her grace seated herself at the piano, and the grati- 
fied Glastonbury summoned all his energies to ac- 
company her. 

Lord Montfort seated himself by Ferdinand 
" You have been severely ill, I am sorry to hear/' 

" Yes : I have been rather shaken." 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



655 



"This spring will bring you round." 

" So everj' one tells me. I cannot say I feel its 
beneficial influence.'' 

■ " You should," said Lord Montfort. " At our 
age wc ought to rally quickly." 

"Yes! Time is the great physician, I cannot 
say I have much more faith in him than in the 
spring." 

" Well, then, there is hope ; what think you of 
•that?" 

" I have no great faith," said Ferdinand, affect- 
ing to smilo. 

" Believe then in optimism," said Henrietta 
Temple, without taking her eyes off the cards. 
" Whatever is, is best." 

"That is not my creed. Miss Temple," said 
Ferdinand, and he rose and was about to retire. 

"Must you go? Let us all do something to- 
morrow !" said Lord Montfort, interchanging a 
glance with Henrietta. "The British Museum; 
Miss Grandison wishes to go to the British Mu- 
seum. Pray come with us." 

"You are very good, but — " 

"Well! I will write you a little note in the 
morning and tell you our plans," said Lord Mont- 
fort. " I hope you will not desert us." 

Ferdinand bowed and retired : he avoided catch- 
ing the eye of Henrietta. 

The carriages of Miss Temple and Miss Grandi- 
son were soon announced, and, fatigued with their 
riding-dresses, these ladies did not long remain. 

"I will not go home with you to-night, dear 
Henrietta," said Lord Montfort; " I wish to speak 
to Glastonbury." 

"To-day has been a day of trial. What do you 
think of affairs 1 I saw you speaking to Kathc- 
rine. What do you think ?" 

" I think Ferdinand Armine is a very formidable 
rival. Do you know I am rather jealous?" 

" Digby ! can you be ungenerous 1" 

"My sweet Henrietta, pardon my levity, I 
»poke in the merest playfulness. Nay," he con- 
tinued, for she seemed really hurt, "say good night 
very sweetly." 

"Is there any hope?" said Henrietta, 

" All's well that ends well !" said Lord Mont- 
fort, smiling; " God bless you," 

Glastonliury was about to retire, when Lord 
Montfort returned and asked him to come up to his 
lordship's own apartments, as he wished to show 
him a curious antique carving, 

•' You seemed rather surprised at the guests you 
found here to-night," said Lord Montfort when 
they were alone. 

Glastonbury looked a Uttle confused. "It was 
certainly a curious meeting, all things considered," 
continued Lord Montfort: "Henrietta has. never 
concealed any thing of the past from me, but I 
have always wished to spare her details. I told 
her this morning I should speak to you upon the 
subject, and that is the reason why I have asked 
you here." 

" It is a painful history," said Glastonbury. 

" As painful to me as to any one," said his lord- 
ship ; " nevertheless it must be told. When did 
you first meet Miss Temple?" 

"I shall never forget it," said Glastonbury, sigh- 
ing and moving very uneasily in his chair, " I 
took her for Miss Grandison." And Glastonbury 
now entered into a complete history of every thing 
that had occurred. 



" It is a strange, a wonderful story," said Lord 
Montfort, and you communicated every thing to 
Miss Grandison ?" 

" Every thing but the name of her rival. To 
that she would not listen. It was not just, she 
said, to one so unfortunate and so unhappy." 

"She seems an admirable person, that Miss 
Grandison," said Lord Montfort, 

" She is indeed as near an angel as any thing 
earthly can be," said Glastonbury. 

" Then it is still a secret to the parents ?" 

"Thus she would have it," said Glastonbury. 
" She clings to them, who love her indeed as a 
daughter ; and she shrank from the desolation that 
was preparing for them." 

" Poor girl !" said Lord Montfort, " and poor 
Armine ! By heavens, I pity him firom the bottom 
of my heart." 

" If you had scrn him as I have,'' said Glaston- 
bury, " wilder than the wildest bedlamite ! It was 
an awful sight." 

" Ah ! the heart, the heart," said Lord Montfort: 
"it is a delicate organ, Mr. Glastonbury. And 
think you his father and mother suspect nothing ?" 

"I know not what thoy think," said Glaston- 
bury, " but they must soon know all." And he 
seemed to shudder at the thought. 

" Why must they ?" asked Lord Montfort. 

Glastonbury stared. 

" Is there no hope of softening and subduing all 
their sorrows ?" said Lord Montfort ; " cannot we 
again bring together these young and parted 
spirits ?" 

" It is my only hope," said Glastonbury, " and 
yet I sometimes deem it a forlorn one," 

" It is the sole desire of Henrietta," said Lor*! 
Montfort, " cannot you assist us ? Will you enta. 
into this conspiracy of affection with us ?" 

" I want no spur to such a righteous work," said 
Glastonbury, " but I cannot conceal from myseb 
the extreme difficulty, P'erdinand is the most 
impetuous of human beings. His passions are a 
whiriwind ; his volition more violent than becomes 
a suffering mortal." 

" You think then there is no difficulty but with 
him?" 

" I know not what to say," said Glastonbury 
"calm as appears the temperament of Miss Grandi- 
son, she has heroic qualities. O ! what have I 
not seen that admirable young lady endure ! Alas! 
my Digby, my dear lord, few passages of this ter 
rible story are engraven on my memory more 
deeply than the day when I revealed to her the 
fatal secret. Yet, and chiefly for her sake, it was 
my duty." 

" It was at Armine ?" 

" At Armine — I seized an opportunity when we 
were alone togclhcr, and without fear of being dis- 
turbed. Wc had gone to view an old abbey in 
the neighbourhood. We were seated among its 
ruins, when I took her h .mil and endeavoured to 
prepare her for the fatal intelligence, ' All is not 
right with Ferdinand,' she immediately said ; 
'there is some mystery, I have long suspected 
it,* She listened to my recital, softened as much 
as I could for her sake, in silence. Yet her ])ale- 
ness I never can forget- She looked like a saint 
in a niche. When I had finished, she whispered 
me to leave her for some short time, and I walked 
away out of sight indeed, but so near that she 
might easily summon me. I stood alone until it 



6 6 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



was twilight, in a state of mournful suspense that 
I recall even now with anguish. At last I heard 
iny name sounded, in a low, yet distinct voice, and 
I looked round and she was there. She had been 
weeping. I took her hand and pressed it, and led 
her to the carriage. When I approached our 
unhappy home, she begged me to make her excuses 
to the family, and for two or three days we saw her 
no more. At length she sent for me, and told me 
she had been revolving all these sad circumstances 
in her mind, and she felt for others more even than 
for herself; that she forgave Ferdinand, and pitied 
him, and would act tovs'ards him as a sister; that 
her heart was distracted with the thoughts of the 
unhappy lady, whose name she would never know, 
but that if by her assistance I could effect their 
union, means should not be wanting, though their 
source must be concealed ; that for the sake of her 
aunt, to whom she is indeed passionately attached, 
she would keep the secret, until it could no longer 
be maintained, and that in the mean time it was to 
be hoped, that health might be restored to her 
cousin, and Providence in some way interfere in 
favour of this unhappy family." 

"Angelic creature!" said Lord Montfort. "So 
young too; I think so beautiful! Good God! 
with such a heart what could Arminc desire!" 

" Alas !" said Glastonbury, and he shook his 
head. " You know not the love of Ferdinand 
Armine for Henrietta Temple. It is a wild and 
fearful thing ; it passcth human comprehension." 

Lord Montfort leaned back in his chair, and 
covered his face with his hands. After some 
minutes he looked up and said in his usual placid 
tone, and with an unruffled brow. " Will you 
take any thing before you go, Mr. Glastonbury 1" 



CHAPTER X. 

IN WHICH CAPTAIIf AHMINE INCREASES HIS 
KNOWLEDGE OF THE VALUE OF MONEY, AND 
ALSO BECOMES AWARE OF THE ADVANTAGE OF 
AN ACaUAINTANCE WHO BURNS COALS, 

Ferdinand returned to his hotel in no very 
good humour, revolving in his mind Miss Tern- 
pie's advice about optimism. What could she 
mean 1 Was there really .i conspirac*- to make 
him marry his cousin ; and was Miss Temple one 
of the conspirators'? He could, indeed, scarcely 
believe this, and yet it was the most probable de- 
duction from all that had been said and done. He 
had lived, indeed, to witness such strange occur- 
rences, that no event ought now to astonish him. 
Only to think that he had been sitting quietly in a 
drawing room with Henrietta Temple, and she 
avowedly engaged to be married to another person, 
who was present; and that he, Ferdinand Armine, 
should be the selected companion of their morning 
drive, and be calmly invited to contribute to their 
daily amusement by his social presence ! What 
next ■? If this were not an insult — a gi-oss, fla- 
grant, unendurable outrage — he was totally at a 
loss to comprehend what was meant by offended 
pride. Optimism indeed ! He felt far more inclined 
to embrace the faith of the Manichec ! And what 
a fool was he to have submitted to such a despica- 
ble, such a degrading situation ! What infinite 
Weakness not to be able to resist her influence, the 



influence of a woman who had betrayed him ! 
Yes ! lietrayed him. He had fur some period re- 
conciled his mind to entertaining the idea of Henri- 
etta's treachery to him. Softened by time, atoned 
for by long suffering, extenuated by the constant 
sincerity of Iris purpose, his original imprudence, 
to use his own phrase in describing his miscon- 
duct, had gradually ceased to figure as a valid and 
sufficient cause for her behaviour to him. When 
he recollected how he had loved this woman, 
what he had sacrificed for her, and what misery he 
had in consequence entailed upon himself and all 
those dear to him ; when he contrasted his present 
perilous situation with her triumphant prosperity, 
and remembered that while he had devoted himself 
to a love which proved false, she, who had d'eserted 
him, was, by a caprice of fortune, absolutely re- 
warded for her fickleness ; he was enraged, he was 
disgusted, he despised himself for having been her 
slave — he began even to hate her. Terrible mo- 
ment when we first dare to view with feelings of 
repugnance the being that our soul has long idolized! 
It is the most awful of revelations. We start back 
in horror, as if the act of profanation. 

Other annoyances, however, of a less ethereal 
character, awaited our hero on his return to hh 
hotel. There he found a letter from his lawyer, 
informing him that he could no longer parry the 
determination of one of Captain Armine's princi- 
pal creditors to arrest him instantly for a very con- 
siderable sum. Unfortunately, too, it was a judg 
ment debt, which there were no means of avoiding, 
except by payment, bail being inadmissable. Poor 
Ferdinand, mortified and harassed, with his heart 
and spirits alike broken, he could scarcely refrain 
from a groan ! However, some steps must be 
taken. He drove Henrietta from his thoughts, and 
endeavouring to rally some of his old energy, re- 
volved in his mind what desperate expedient yet 
remained. 

His sleep was broken by dreams of bailiffs, and 
a vague idea of Henrietta Temple triumphing in 
his misery ; but he rose early, wrote a most diplo- 
matic note to Ills menacing creditor, which he felt 
confident must gain him time, and then making a 
very careful toilet, for when a man is going to try 
to borrow money, it is wise to look prosperous, he 
took his way to a quarter of the town where lived 
a gentleman, with whose brother he had had some 
previous dealings at Malta, and whose acquaintance 
he had made in England in reference to them. 

It was in that gloomy quarter called Golden 
Square, the murky repose of which strikes so mys- 
teriously on the senses, after the glittering bustle 
of the adjoining Regent Street, that Captain Ar- 
mine stopped before a noble, yet now dingy man- 
sion, that in old and happier days might probably 
have been inhabited by his grandfather, or some of 
his gay friends. A brass plate on the door informed 
the world that here resided Messrs. Morris and 
Levison, following the not very ambitious calling of 
coal merchants. But if all the pursuers of that 
somewhat humble trade could manage to deal in 
coals with the same dexterity as Messrs. Morris 
and Levison, what very great coal merchants they 
would be ! 

The ponderous portal obeyed the signal of the 
bell, and apparently opened without any human 
means ; and Captain Armine, proceeding down a 
dark, yet capacious passage, opened a door, which 
invited him by an inscription on ground glass that 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



C57 



Assured him he was enterlnc; the countint^-house. 
Here several clerks, ensconsed within lofty walls 
of the dnrkest and dullest mahogany, were busily 
employed ; yet one advanred to an aperture in this 
fortification, and accepted the card which the visiter 
offered him. The clerk surveyed the ticket with a 
peculiar glance, and then, begging the visiter to be 
seated, disappeared. He was not long absent, but 
soon invited Ferdinand to follow him. , Captain 
Armine was ushered up a noble staircase, and into 
a saloon that once was splendid. The ceiling was 
richly carved ; and there still might be detected the 
remains of its once gorgeous embellishment, in the 
faint forms of faded deities and the traces of murky 
gilding. The walls of this apartment were crowded 
with- pictures, arranged, however, with little regard 
to taste, effect, or style. A sprawling copy of 
Titian's Venus flanked a somewhat prim peeress 
by Hoppner ; a landscape that smacked of Gains- 
borough was the companion of a dauby moonlight, 
that must have figured in the last exhibition ; and 
insipid Koman matrons by Hamilton, and stiff 
English heroes by Northcote, contrasted with a 
vast quantity of second-rate delineations of the 
orgies of Dutch boors, and portraits of favourite 
racers and fancy dogs. The room was crowded 
with ugly furniture of all kinds, very solid, and 
chiefly of mahogany ; among which were not less 
than three escritoires, to say nothing of the huge 
horsehair sofas. A sideboard of Babylonian pro- 
portions was crowned by three massy and enor- 
mous silver salvers, and immense branch candle- 
sticks of the same precious metal, and a china punch- 
bowl which might have suited the dwarf in Brob- 
dignag. The floor was covered with a faded 
Turkey carpet But, amid all this solid splendour, 
there were certain intimations of feminine elegance 
in the veil of finely pink paper which covered t!ie 
nakedness of the empty but highly polished fire- 
place, and in the hand-screens, which were pro- 
fusely ornamented with riband of tlie same hue, 
and one of which afforded a most accurate, if not 
picturesque view of Margate, while the other glowed 
with a huge wreath of cabbage roses and jonquils. 

Ferdinand was not long alone, and Mr. Lcvison, 
the proprietor of all this splendour, entered. He 
was a short, stout man, with a grave but handsome 
countenance, a little bald, but nevertheless with an 
elaborateness of raiment which might have become 
a younger man. He wore a plurn-coloured frock 
c^at of the very finest cloth ; his green velvet 
waistcoat was guarded by a gold chain, which 
would have been the envy of a new town councrl ; 
an immense opal gleamed on the breast of his em- 
broidered shirt ; and his fingers were covered with 
very fine rings. 

" Your sarvant, captin," said Mr. Lcvison ; and 
he placed a chair for his guest. 

" How are you, Levison 1" responded our hero 
in a very easy voice. "Any news'?" 

Mr. Levison shrugged his shoulders, as he mur- 
mured, " Times is very bad, captin." 

" O ! I dare say, old fellow," said Ferdinand, " I 
wish they were as well with me as with you. By 
Jove, Levison, you must be making an infernal 
fortune." 

Mr. Levison shook his head, as he groaned out, 
" I work hard, captin ; but times is terrible." 

" Fiddlededee! Come ! I want you to assist me 
a little, old fellow, no humbug between us." 

•'0!" groaned Mr. Lcvison, "you could not 
83 



come at a worse time; I don't know what mo- 
ney is." 

" Of course. However, the fact is, money I 
must have, and so, old fellow, we are old friends ; 
and so, damn it, you must get it." 

" What do you want, captin 1" slowly spoke Mr, 
Levison, with an expression of misery. 

" ! I want rather a tolerable sum, and that is 
the truth ; but I only want it for a moment." 

"It is not the time, 'tis the money," said Mr 
Levison. " You know me and my pardner, cap- 
tin, are always anxious to do what we can to sarve 
you." 

" Well, now yoH can do me a real service, and, 
by Jove, you shall never repent it. To tlie point — 
I must have 1500/." 

" One thousand five hundred pound !" exclaim- 
ed Mr. Levison. " 'Ta'n't in the country." 

" Humbug. It must be found. What is the 
use of all this stuff with me 1 I want 1500/., and 
you must give it me." 

" I tell you what it is, captin," said ?vf r. Levison, 
leaning over the back of a chair, and speaking with 
callous composure, "I tell you what it is, me and 
my pardner are very willing always to assist you ; 
but we want to know when this marriage is to 
come off, and that's the truth." 

"Damn the marriage," said Captain Armine, 
rather staggered. 

" There it is, thougli," said Mr. Levison, very 
quietly. "You know, captin, there is the arrears 
on that 'ere annuity, three years next Michaelmas. 
I think it's Michaelmas — let me see." So saying, 
Mr. Levison opened an escritoire, and brought for 
ward A most awful-looking volume, and, consulting 
the terrible index, turned to the name of Armine. 
" Yes ! three years next Michaelmas, captin." 

" Well, you will be paid," said Ferdinand. 

" We hope so," said Mr. Levison ; " but it is a 
long figure." 

" Well, but you get capital interest." 

" Pish !" said Mr. Levison ; " ten per cent ' 
W"hy ! it is giving away the money. Why ! that's 
the raw, captin. With this here new bill, annuities 
is nothing. Me and my pardner don't do no an 
nuities now. It's giving money away ; and all 
this here money locked up — and all to sarve you." 

"Well; you will not help me?" said Ferdi 
nand, rising. 

" Do you raly want fifteen hundred V asked 
Mr. Levison. 

" By Jove, I do." 

" Well now, captin, when is this marriage to 
come off ? " 

" Have I not told you a thousand times, and 
Morris too, that my cousin is not to marry until 
one year has passed since my grandfather's death. 
It is barely a year. But of course, at this moment, 
of all others, I cannot afford to he short." 

'• Very true, captin ; and we are men to sarve 
you if we could. But we cannot Never was 
such times for money ; there is no seeing it How- 
ever, we will do what we can. Things is going 
very b;ul at Malta, and that's the truth. There's 
thai young Catchiniwhocan, we are in with him 
wery deep; and now he haii left the Fusilecrs, and 
got into parliament, he don't care this for us. If 
he would only pay us. you should have the money ; 
so help me you should." 

'• But he won't p^y you," said Ferdinand, 
" What can you do 1" 



658 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Why, I have a friend," said Mr. Levison, 
" who I know has got three hundred pound at his 
banker's, and he might lend it us ; but we sliall 
have to pay for it." 

" I suppose so," said Ferdinand, " Well, three 
hundred." 

"I have not got a shilling myself," said Mr. Le- 
vison. " Young Touchemup left us in the lurch 
yesterday for £750, so help me, and never gave us 
no notice. Now, you are a gentleman, captin ; 
you never pay, but you always give us notice." 

Ferdinand could scarcely resist smiling at Mr. 
Levison's idea of a gentleman. 

" Well, what else can you do 1" 

" W"hy, there is two hundred coming in to-mor- 
row," said Mr. Levison ; " I can depend on that." 

" Well, that is five." 

" And you want fifteen hundred," said Mr. Le- 
vison. " Well, me and my pardner always like to 
sarve you, and it is very awkward certainly for you 
to want money at this moment. But if you want 
to buy jewels, I can get you any credit you like, 
you know." 

" We will talk of that by and by," said Ferdi- 
nand. 

•' Fifteen hundred pound," ejaculated Mr. Levi- 
son. " Well, I suppose we must make it jETOO 
aomehow or other, and you must take the rest in 
coals." 

" ! by Jove, Levison, that is too bad." 

" I don't see no other way," said Mr. Levison, 
rather doggedly. 

" But, damn it, my good fellow, my dear Levi- 
son, what the dense am I to do with £800 worth 
of coals V 

" Lord ! my dear captin, £800 worth of coals is 
a mere nothing. Witli your connexion you will 
get rid of tliem in a morning. All you have got 
to do, you know, is to give your friends an order 
on us, and we will let you have cash at a little dis- 
count." 

" Then you can let me have the cash now at a 
little discount, or even a great — I cannot get rid of 
£800 worth of coals." 

" Why it a'n't four hundred chaldron, captin," 
rejoined Mr. Levison. "Three or four friends 
would do the thing. Why ! Baron Squash takes 
ten thousand chaldron of us every year. But he 
has such a knack ; he gits the clubs to take them." 

" Baron Squash, indeed ! Do you know who 
you are talking to, Mr. Levison 1 Do you think 
that I am going to turn into a coal merchant ; your 
working partner, by Jove ! No, sir, give me the 
£700 without the coals, and charge me what in- 
terest you please." 

" We could not do it, captin. 'Ta'n't our way." 

" I ask you once more, Mr. Levison, will you let 
me have the money, or will you notl" 

" Now, captin, don't be so high and mighty ! 
'Ta'n't the way to do business. Me and my pard- 
ner wish to sarve you, we does indeed. And if a 
hundred pound will be of any use to you, you 
shall have it on your acceptance, and wewon't be 
curious about any name that draws, we won't in- 
deed." 

" Well, Mr. Levison," said Ferdinand, rising, 
" I see we can do nothing to-day. The hundred 
pounds would be of no use to me. I will think 
over your proposition. Good morning to you." 

" Ah, do !" said Mr. Levison, bowing and open- 
the door. " Do, captin. We wish to sarve 



you, we does, indeed. See how we behave about 
that arrears. Think of the coals, now do. Now 
i'or a bargain, come ! Come, captin, I dare say novf 
you could get us the business of the Junior Sar- 
vice Club, and then you shall have the seven hun- 
dred on your acceptance for three months at two 
shilling in the pound, come !" 



CHAPTER XI, 

IN WHICH CAPTAIN AIlMIJfE UN EXPECTEDLT HE- 
SUME8 HIS ACaCAINTANCE WITH LOllD CATCH 
IMWHOCAN, WHO IKTRODtJCES HEM TO MR, 
BOND SHAUPE, 

FERniNAND quitted his kind friend Mr. Levison 
in no very amiable mood ; but just as he was leaving 
the house, a cabriolet, beautifully painted of a bril- 
liant green colour, picked out with a somewhat 
cream-coloured white, and drawn by a showy Hol- 
stein horse of a tawny tint, with a flowing and 
milk-white tail and mane, and caparisoned in har- 
ness almost as precious as Mr. Levison's sideboard, 
dashed up to the door. 

" Armine. by Jove !" exclaimed the driver, with 
great cordiality. 

"Ah! Catch, is it you"!" 

" What! have you been here?" said Lord Cateh- 
imwhocan. " At the old work, eh 1 Is * me and 
my pardner' troublesome, for your countenance is 
not very radiant?" 

" By Jove, old fellow !" said Ferdinand, in a de- 
pressed tone, " I am in an infernal scrape, and also 
in a cursed rage. Nothing is to be done here." 

" Never mind," said his lordship ; " keep up your 
spirits, jump into my cab and we will see how we 
can carry on the war. I am only going to speak 
one word to ' me and rpy pardner.' " 

So saying, his lordship skipped into the house as 
gay as a lark, although he had a bill for a good 
round sum about to be dishonoured in the course 
of a few hours. 

" Well, my dear Armine," he resumed, when he 
reappeared and took the reins, " now, as I drive 
along, tell me all about it. For if there be a man 
in the world whom I should like to ' sarve,' it is 
thyself, my noble Ferdinand." 

With this encouragement. Captain Armine was 
not long in pouring his cares into a congenial 
bosom. 

" I know the man to ' sarve' you," said Catch- 
imwhocan, " The fact is, these fellows here are 
regular old-fashioned humbugs. The only idea 
they have is money, money. They have no en- 
lightened notions, I will introduce you to a regular 
trump, and if he does not do our business I am 
much mistaken. Courage, old fellow. How dc 
you like this start 1" 

" Deused neat, By-the-by, Catch, my boy, you 
are going it rather, I see." 

" To be sure. I have always told you there is 
a certain system in aftairs which ever prevents men 
being floored. No fellow is ever dished who has 
any connexion. What man that ever had his run 
was really ever fairly put hors de combat, unless 
he was some one who ought never to have entered 
the arena, blazing away without any set, making 
himself a damned fool, and everybody his enemy. 
As l»ng as a man bustles about and is iJi a good 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE 



659 



set, something always turns up. I got into par- 
liament, yoa see; and you, you are going to be 
married." 

All this time the cabriolet was dashing down 
Re;?eiit Street, twisting through the Quadrant, 
whirling along Pall Mall, until it finally entered 
Cleveland Row, and stopped before a newly painted, 
newly pointed, and exceedingly compact man.sion, 
the long brass knocker of whose green door sounded 
beneath the practised touch of his lordship's tiger. 
Even the tawny Holslein horse, with the white 
flowing mane, seemed conscious of the locality, and 
stopped Iwforc the accustomed resting-place in the 
most natural manner imaginable. A very tall 
serving-man, very well powdered, and in a very 
dark and well appointed livery, immediately ap- 
peared. 

" At home 1" inquired Liird Catchirawhocan, 
with a peculiarly confidential expression. 

" To you, my lord," responded the attendant. 

" Jump out, Armine," said his lordsliip, and they 
entered the house. 

" Alone 1" said his lordship. 

"Not alone," said the servant, ushering the 
friends into the dining-room, "but he shall have 
your lordship's card immediately. There arc 
scwral gentlemen waiting in the third drawing- 
room ; so I have shown your lordship in here, and 
shall take care that he sees your lordship before any 
one." 

" That's a devilish good fellow," said Lord 
Catchimwhocan, putting his hand into his waist- 
coat pocket to give him a sovereign ; but not find- 
ing one, he added, " I shall remember you." 

The dining-room into which they were shown 
was at the back of the house, and looked into very 
agreeable gardens. The apartment, indeed, was in 
some little confusion at this moment, for their host 
gave a dinner to-day, and his dinners were famous. 
The table was arranged for eight guests — its ap- 
pointments indicated refined taste. A candelabra 
of Dresden china was the centre piece ; there was 
a whole service of the same material, even to the 
handles of the knives and forks; and the choice 
variety of glass attracted Ferdinand's notice. The 
room was lofty and spacious ; it was very simplj' 
and soberly furnished ; not an object which could 
distract the taste or disturb the digestion. But the 
sideboard, which filled a recess at the end of the 
apartment, presented a crowded group of gold plate 
that might have become a palace — magnificent 
shields, tall vases, ancient tankards, goblets of carved 
ivory set in precious metal, and cups of old ruby 
glass mounted on pedestals, glittering with gems. 
This accidental display certainly offered an amusing 
coiih-ast to the perpetual splendour of Mr. I^evison's 
beaufct; and Ferdinand was wondering whether it 
would turn out that there was as marked a ditrcr- 
ence between the two owners, when his companion 
and himself were summoned to the presence of Mr. 
Bond Sharpe. 

They ascended a staircase perfumed with flowers, 
and on each landing-place was a classic tripod or 
pedestal crowmed with a bust. And then they 
were ushered into a drawing-room of Parisian ele- 
gance ; buhl cabinets, marqueterie tables, hangings 
of the choicest damask suspended from burnished 
cornices of old carving. The chairs had been rifled 
from a Venetian palace ; the couches were part of 
the spoils of the French revolution. There were 
glass screens in golden frames, and a clock that 



represented the death of Hector, the chariot whee 
of Achilles conveniently telling the hour. A round 
table of Mosaic, mounted on a golden pedestal, was 
nearly covered with papers; and from an easy 
chair supported by air cushions, half rose to wel- 
come them Mr. Bond Shaqje. He was a man not 
many years the senior of Captain Armine and his 
friend, of a very elegant appearance, pale, pensive, 
and prepossessing. Deep thought was impressed 
upon his clear and protniding brow, and the ex- 
pression of his gray sunk eyes, which were deli- 
cately arched, was singularly searching. His figure 
was slight, but compact. His dress plain, but a 
model in its fashion. He was habited entirely in 
black, and his only ornament were his studs, which 
were turquoise and of great size ; but there never 
were such boots, so brilliant and so small ! 

He welcomed Lord Catchimwhocan in a voice 
scarcely above a whisper, and received Captain 
Armine in a manner alike elegant and dignified. 

" My dear Sharpe," said his lordship, " I am go- 
ing to introduce to ytju my most particular friend, 
and an old brother officer. This is Captain Armine, 
the only son of Sir Ratcliffe, and the heir of Armine 
Castle. He is going to be married very soon to 
his cousin. Miss Grandison, the greatest heiress ui 
England." 

"Hush, hush," said Ferdinand, shrinking under 
this false representation, and Mr. Sharpe, with con- 
siderable delicacy, endeavoured to check his lord- 
ship. 

" Well, never mind, I will say nothing about 
that," continued Lord Catchimwhocan. " The 
long and the short of it is this, that my friend Ar- 
mine is hard up, and we must carry on the war 
till we get into winter quarters. You are just the 
man for him, and b}' Jove, my dear Sharpe, if you 
wish sensibly to oblige me, who I am sure am one 
of your warmest friends, you will do every thing 
for Armine that human energy can possibly effect." 

" What is the present diflicully that you have V 
inquired Mr. Sharpe of our hero, in a calm whisper. 

" Why, the present difficulty that he has," said 
Lord Catchimwhocan, " is that he wants £1500." 

" I suppose you have raised money. Captain 
Armine 1" said Mr. Sharpe. 

" In every way," said Captain Armine. 

" Of course," said Mr. Sharpe, " at your time 
of life one naturally does. And I suppose you are 
bothered for this £ 1 500 !" 

"I am threatened with immediate arrest, and 
arrest in execution." 

" Who is the party T" 

" Why, I fear an unmanageable one, even by 
you. It is a house at Malta." 

" Mr. Bolus, I suppose 1" 

"Exactly." 

" I thought so." 

" Well, what can be donel" said Lord Catch- 
imwhocan. 

" ! there is no difficulty," said Mr. Sliarpe 
very quietly. " Captain Armine can have any 
money he likes." 

" I shall be happy," said Captain Armine, " to 
pay any consideration you think fit." 

"0! my dear sir, I cannot think of that. Money 
is a drug now. I shall be happy to accommodate 
j^ou without giving yow any trouble. You can 
have the £1500 if you please this moment." 

" Really you are very generous," said Ferdi- 
nand, very much surprised, " but I feel I am not 



660 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



entitled to such favours. What security can I 
give your' 

" I lend the money to you. I want no security. 
You cnn repay me when you Uke. Give me your 
note of h;md." So saying, Mr. Sharpe opened a 
drawer, and taking out his check-book drew a draft 
for the £1500. " I believe I have a stamp in the 
house," he continued, looking about. " Yes, here 
is one. If you fill this up, Captain Aniline, the 
aifair may be concluded at once." 

" Upon my honour, Mr. Sharpe," said Ferdinand, 
very confused, "I do not like to appear insensible 
to this extraordinary kindness, but really I came 
here by the merest accident, and without any in- 
tention of soliciting or receiving favours. And my 
kind friend here has given you much too glowing 
an account of my resources. It is very probable I 
shall occasion you great inconvenience." 

" Really, Captain Armine," said Mr. Sharpe, 
with a slight smile, " if we were talking of a sum 
of any importance, why, one might be a little more 
punctilious, but for such a bagatelle as £1500 we 
have already wasted too much time in its discussion. 
I am happy to serve you." 

Ferdinand stared, remembering Mr. Levison and 
the coals. Mr. Sharpe himself drew up the note, 
and presented it to Ferdinand, who signed it and 
pocketed the draft. 

"I have several gentlemen waiting," said Mr. 
Bond Sharpe, " I am sorry I cannot take this op- 
portunity of cultivating your acquaintance. Captain 
Armine, but I should esteem it a great honour if 
you would dine with me to-day. Your friend. 
Lord Catchimwhocan, favours me with his com- 
pany, and you might meet a person or two who 
would amuse you." 

" I really shall be very happy," said Ferdinand. 

And Mr. Bond Sharpe again slightly rose and 
bowed them out of the room. 

" Well, is not he a trump 1" said Lord Catchim- 
whocan, when they were once more in the cab. 

" I am so astonished," said Ferdinand, " that I 
cannot speak. Who in the name of fortune is this 
great man V 

"A genius," said Lord Catchimwhocan. "Don't 
you think he is a devilish good-looking fellow!" 

" The best-looking fellow I ever saw," said the 
grateful Ferdinand. 

" And capital manners 1" 

" Most elegant." 

" Neatest dressed man* in town !" 

" Exquisite taste !" 

" What a house !" 

"Capital!" 

" Did you ever see such furniture 1 It beats your 
rooms at Malta." 

" I never saw any thin^ more complete in my 
life." 

" What plate !" 

" Miraculous !" 

" And believe me, we shall have the best dinner 
in town." 

" Well, he has given rne an appetite," said Fer- 
dinand. 

"But who is hel" 

" Why, by business he is what is called a con- 
veyancer ; that is to say, he is a lawyer by in- 
spiration." 

" He is a wonderful man," said Ferdinand. " He 
must be very rich." 

" Yes ; Sharpe must be worth his quarter of a 



million. And he has made it in such a devilish 
short time !" 

" Why, he is not much older than we are 1" 

" Ten years ago that man was a prizefighter ;" 
said Lord Catchimwhocan. 

" A prizefighter !" exclaimed Ferdinand. 

"Yes; and licked everybody. But he was too 
great a genius for the ring, and took to the turf." 

" Ah !" 

" Then he set up a hell." 

"Hum!" 

" And then he turned it into a subscription- 
house." 

" Hoh !" 

" He keeps his hell still, but it works itself now. 
In the mean time, he is the first usurer in tlie world, 
and will be in the next parliament." 

"But if he lends mone)^ on the terms he ao- 
commodates me, he will hardly increase his 
fortune." 

" O ! he can do the thing when he likes. He 
took a fancy to you. The fact is, my dear fellow, 
Sharpe is very rich, and wants to get into society. 
He likes to obHge young men of distinction, and 
can afibrd to risk a few thousands now and then. 
By dining with him to-day, you have quite repaid 
him for his loan. Besides, the fellow has a great 
soul ; and, though born on a dunghill, nature in- 
tended him for a palace, and he has placed himself 
there." 

" Well, this has been a remarkable morning," 
said Ferdinand Armine, as Lord Catchimwhocan 
put him down at his club. "I am very much 
obliged to you, dear Catch !" 

" Not a word, my dear fellow. You have helped 
me before this, and glad am I to be the means of 
assisting the best fellow in the world, and that we 
all think you. Au revoir ! We dine at eight." 



CHAPTER XII. 

MISS GHANDISOKT MAKES A HEMARKABLE DISCO- 
VERT. 

In the mean time, while the gloomy morning 
which Ferdinand had anticipated terminated with 
so agreeable an adventure, Henrietta and Miss 
Grandison, accompanied by Lord Montfort and 
Glastonbury, paid their promised visit to the Bri- 
tish Museum. 

" I am sorry that Captain Armine could not 
accompany us," said Lord Montfort. " I sent 
to him this morning very early, but he was already 
out." 

" He has many affairs to attend to," said Glas- 
tonbury. 

Miss Temple looked grave; she thought of poor 
Ferdinand and all his cares. She knew well what 
were those aflairs to which Glastonbury alluded. The 
thought that perhaps at this moment he was strug- 
gling with rapacious creditors, made her melancholy. 
The novelty and strangeness of tlie objects which 
awaited her, diverted, however, her mind from 
those painful reflections. Miss Grandison, who 
had never quitted England, was delighted with 
every thing she saw ; but the Egyptian gallery prin- 
cipally attracted the attention of Miss Temple. Lord 
Montfort, regardful of his promise to Henrietta, 
was very attentive to Miss Grandison. 

" I cannot help regretting that your cousin is not 
here," said his lordship, returning to a key that ho 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



C61 



had ulreaJy touched. But Kaiherine made no 
answer, 

" He seemed so much better for the exertion he 

made yesterday," resumed Lord Monlfort. " I 

think it would do him good to be more witli us." 

" He seems to like to be alone," said Kathcrine. 

" I wonder at that," said Lord Montfbrt, " I 

cannot conceive a happier life tlian we all lead." 

" You have cause to he ha[)py, and Ferdinand 
has not," said Miss Grandison very calmly. 

" I should have tbought that he ha<l verj' great 
cause," said Lord Montl'ort iniiuiringly. 

" No person in the world is so unhappy as Fer- 
dinand," said Kathcrine. 

'• But cannot we cure his unhappinessl" said his 
lordship. " We are his friends ; it seems to me 
with such friends as Miss Grandison and Miss 
Temple one ought never to be unhappy." 

" Miss Temple can scarcely be called a friend to 
Ferdinand," said Katherine. 

" Indecti a very warm <me, I assure you." 
" Ah I that is your influence." 
" Nay ! it is her own impulse." 
" But she only met liim yesterday for the first 
time." 

" I assure you Miss Temple is an older friend 
of Captain Armine than I am," said his lordship. 

" Indeed !" said Miss Grandison, with an air of 
considerable astonishment. 

" You know they were neighbours in the coun- 
try." 

"In the country I" repeated Miss Grandison. 
'* Yes ; Mr. Temple, you know, resided not far 
from Armine." 

" Not far from Armine !" still repeated Miss 
Grandison. 

"Digby," said Miss Temple, turning to him at 
this moment, " tell Mr. Glastonbury about your 
sphinx at Kome. It was granite, was it not!" 

" And most delicately carved. I never re- 
member having observed an expression of such 
beautiful serenity. The discovery, that after all, 
they are male countenances, is quite a mortification. 
I loved their mysterious beauty." 

What Lord Montfurt had mentioned of the pre- 
vious acquaintance of Henrietta and her cousin, 
made Miss Grandison muse. Miss Temple's ad- 
dress to Ferdinand yesterday had struck her at the 
moment as somewhat singular ; but the impression 
had not dwelt upon her mind. But it now occurred 
to her as very strange that Henrietta should have 
become so intimate with the .\rmine family and 
herself, and never have mentioned that she was 
previously acquainted with their nearest relative. 
Lady Armine was not acquainted with .Miss Tem- 
ple until they met at Beilair House. That was 
certain. Miss Grandison had witnessed their mu- 
tual introduction. Nor Sir Ratclille. And yet 
Henrietta and Ferdinand were friends, warm friends. 
Old friends, intimately acquainted ; so said Lord Mont- 
fort: and Lord Montfort never coloured, never ex- 
aggerated. .\ll this was very mysterious. .\nd if they 
Were friends, old friends, warm friends — and Lord 
Montfort said they were, and, therefore, there could 
he no doubt of the truth of the statement — their re- 
cognition of each other yesterday was singularly 
frigid. It was not indicative of a very intininte ac- 
quaintance. Katherine had ascrilwd it to the na- 
tural disrelish of Ferdinand now to be introduced to 
any one. And yet they were frieiuls, old friends. 
Warm friends. Henrietta Temple and Ferdinand Ar- 



mine ! Miiss Grandison was so perplexed, that she 
scarcely looked at another object in the galleries. 

The ladies were rather tired when they returned 
from the Museum. Lord Montfort walked to the 
Travellers, and Henrietta agreed to remain and 
dine in Brook Street. Kaiherine and herself re- 
tired to Miss Grandison's boudoir, a pretty chamber, 
where they were sure of being alone. Henrietta 
threw herself upon a sofa, and took up the last new 
novel ; Miss Grandison seated herself upoi^ an otto- 
man by her side, and worked at a purse vihich she 
was making for Mr. Temple. 

" Do you like tliat book 1" said Katherine. 
" I like the lively parts, but not the serious ones," 
said Miss Temple; "the author has observed, but 
he has not felt." 

" It is satirical," said Miss Grandison. " I 
wonder why all this class of writers aim now at the 
sarcastic. 1 do not find life the constant sneer they 
nvSke it." 
! " It is because they do not understand life," said 
j Henrietta, " but have some little experience of so- 
ciety. Therefore their works give a perverted im- 
I pression of human conduct : for they accept as a 
I principal that which is only an insignificant acces- 
j sory : and they make existence a succession of fri- 
I volities, when even the career of the most frivolous 
I has its profounder moments." 

" How vivid is the writer's description of a ball 
or a dinner!" said Miss Grandison ;" every thing 
lives and moves. And yet when the hero makes 
love, nothing can be more unnatural. His feelings 
are neither deep, nor ardent, nor lender. All is 
stilted, and yet ludicrous." 

" I do not despise the talent which describes so 
vividly a dinner and a ball," said Miss Temple. 
" As far as it goes, it is very amu.sing ; but it 
should be combined with higher materials. In a 
fine novel manners should be observed, and morals 
should be sustained ; we require thought and pas- 
sion, as well as costume and the lively representa- 
tion of conventional arrangements ; and the thought 
and passion will be the better for these accessories, 
for they will be relieved in the novel as they are 
relieved in life, and the whole will be more true." 
" But have you read that love scene, Henrietta 1 
It appeared to me so ridiculous !" 

" I never read love scenes," said Henrietta 
Temple. 

" O ! I love a love story," said Miss (Srandison, 
smiling, "if it be natural and tender, and touch my 
heart. When I read such scenes, I weep." 

" Ah ! my sweet Katherine, you are soft-hearted."' 
" .'Vrid you, my Henrietta, what are you ]" 
" Hard-hearted ! The most callous of mortals.** 
" O I what would Lord Montfort say V 
" Lord Montfort knows it. We never have love 
scenes." 

" And yet you love him V 
" Dearly ; I love and I esteem him." 
" Well," said Miss Grandison. " I may be wrong, 
but if I were a man I do not think I should like 
the lady of my love to esteem me." 

" And yet esteem is the only genuine basis of 
hapjnness, believe me. Kate. Love is a dream." 
" And how do you know, dear Henrietta ?" 
" .\ll writers agree it is." 
" The writers you were just ridiculing 1" 
" A fair retort ; and yet, though your words are 
the most witty, believe me mine are the most 
wise." 

3K 



663 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" I wish my cousin would wake from his dream," 
said Katheriiie. " To tell you a secret, love is 
the cause of his unhappiiicss. Don't move, dear 
Henrietta," added Miss Grandison, " we are so 
happy here ;" for Miss Temple, in truth, seemed 
not a little discomposed. 

" You should ma:rry your cousin," said Miss 
Temple. 

" You little know Ferdinand or myself, Vv'hen 
you give that advice," said Katherine. " We shall 
never marry, nothing- is more certain than that. In 
the first place, to be frank, Ferdinand would not 
marry Tne, nothing would induce him ; and in the 
second place, I would not marry him, nothing 
would induce me." 

"Why notl" said Henrietta, in a low tone, 
holding her book very near to her face. 

" Because I am sure that we should not be hap- 
py," said Miss Grandison. " I love Ferdinand, 
and once could have married him. He is so bril- 
liant that I could not refuse his proposal. And 
yet I feel it is better for me that we have not 
married, and I hope it may yet jirove better for 
him ; for I love him very dearly. He is indeed my 
brother." 

" But why should you not be happy 1" inquired 
Miss Temple. 

" Because v/e are not sviited to each other. Ferdi- 
nand must man-y some one whom he looks up to, 
somebody brilliant like himself, some one who can 
.sympathize vnih all his fancies. I am too calm 
and quiet for him. You would suit him much 
better, Henrietta." 

" You are his cousin ; it is a misfortune ; if you 
were not, he would adore you, and you would 
sympathize with him." 

'• I think not : I should like to marry a very 
clever man," said Katherine. " I could not endure 
marrying a fool, or a commonplace person ; I 
should like to marry a person very superior in 
talent to myself, some one whose opinion would 
guide me on all points, one from whom I could not 
differ. But not Ferdinand ; he is too imaginative ; 
too impetuous ; he would neither guide me, nor be 
guided by me." 

Miss Temple did not reply, but turned over a 
page of her book. 

" Did you know Ferdinand before you met him 
yesterday at our house V inquired Miss Grandison, 
very innocently. 

" Y'es !" said Miss Temple. 

" I thought you did," said Miss Grandison. "I 
thought there was something in your manner that 
indicated you had met before. I do not think 
you knew my aunt, before you met her at Bcdlair 
House 1" 

" I did not." 

" Nor Sir Ratclifle V 

" Nor Sir Ratcliife." 

" But you did know Mr. Glastonbury 1" 

"I did know Mr. Glastonbury." 

•' How very odd !" said Miss Grandison. 

" What is odd 1" inquired Henrietta. 

" That you should have known Ferdinand 
before." 

" Not at all odd. He came over one day to 
iihoot at papa's. I remember him veiy well." 

" O 1" said Miss (Jrandison. " And did Mr. 
(ilastonoury come over to shoot V 

*' I met Mr. Glastonbury one morning that I 



went to see the picture gallery at Armine. It is 
the only time I ever saw him." 

" O !" said Miss Grandison again, " Armine is 
a beautiful place, is it not 1" 

" Most interesting." 

" You know the plaisance." 

" Yes." 

" I did not see you when I was at Armine." 

" No ; we had just gone to Italy." 

"How beautiful you look to-day, Henrietta!" 
said Miss Grandison. " Who could believe tliat 
j'ou were ever so ill !" 

"I am grateful that I have recovered," sdd 
Henrietta. " And yet I never thought that I should 
return to England." 

" You must have been so very ill in Italy, about 
the same time as poor Ferdinand was at Armine. 
Only think, how odd you should have been both so 
ill about the' same time, and now that we should he 
all so intimate !" 

Miss Temple looked perplexed and annoyed. 
" la it so odd V she at length said in alow tone. 

" Henrietta Temple," said Miss Grandison, with 
great earnestness, " I have discovered a secret : you 
are the lady with whom my cousin is in love." 



CHAPTER XIII. 

IX WHICH FEKDIXAJfD HAS THE HOXOUH. OF 
DINING WITH MB. BOND SHARPE. 

When Ferdinand arrived at Mr. Bond Sharpe's, 
he was welcomed by his host in a magnificent suite 
of saloons, and introduced to two of the guests who 
had previously arrived. The first was a very stout 
man, past middle age, whose epicurean counte- 
nance twinkled with humour. This was Lord 
Castlefyshe, an Irish peer of great celebrity in the 
world of luxury and play — keen at a bet — still 
keener at a dinner. Nobody exactly knew who 
the other gentleman, Mr. Blandford, really was, but 
he had the reputation of being enormously rich, 
and was proportionately respected. He had been 
about town for the last twenty years, and did not 
look a day older than at his first appearance. He 
never spoke of his family — was unmarried — and 
apparently had no relations; but he had contrived 
to identify himself with the first men in London — 
was a member of every club of great repute — and 
of late years had even become a sort of authority ; 
which was strange, for he had no pretensions — 
was very quiet — and but humbly ambitious — seek- 
ing, indeed, no happier success than to merge in 
the brilliant crowd — an accepted atom of the influ- 
ential aggregate. As he was not remarkable for 
his talents or his person, and as his establishment, 
though well appointed, offered no singular splendour, 
it was rather strange that a gentleman who had 
apparently dropped from the clouds, or crept out of 
a kennel, should have succeeded in planting him- 
self so vigorously in a soil which shrinks from 
anything not indigenous, unless it be recommended 
by very powerful quahties. But Mr. Blandford 
was good-tempered, and was now easy and ex- 
perienced, and there was a vague tradition that he 
was immensely rich, a rumour which Mr. Blandford 
always contradicted in a manner which skilfully 
confirmed its truth. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



663 



" Does Mirabel dine with you, Sharpe?" inquired 
Lord Castiefyshe of his host, who nodded assent. 

"You won't wait for him, I hope?" said his 
lordsliip. " By-tlie-by, Blandford, you shirked last 
night" 

'■ I promised to look in at the poor duke's before 
he went off," said Mr. Blandford. 

'• O ! he has gone, has he 1" said Lord Castie- 
fyshe. " Does he talie his cook with him'!'' 

But heie the servant ushered in Count Alcibia- 
des de Mirabel, Charles Doricourt, and Mr. Bevil. 

'• Excellent Sharpe, how do you do V exclaimed 
die count. '• Castiefyshe, what betises have you 
been talking to Crocky about Felix Winchester 1 
Good Blandford, excellent Blandford, how is my 
gootl Blandford ?" 

Mr. Bevil was a very tall and very handsome 
young man, of a great family and great estate, who 
passed his life in an imitation of Count Alcibiades 
de Mirabel. He was always dressed by the same 
tailor, and it was his pride that his cab or his vis-a- 
vis was constantly mistaken for the equipage of his 
model ; and really now, as the shade stood beside 
its substance, quite as tall, almost as good-looking, 
with the satin lined coat thrown open with the 
same style of flowing grandeur, and revealing a 
breastplate of starched cambric scarcely less broad 
and brilliant, the uninitiated might have held the 
resemblance as perfect. The wristbands were 
turned up with not less compact precision, and 
were fastened by jewelled studs, that glittered w'itli 
not less radiancy. The satin waistcoat, the crease- 
less hosen were the same; and if the foot was not 
quite as small, its Parisian polish was not less bright. 
But here, unfortunately, Mr. Bevil's mimetic 
powers deserted him. 

•■' We start, for soul is wanting there !' 

The Count Mirabel could talk at all times, and at 
all times well ; Mr. Bevil never opened his mouth. 
Practised in the world, the Count Mirabel was 
■nevertheless the child of impulse, though a native 
grace, and an intuitive knowledge of mankind, 
made every word pleasing, and every act appro- 
priate ; Mr. Bevil was all art, and he had not the 
talent to conceal it. The Count Mirabel was gay, 
careless, generous; Mr. Bevil was solemn, calculat- 
ing, and rather a screw. It seemed that the Count 
Mirabel's feelings grew daily more fresh, and his 
faculty of enjoyment more keen and relishing; it 
seemed that .Mr. Bevil could never have been a 
child, but that he must have issued into the world 
ready equipped, like ]\Iinerva, with a cane instead 
of a lance, and a fancy hat instead of a helmet. 
His essence of high breeding was never to be as- 
tonished, and he never permitted himself to smile, 
except in the society of very intimate friends. 

Charles Doricourt was another friend of the 
Count Mirabel, but not his imitator. His feelings 
were really worn, but it was a fact he always con- 
cealed. He had entered life at an remarkably early 
age, and had experienced every scrape to which 
5oulhful tlcsh is heir. Any other man but Charles 
Doricourt must have sunk beneath these accumu- 
lated disasters, but Charles Doricourt always swam. 
Nature had given him an intrepid soul; experience 
had cased his heart with iron. But he always 
smiled ; and, audacious, cool, and cutting, and verj- 
easy, he thoroughly despised mankind, upon whose 
weaknesses he practised without remorse. But he 
- as polished and amusing, and faithful to liis 



friends. The world admired him and called him 
Charley, from which it will be inferred that he was 
a privileged person, and was applauded for a thou- 
sand actions which in any one else would have 
been met with the most decided reprobation. 

" Who is that young man ?" inquired the Count 
Mirabel of Mr. Bond Sharpe, taking his host aside 
and pretending to look at a picture. 

"He is Captain Armine, the only son of Sir 
Ratcliffe Armine. He has just returned to England 
after a long absence." 

" Hum ! I like his appearance very much," said 
the count. " It is very distinguished." 

Dinner and Lord Catchimwhocan were an- 
nounced at the same moment ; Captain Armine 
found himself i^eateii next to Count Mirabel. 'I'he 
flinners at Mr. Bond Sharpe's were dinners which 
his guests came to eat. Mr. Bond Sharpe had engag- 
ed for his club-house the most celebrated of living 
artistes — a gentleman who, it was said, received a 
thousand a-year, whose convenience was studied 
by a chariot, and amusement secured by a box at 
the French l>lay. There was, therefore, at first 
little conversation, save criticism on the perform- 
ances before them, and that chiefly panegyrical ; 
each dish was delicious, each wine exquisite; and 
yet, even in these occasional remarks, Ferdinand 
was pleased with the lively fancy of his neighbour, 
affording an elegant contrast to the somewhat gross 
unction with which Lord Castiefyshe, who.se very 
soul seemed wrapped up in his occupation, occa- 
sionalh" expressed himself. 

" Will you take some wine. Captain Armine 1" 
said the Count Mirabel, with a winning smile. 
" You have recently returned here 1" 
" Very recently," said Ferdinand. 
" And you are glad V 

" As it may be, I hardly know whether to rejoice 
or not." 

" Then, by all means rejoice," said the count ; 
" for, if you are in doubt, it surely must be best to 
decide upon being ])lcased." 

" I think this is the most infernal country there 
ever was," said Lord Catchimwhocan. 

" My dear Catch !" said the Count Mirabel, 
"you think so, do you? You make a mistake, 
you think no such thing, my dear Catch. Why 
is it the most infernal ? Is it because the wo- 
men are the handsomest, or because the horses 
are the best? Is it because it is the only country 
where you can get a good dinner, or because it is 
the only country where there are fine wines'? Or 
is it because it is the only place where you can 
get a coat made, or where you can pla^ without 
being cheated, or where you can listen to an opera 
without your ears being destroyed ? Now, my 
dear Catch, you pass your life in dressing and in 
playing hazard, in eating good dinners, in drinking 
good wines, in making love, in going to the opera, 
and in riding fine horses. Of what, then, have 
you to complain ?" 

" O ! the damned climate I" 
" On the contrary, it is the only good climate 
there is. In England you can go out every day, 
and at all hours ; and then, to those who love 
variety, like myself, you are not sure of seeing the 
same sky every morning you rise, which, for my 
part, I think the greatest of all existing sources of 
ennui." 

" You reconcile me to my country, count." said 
Ferdinand, smiling. 



664 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



•' Ah ! you are a sensible man ; but that dear 
Catch is always repeating nonsense which he hears 
from somebody else. To-morrow," he added, m a 
low voice, " he will be for the climate." 

The conversation of men when they congregate 
together is generally dedicated to one of two sub- 
jects : politics or women. In the present instance, 
the party was not political; and it was the fair sex, 
and particularly the most charming portion of it, in 
the good metropolis of England, that were subjected 
to the poignant criticism, or the profound specula- 
tion, of these practical philosophers. There was 
scarcely a celebrated beauty in London, from the 
proud peeress to the vain opera-dancer, whose 
charms and conduct were not submitted to their 
masterly analysis. And yet it would be but fliir 
to admit, that their critical ability was more emi- 
nent and satisfactory than their abstract reasoning 
upon this interesting topic ; for it was curious to 
observe that, though every one present piqued 
himself upon his profound knowledge of the sex, 
not two of the sages agreed in the constituent 
principles of female character. One declared that 
women were governed by their feelings ; another 
maintained that they had no heart; a third pro- 
pounded that it was all imagination ; a fourth that 
it was all vanity. Lord Castlefyshe muttered 
something about their passions, and Charley Dori- 
court declared that they had no passions whatever. 
But they all agreed in one thing, to wit, that the 
man who permitted himself a moment's uneasiness 
about a woman was a fool. 

All this time, Captain Armine spoke little, but 
ever to the purpose and chiefly to the Count Mira- 
bel, who pleased him. Being very handsome, and 
moreover of a very distinguished appearance, this 
silence on the part of Ferdinand made him a gene- 
ral favourite, and even Mr. Bevil whispered his 
approbation to Lord'Catchimwhocan. 

" The fact is," said Charles Doricourt, " it is 
only boys and old men who are plagued by women. 
Thev take advantage of either state of childhood. 
Eh f Castlefyshe V 

"In that respect, then, somewhat resembling 
you, Charley," replied his lordship, who did not 
admire the appeal. " For no one can doubt you 
plagued your father ; I was out of my teens, for- 
tunately, before you played ecarte." 

" Come, good old Fyshe," said Count Mirabel, 
" take a glass of claret, and do not look so fierce. 
You know very well Charley learned every thing 
of you." 

" Ho never learned of me to spend a fortune 
upon an actress," said his lordship ; " I have spent 
a fortune, but, thank Heaven, it was on myself" 

" Well, as for that," said the count, " I think 
there is something great in being ruined for one's 
friends. If I were as rich as I might have been, I 
wouL not spend much on myself My wants are 
few; — a fine house, fine carriages, fine horses, a 
complete wardrobe, the best opera box, the first 
cook, and pocket money — that is all I require. I 
have these, and I get on pretty well ; but if I had 
a princely fortune, I would make every good fellow 
I know ([uite hap|)y." 

" Well," said Charles Doricourt, " you are a 
lucky fellow, Mirabel. I have had horses, houses, 
carriages, opera boxes, and cooks, and I have had 
a great estate ; Imt pocket money I never could 
got. Pocket money was the tiling wliich always 
cost me the most to buy of all." 



The conversation now fell upon the theatre, 
Mr. Bond Sharpe was determined to have a theatre. 
He believed it was reserved for him to revive the 
drama. Mr. Bond Sharpe piqued himself upon 
his patronage of the stage. He certainly had a 
great admiration of actresses. There was some- 
thing in the management of a great theatre which 
pleased the somewhat imperial fancy of Mr. Bond 
Sharpe. The manager of a great theatre is a kind 
of monarch. Mr. Bond Sharpe longed to seat 
himself on the throne, with the prettiest women 
in London for his court, and all his fashionable 
friends rallying round their sovereign. He had an 
impression that great results might be obtained 
with his organizing energy and illimitable capital. 
Mr. Bond Sharpe had unbounded confidence in 
the power of capital. Capital was his deity. He 
was confident that it could always produce alike 
genius and triumph. Mr. Bond Sharpe was right: 
capital is a wonderful thing, but we are scarcely 
aware of this fact until we are past thirty ; and 
then, by some singular process which we vi'ill not 
now stop to analyze, one's capital is in general 
sensibly diminished. As men advance in life, all 
passions resolve themselves into money. Love,' 
ambition, even poetry, end in this. 

"Are you going to Shropshire's this autumn, 
Charley ?" said Lord Catchimwhocan. 

" Yes, I shall go." 

" I don't think I shall," said his lordship, " it is 
such a bore." 

" It is rather a bore, but he is a good fellow." 

" I shall go," said Count Mirabel. 

" You are not afraid of being bored 1" said Fer- 
dinand, smiling. 

" Between ourselves, I do not understand what 
this being bored is," said the count. " He who is 
boretl appears to me a bore. To be bored supposes 
the inability of being amused ; you must be a dull 
fellow. Wherever I may be, I thank Heaven that 
I am always diverted." 

"But you have such nerves, Mirabel;" said 
Lord Catchimwhocan. "By Jove I I envy you, 
you are never floored;" 

" Floored ! what an idea ! What should floor 
me ] I live to amuse myself, and I do nothing 
that docs not amuse me. Why should I be 
floored V 

" Why, I do not know, but every other man is 
floored now and then. As for me, my spirits are 
sometimes something dreadful." 

" When you have been losing." 

" Well, we cannot always win. Can we, Sharpe ? 
That would not do. But, by Jove ! you are always 
in a good humour, Mirabel, when you lose." 

" Fancy a man ever being in low spirits," said 
the Count Mirabel. " Life is too short for such 
betises. The most unfortunate wretch alive calcu- 
lates unconsciously tiiat it is better to live than to 
die. Well, then, he has something in his favour. 
Existence is a pleasure, and the greatest. The 
world cannot rob us of that, and if it be better to 
live than to die, it is better to live in a good humour 
than a bad one. If a man be convinced that ex- 
istence is the greatest pleasure, his happiness may 
he increased by good fortune, but it will be essen- 
tially independent of it. He who feels that the 
greatest source of pleasure always remains to him, 
ought never to be miserable. The sun shines on 
all; every man can go to sleep; if you cannot 
ride a fine horse, it is something to look upon cue 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



665 



if you have not a fine ilinncr, there is some amuse- 
ment in a rruft of bread and Gruyere. Feci 
slightly, think little, never plan, never brooJ. 
Every thing depends upon the circulation ; take 
care of it. Take the world as you find it, enjoy 
every tiling. Vive la bagatelle !" 

Here the gentlemen arose, took their coffee, and 
ordered their carriages, 

" Come with us," said Count Mirabel to Ferdi- 
nand. 

Our hero accepted the offer of his agreeable ac- 
quaintance. There was a great prancing and rush- 
ing of horses and cabs and vis-a-vis, at Mr. Bond 
Sharpe's door, and in a fi'w minutes the whole par- 
ty were dashing up St. James's Street, where they 
stopped before a splendid building, resplendent with 
lights and illuminated curtains. 

" Come, we will make j-ou an honorary member, 
mon cher Ca[)tain Annine," said the Count; "and 
do not say, Oh ! lasciate ogni speranza, when you 
enter here." 

They ascended a magnificent staircase, and en- 
tered a sumptuous and crowded saloon, in which 
the entrance of the Count Mirabel and his friends 
made no little sensation. Mr. Bond Sharpe glided 
along, dropping oracular sentences, without conde- 
scending to stop to speak to those whom he ad- 
dressed. Charley Doricourt and Mr. Blandford 
walked away together towards a further apartment. 
Lord Castlefyshe and Lord Catchimwhocan were 
soon busied with ecarte. 

" Well, Faneville, good general, how do you 
do!" said the Count Mirabel. " Where have you 
dined to-day 1 — at the Balcombes' 1 You are a 
verv- brave man, mon general ! Ah ! Stock, good 
Stock, excellent Stock," he continued, addressing 
Mr. Million de Stockville, "that Burgundy you 
sent me is capital. Hov\' are you, my dear fellow ? 
Quite well ? Fit7.warrene, I did that for you : your 
business is all right. Ah ! my good Massey, mon 
cher, mon brave, Anderson will lot you have that 
horse. And what is doing here 1 Is there any 
fun'? Fitzwarrcne, let me introduce you to my 
friend Captain Armine :" (in a lower tone) " excel- 
lent garden ! You will like him very much. We 
have been all dining at Bond's." 
" A good dinner 1" 

" Of course a good dinner. I should like to see 
a man who would give me a bad dinner ; that would 
be a bf^tise, to ask me to dine, and then give me a 
bad diinier !" 

" I say, Mirabel," exclaimed a young man, "have 
you seen Horace Poppington about the match?" 

"It is arranged; 'tis the day after to-morrow, at 
nine o'clock." 

" Well, I bet on you, you know." 
"Of course you bet on me. Would you think 
of betting on that good Pop, with that gun 1 Pah ! 
Eh bien ! I shall go in the next room." And 
the Count walked away, followed by Mr. Bovil. 

Ferdinand remained talking for some time with 
Lord Fitzwarrcne. By degrees the great saloon 
had become somewhat thinner ; some had stolen 
away to the House, where a division was expected ; 
quiet men, who just looked in after dinner, had re- 
tired ; and the play-im-n were etigaged in the con- 
tiguous apartments. Mr. Bond Sharpe approached 
Ferdinand, and Lord P^itzwarrene took this oppor- 
tunity of withdrawing. 

"I bt'lieve yui never play, Captain Armine," 
■aid Mr. Bond Sharpe. 

84 



" Never," said Ferdinand. 

" You are quite right." 

" I am rather surprised at your being of that op 
nion," said Ferdinand, with a smile. 

Mr. Bond Sharpe shrugged his shoulders 
" There will always be votaries enough," said Mr. 
Bond Sharpe, " whatever may be my o[)inion." 

" This is a magnificent establishment of yours," 
said Ferdinand. 

" Yes ; it is a very magnificent establishment. 
I have spared no exjiensc to produce the most per- 
fect thing of the kind in Europe ; and it is the most 
perfect thing of the kind. I am confident that no 
noble in any country has an establishment better 
appointed. I despatched an agent to the Continent 
to procure this furniture : his commission had no 
limit, and he was absent two years. My cook was 
with Charles X.; the cellar is the most choice and con- 
siderable that was ever collected. I take a pride in 
the thing; but I lose money by it." 

" Indeed !" 

" I have made a fortune ; there is no doubt of 
that ; but I did not make it here." 

" It is a great thing to make a fortune," said Fer- 
dinand. 

" Very great," said Mr. Bond Sharpe. " There 
is only one thing greater, and that is, to keep it when 
made." 

Ferdinand smiled. 

" Many men can make fortunes ; few can keep 
them," said Mr. Bond Sharpe. " Money is power, 
and rare are the heads that can withstand the pos- 
session of great power." 

" At any rate, it is to be hoped tliat you have dis- 
covered this more important secret," said Ferdinand; 
" though, I confess, to judge from my own expe- 
rience, I should fear that you are too generous." 

" I had forgotten that to wliich you allude," said 
his companion, very quietly. " But with regard to 
myself, whatever may be my end, I have not yet 
reached my acme." 

" Yon have at least my good wishes," said Fer- 
dinand. 

" I may some day claim them," said Mr. Bond 
Sharpe. "My position," he continued, "isdiflicult. 
I have risen by pursuits which the world does not 
consider reputable, yet if I had not had recourse to 
them, I should be less than nothing. My mind, I 
think, is equal to my fortune. I am still young, and 
I would now avail m^'self of my power and esta- 
blish myself in the land, a recognised member of so- 
ciety. But this cannot be. Society shrinks from 
an obscure foundling, a prize fighter, a leg, a hell- 
keeper, and a usurer. Debarred therefore from a 
fair theatre for my energy and capital, I am forced 
to occupy, perhaps exhaust, myself in multiplied 
speculations. Hitherto they have flourished, and 
perhaps mj' theatre, or my newspaper, may be as 
profitable as my stud. But — I would gladly eman- 
ci[)ate myself. These eflorts seem to me, as it were, 
unnecessary and unnatural. The great object has 
been gained. It is a tempting of fate. I have 
sometimes thought myself the Aapoleon of the sport- 
ing world ; I may yet find my St. Helena." 
" Forewarned, forearmed, Mr. Sharpe." 
"I move in a magic circle: it is diliicult to extri- 
cate myself from it. Now, for instance, there is not 
a man in that room who is not my slave. You seo 
how they treat me. They place me upon an equal- 
ity with them. They know my weakness, they fool 
me up to the top of mv bent. And yet there is not 

ska 



b66 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



a mail in that room, who, if I were to break to-mor- 
row, would walk down St. James's Street to serve 
nie. Yes ! there is one — there is the count. He 
has a great and generous soul. I believe Count 
Mirabel sympathizes with my situation. I beheve 
he does not think, because a man has risen from an 
origin the most ignoble and obscure, to a very pow- 
erful position, by great courage and dexterity, and 
let me add also, by some profound thought; by strug- 
gling too, be it remembered, with a class of society 
as little scrupulous though not as skilful as himself, 
that he is necessarily an infamous character. What 
if, at eighteen years of age, without a friend in the 
world, trusting to the powerful frame and intrepid 
spirit with which nature had endowed me, I flung 
myself into the ring ] Who should be a gladiator 
if I were not? Is that a crime? What if, at a 
later period, with a brain for calculation which none 
can rival, I invariably succeeded in that in which 
the greatest men in the country fail ] Am I to be 
branded, because I have made half a million by a 
good book 1 WHiat if I have kept a gambling house '? 
From the back parlour of an oyster shop, my hazard 
table has been removed to this palace. Had the 
j)lay been foul, this metamorphosis would never have 
occurred. It is true I am a usurer. My dear sir, 
if all the usurers in this great metropolis could only 
pass in procession before you at this moment, how 
you would start! You might find some Right 
Honourables among them ; many a great function- 
ary, many a grave magistrate ; fathers of families, 
liie very models of respectable characters, patrons 
and presidents of charitable institutions, and sub- 
scribers for the suppression of those very gaming 
houses, whose victims in nine cases out of ten are 
their principal customers. I speak not in bitterness. 
On the whole I must not complain of the world, but 
I have seen a great deal of mankind, and more than 
most of what is considered its worst portion. The 
world. Captain Armine, believe me, is neither as 
Dad nor as good as some are apt to suppose. And, 
after all," said Mr. Sharpe, shrugging up his shoul- 
ders, "perhaps we ought to say with our friend the 
count, ' Vive la bagatelle !' Will you take some 
supper ■?" 



CHAPTER XIV. 

MISS OnANBISOX PiaCES THE CURIOSITY OF LORD 
MONTFORT, AND COUNT MIRABEL DRIVES FF.R- 
DINAND DOWN TO RICHMOND, WHICH DRIVE 
ENDS IN AN AGKEF.ABLE ADVENTURE AND AN 
UNEXPECTED CONFIDENCE. 

1 HE discovery that Henrietta Temple was the 
secret object of Ferdinand's unhappy passion, was a 
secret which Miss Grandison prized like a true wo- 
man. Not only had she made this discovery, but 
from her previous knowledge and her observation 
during her late interview with Miss Temple, Kathe- 
rine was persuaded that Henrietta must still love 
her cousin as before. Miss Grandison was extreme- 
ly attached to Henrietta ; she was interested in her 
cousin's welfare, and devoted to the Armine family. 
All her thoughts and all her energies were now en- 
gaged in counteracting, if possible, the consequences 
of those unhappy misconceptions which had placed 
them all in this painful situation. 

It was on the next day that she had promised to 
accompany the dutchoss and Henrietta on a water 
excursion. Lord Montfort was to be their cavalier. 



In tlie morning she found herself alone with his 
lordship in St. James's Square. 

" What a charming day !" said Miss Grandison. 
" I anticipate so much pleasure ! Who is our 
party 1" 

" Ourselves alone," .said Lord Montfort. " Lady 
Armine cannot come, and Captain Armine is en- 
gaged. I fear you v/ill find it very dull, Miss 
Grandison." 

" O ! not at all. By-the-by, do you know I was 
very much surprised yesterday at finding that Fer- 
dinand and Henrietta were such old acquaintances." 

" Were you V said Lord Montfort, i.'i a very pe- 
culiar tone. 

" It is very odd that Ferdinand never will go 
with us anywhere. I think it is very bad taste." 

" I think so too," said Lord Montfort. 

" I should have thought that Henrietta was the 
very person he would have adjnircd ; that he would 
have been quite glad to be with us. I can easily 
understand his being wearied to death with a 
cousin," said Miss Grandison ; " but Henrietta, it 
is so very strange that he should not avail himself 
of the delight of being with her." 

" Do you really think that such a cousin as Miss 
Grandison can drive him away ?" 

" Why, to tell you the truth, my dear Lord Mont- 
fort, Ferdinand is placed in a very awkward position 
with me. You are our friend, and so I speak to 
you in confidence. Sir Ratclifle and Lady Armine 
both expect that Ferdinand and myself are going 
to be married. Now neither of us have the slight- 
est intention of any thing of the sort." 

" Very strange, indeed," said Lord Montfort 
" The world will be very much astonished, more so 
than myself, for I confess to a latent suspicion on 
the subject." 

" Yes, I was aware of that," said Miss Grandi- 
son, " or I should not have spoken with so much 
frankness. For my own part, I think we are very 
wise to insist upon having our own way, for an ill- 
assorted marriage must l)e a most melancholy busi- 
ness." Miss Grandison spoke with an air almost 
of levity, which was rather unusual with her. 

" An ill-assorted marriage," said Lord Montfort. 
" And what do you call an ill-assorted marriage, 
Miss Grandison 1" 

" Why, many circumstances might constitute 
such a union," said Katherine ; " but I think if 
one of the jiarties were in love with another person, 
that would be quite sufficient to insure a tolerable 
portion of wretchedness." 

'' I think so, too," said Lord Montfort ; " a union, 
under such circumstances, would be very ill-assort- 
ed. But Miss Grandison is not in that situation]" 
he added with a faint smile. 

" That is scarcely a fair question," said Kathe- 
rine, with great gayety, " but there is no doubt Fer- 
dinand Armine is." 

" Indeed !" 

" Yes ; he is in love, desperately in love ; that I have 
long discovered. I wonder with whom it can be?" 

" I wonder !" said Lord Montfort. 

"Do you"?" said Miss Grandison. "Well, I 
have sometimes thought that you might have a la- 
tent suspicion of that subject, too. I thought you 
were his confidant." 

" I !" said Lord Montfort ; " I, of all men in the 
world !" 

" And why not you of all men in the world 1" 
said Miss Grandison. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



CG7 



"Our intimacy is so slight," said Lord Mont- 
fort. 

"Hum!" said Miss Graiidison. "And now I 
tliink of it, it does appear to inc very strange how 
wc have all become suddenly such intimate friends. 
The Armines and your family not previously ac- 
quainted ; Miss Temple, too, unknown to my aunt 
and uncle. And yet we never live now out of each 
other's siu;ht. I am sure I am veiy grateful for it ; 
I am sure it is very agreeable, but still it docs ap- 
pear to me to be very odd. 1 wonder what the 
reason can be 1" 

' "It is that you are so charming, Miss Grandi- 
son," said Lord Montfort. 

" A comjiliment from. you !" 

"Indeed, no compliment, dearest Miss Grandi- 
son," said Lord Montfort, drawing near her. " Fa- 
voured as Miss Temple is in so many respects, in 
none, in my opinion, is she more fortunate than in 
the possession of so admirable a friend." 

" Not even in the possession of so admirable a 
lover, my lord 1" 

" All must love Miss Temple who are acquainted 
with her," said Lord Montfort, very seriously. 

" Indeed, I diink so," said Kathcrine, in a more 
subduod voice, " I love her ; her career fills nie 
with a strange and singular interest. May she be 
happy, for happiness she indeed deserves I" 

" I have no fonder wish than to secure that hap- 
piness, Miss Grandison," said Lord Montfort ; — " by 
any means," he added. 

" She is so interesting I" said Katherine. " When 
you first knew her she was very ill ?" 

" Very." 

" She seems quite recovered." 

" I hope so." 

" Mr. Temple says her spirits are not what they 
used to be. I wonder what was the matter with 
her?" 

liOrd Montfort was silent. 

" I cannot bear to see a fine spirit broken," con- 
tinued .Miss Grandison. " There was Ferdinand. 

I if you had but known my cousin before he 
was unhappy. ! that was a spirit ! ! he was 
the most brilliant being that ever lived. And then 

1 was with him during all his illness. It was so 
terrible. I almost wish that we could have loved 
each other. It is very strange, he must have been 
ill at Armine, at the very time Henrietta was ill in 
Italy. And I was with him in England, while 
you were solacing her. And now we an- all friends. 
Tiicre seems a sort of strange destiny in our lots, 
does there not 1" 

" A happy lot that can in any way be con- 
nected witli Miss Grandison," said Lord Mont- 
fort. 

At this moment her grace and Henrietta entered; 
the carriage was ready ; and in a few minutes they 
were driving to Vhitehall Stairs, where a beautiful 
boat awaited them. 

In the mean time Ferdinand .\rmine was re- 
volving the strange occurrences of yesterday. Al- 
foffethcr it was an exciting and satisfactory day. In 
the first place, he had extricated himself from his 
most ]>re.ssing difliculties ; in the next, he had been 
greatly amused; and, tliirdly, he had made a very 
interesting- aciiuaintance, for such he esteemed 
Count Mirabel. Just at the very moment when, 
lounging over a very late breakfast, he was think- 
ing of Bond Sharpe and his great career, and then 
turning in his mind whether it were possible to 



follow the gay counsels of his friends of yesterday 
and never plague himself about a woman again, the 
Count Mirabel was announced. 

" Mon chcr Armine," said the count, " you see 
I kept my promise, and would find you at home." 

The count stood before him, the best dressed 
man in London, fresh and gay as a bird, with not 
a care on his sparkling visage, and his eye bright 
with bonhomie. And yet Count Mirabel had been 
the very last to desert the recent mysteries of Mr. 
Bond Sharpe's ; and, as usual, the daijplcd light of 
dav.n had guided liim to his luxurious bed — that 
bed that always afforded him serene slumbers, 
vi'hatever might be the adventures of the day, or 
the result of the night's campaign. How the Count 
Mirabel did laugh at those poor devils, who wake 
only to morali/,e over their own follj- with broken 
spirits and aching heads ! Care — he knew nothing 
about; time he defied; indisposition he could not 
comprehend. He had never been ill in his life, 
even for five minutes. 

Ferdinand was really very glad to see him ; there 
was something in the Count Mirabel's very pre- 
sence which put everybody in good spirits. His 
light-iieartcdncss was caught by all. Melancholy 
was a farce in the pre=encc of his smile ; and there 
was no possible combination of scrapes that could 
vyithstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the 
present moment Ferdinand was in a sufficiently 
good humour with his destiny, and he kept up the 
ball with efl'ect; so that nearly an hour passed in 
very anmsing conversation. 

" You were a stranger among us yesterday. ' 
said Count Mirabel, " I think you were rather di- 
verted. I saw you did justice to that excellent 
Bond Sliarpe. That shows that you have a mind 
above prejudice. Do you know he was by far the 
best man at table except ourselves 1" 
Ferdinand smiled. 

" It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old 
Castlefyshe has neither. As for the rest of our 
friends, some have hearts without brains, and the 
rest brains without hearts. Which do you pre- 
fer?" 

" 'Tis a fine question," said Ferdinand ; " and 
yet I confess I should like to be callous." 

" Ah ! but you cannot be," said the count, 
" you have a soul of great sensibihty — I see that in 
a moment." 

" You sec very far, and very quicklj'. Count 
Mirabel," said Ferdinand, with a little reserve. 

"Yes; in a minute," said the count, "in a 
minute I read a person's character. I know you 
are very much in love, because you changed coun- 
tenance yesterday when we wp'e talking of wi>- 
men." 

Ferdinand changed countenance again. " You 
are a veiy extraordinary man, count," he at length 
observed. 

" Of course ; but, mon cher Armine, what a fine 
day this is ! What are you going to do with your- 
self!" 

" Nothing ; I never do any thing," said Ferdi 
nand in an almost mournful tone. 

"A melancholy man! Quelle betise! I will 
cure you; I will be your friend, and put you all 
right. Now, we will just drive down to Rich- 
mond ; wc will have a light dinner — a flounder, a 
cutlet, and a bottle of Champagne, and llien we 
will go to the French play. I will introduce yoo 
to Jenny Vertpre. She is full of wit ; perhaps shr 



66S 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



will ask us to supper. Allons, mon ami, mon cher 
Armine; allons, mon brave I" 

Ceremony was a farce with Alcibiades de Mira- 
bel. Ferdinand had nolhinar to do; he was at- 
tracted to his companion. The effei-vescence pro- 
duced by yesterday's fortunate adventure had not 
quite subsided ; he was determined to forget his 
sorrows, and, if only for a day, join in the lively 
chorus of Vive la bagatelle ! So, in i few moments 
he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabrio- 
let in London, whirled along by a horse that 
stepped out with a proud consciousness of its mas- 
ter. 

The Count Mirabel enjoyed the drive to Rich- 
mond as if he had never been to Richmond in his 
life. The warm sun, the western breeze, every ob- 
ject he passed and that passed him, called for his 
praise or observation. He inoculated Ferdinand 
with his gayety, as Ferdinand listened to his light 
lively tales, and his flying remarks, so full of 
merriment, and poignant truth, and daring fancy. 
When they had arrived at the Star and Garter, 
and ordered their dinner, they strolled into the 
Park, along the Terrace walk ; and they had not 
proceeded fifty paces, when they came up with the 
dutchess and her party, who were resting on a 
bench and looking over the vallev. 

Ferdinand would gladly have bowed and passed 
on ; but that was impossible. He was obliged to 
stop and speak to them, and it was difficult to 
disembarra'^s himself of friends who greeted him so 
kindly. Ferdinand presented his companion. The 
ladies were very charmed to know so celebrated a 
gentleman, of whom they had heard so much. 
Count Mirabel, who had the finest tact in the 
world, but whose secret spell, after all, was perhaps 
only that he was always natural, adapted himself 
in a moment to the characters, the scene, and the 
occasion. He was quite delighted at these unex- 
pected sources of amusement, that so unexpectedly 
revealed themselves ; and in a few n\inutes they 
had all agreed to walk together, and in due time 
the dutchess was begging Ferdinand and his 
friend to dine with them. Before Ferdinand 
could frame an excuse, Count Mirabel had ac- 
cepted the proposition. After passing the morn- 
ing together so agreeably, to go and dine in sepa- 
rate rooms, it wotdd be a betise. This word betise 
settled every thing with Count Mirabel ; when 
once he declared that any thing was a betlse, he 
would hear no more. 

It was a most charming stroll. Never was Count 
Mirabel more playful, more engaging, more com- 
pletely winning. Henrietta and Katherine alike 
smiled upon him, and the dutchess was quite en- 
chanted. Even Lord Montfort, who might rather 
have entertained a prejudice against the covmt be- 
fore he knew him — and none can after — and who 
was prepared for something rather brilliant, but pre- 
tending, presumptuous, fantastic, and affected, q\iite 
yielded to his amiable gayety, and his racy and 
thoroughly genuine and simple manner. So they 
walked, and talked, and laughed, and all agreed that 
it was the most fortunately fine day and the most 
felicitous rencontre that had ever occurred, until 
the dinner hour was at hand. The count was at 
her grace's side, and she was leaning on Miss Tem- 
ple's arm. Lord Montfort and Miss Grandison had 
fallen back apace, as their party had increased. 
Ferdinand fluttered between Miss Temple and his 



cousin; but would have attached himself to the lat- 
ter, had not Miss Temple occasionally addressed 
him. He was glad, however, when they returned 
to dinner. 

" We have only availed ourselves of your grace's 
permission to join our dinners," said Count Mira- 
bel, offering the dutchess his arm. He placed him- 
self at the head of the table, Lord Montfort took 
the other end. To the surprise of Ferdinand, Miss 
Grandison, with a lieedlessness that was quite re- 
markable, seated herself next to the dutchess, so that 
Ferdinand was obliged to sit by Henrietta Temple, 
who was thus separated from Lord Montfort. 

The dinner was as gay as the stroll. Ferdinand 
was the only person who was rather silent. 

" How amusing he is !" said Miss Temple, turn 
ing to Ferdinand, and speaking in an under tone 
"Yes; I envy him his gayetv." 
" Be gay." 

" I thank you, I dare say I shall in time, I ha^e 
not yet quite embraced all Count Mirabel's philoso- 
phy. He says that the man who plagues himself 
for five minutes about a woman, is an idiot. When 
I think the same, which I hope I may soon, I dare 
say I shall be as gay." 

Miss Temple addressed herself no more to Ferdi- 
nand. 

They returned by water. To Ferdinand's great 
annoyance, the count did not hesitate for a moment 
to avail himself of the dutchess's proposal that he 
and his companion should form part of the crew. 
He gave immediate orders that his cabriolet should 
meet him at Whitehall Stairs, and Ferdinand found 
there was no chance of escape. 

It was a delicious summer evening. The setting 
sun bathed the bowers of Fulham with refulgent 
light, just as they were oft' delicate Rosebank; but 
the air long continued warm, and always soft, and 
the last few miles of their pleasant voyage were 
tinted by the young and glittering moon. 

"I wish we had brought a guitar," said Miss 
Grandison ; " Count Mirabel, I am sure, would sing 
to us V 

'• And you, you will sing to us without a guitar, 
will you not!" said the count, smiling. 

"Henrietta, will you sing !" said Miss Grandi 
son. 

" With you." 

" Of course ; now you must," said the count, so 
they did. 

This gliding home to the metropolis on a sum- 
mer eve so soft and still, with beautiful faces, as 
should always be the case, and with sweet sounds, 
as was the present, — there is something very ravish- 
ing in the combination. The heart opens; it is a 
dangerous moment. As Ferdinand listened once 
more to the voice of Henrietta, even though it was 
blended with the sweet tones of Miss Grandison, 
the passionate past vividly recurred to him. For- 
tunately he did not sit near her; he had taken care 
to be the last in the boat. He turned away his 
face, but its stern expression did not escape the ob- 
servation of the Count Mirabel. 

" And now. Count Mirabel, you must really fa- 
vour us," said the dutchess. 

" Without a guitar," said the count, and he began 
thrumming on his arm, for an accompaniment. 
" Well, when I was with the Due d'Angouleme in 
Spain, we sometimes indulged in a serenade at 
Seville. I will try to remember one." 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



669 



A SEUENADE OF SEVILLE. 



fonip forth, comB forth, the sxai we love 

If hL'h ii'er Guadaliiiiivrr's move, 

And lirus each tree with snlden lichl; 

Ah! Rosalie, one smile from theo were far more bright! 

n. 

Come forth, come fonli, the flowers that fear 

To blossom in the sun's carper, 

The moonlight with ilieir odours greet; 

Ah! Rosalie, one sigli from thee were far more sweet! 

III. 
Come forth, come forth, one hour of niirht, 
When flowers are fresh, and stars are bright, 
Were worth nn aire of mainly day ; 
Then, Rosalie, fly, fly io me ; nor longer stay ! 

" I hope the lady came," said Miss Temple, " af- 
t< r such a pretty sonff." 

" Of course," said the count, " they always come." 

" Ferdinand, will you sing i" said Miss Grandi- 
iwn. 

" I cannot, Katherine." 

" Henrietta, ask Ferdinand to sing," said Miss 
Grandison; ''he makes it a rule never to do any 
tiling I ask him, but I am sure you have more in- 
fluence." 

Lord Montfort came to the rescue of Miss Tem- 
ple. " Miss Temple has spoken so often to us of 
your singing, Captain Armine !" said his lordship, 
and yet Lord Montfort, in this allegation, a little 
departed from the habitual exactitude of his state- 
ments. 

" How very strange !" thought Ferdinand ; " her 
callousness or her candour baffles me. " I will try 
to sing," he continued aloud, " but it is a year really 
since I ever did." 

In a voice of singular power and melody — and 
with an expression which increased as he proceeded, 
until the singer seemed scarcely able to control his 
emotions — Captain Armine thus proceeded — 

CAPTAIIT ARMINe's SONO. 

I. 
My heart is like a silent lute 
Some faithless hand has thrown aside. 
Those cliords are dumb, those tones are mule, 
That once sent forth a voice of pride ! 
Yet even o'er the lute neclecteo 
The wind of heaven will sometimes fly, 
And even thus the heart dejected. 
Will sometimes answer to a sigh! 

II. 

And yet to feel another's power 
May Lrrasp the prize for which I pine. 
And 01 hers now may plucit the flower 
I cherish'd for this heart of mine — 
No more, no more ! The hand forsaking, 
The lutP must fall, and shiver'd lie 
In silence: and my heart, thus breaking 
Responds not even to a sigh ! 

Miss Temple seemed busied with her shawl ; 
perhaps she felt the cold ; Count Mirabel, next 
whom she sat, was about to assist her. Her face 
was turned to the water ; it was streaming with 
tears. Without appearing to notice. Count Mirabel 
leant forward, and engaged everybody's attention ; 
so that she was unobserved and had time to recover. 
And yet she was aware that the Count Mirabel had 
remarked her emotion, and was grateful for his 
(piick and delicate consideration. It was very for- 
tunate that Westminster Bridge was now in sight, 
for after this song of Captain Armine, every one 
became very dull or very pensive ; even Count Mi- 
rabel was silent. 



The ladies and Lord Montfort entered their britch- 
ska. They bid a cordial adieu to Count Mirabel, 
and begged him to call upon them in St. James's 
Square, and the count and Ferdinand were alone. 

" Cher Armine," said .'he count, as he was driv- 
ing up Charing Cross, " Catch told me you were 
going to marry your cousin. Which of those two 
young ladies is your cousin ]" 

" 'I'he fair girl, Miss Grandison." 

" So I understood. She is very pretty, but you 
are not going to marry her, are you ]" 

" No ; I am not." 

" And who is Miss Temple 1" 

" She is going to be married to Lord Montfort." 

" Diablo ! But what a fortunate mani What 
do you think of that Miss Temple 1'' 

*' I think of her as all, I suppose, must." 

" She is beautiful , she is the most beautiful wo- 
man I ever saw. She marries for money, I sup- 
po.se 1" 

" She is the richest heiress in England; she is 
much richer than lay cousin." 

" C'est drolc. But she does not want to marry 
Lord Montfort." 

'Why!" 

" Because, my dear fellow, she is in love with 
you." 

" By Jove ! Mirabel, what a fellow you are ! 
What do you mean 1" 

" Mon cher Armme, I like you more than any- 
body. I wish to be, I am your friend. Here is 
some cursed contretemps. There is a mystcrj', and 
both of you are victims of it. Tell me every thing. 
I will put you right." 

" Ah ! my dear Mirabel, it is past even your skill. 
I thought I could never speak on these things to a 
human being, but I am attracted to you by the 
same sympathy which you flatter me by expressing 
for myself. I want a confidant, I need a friend — I 
am most wretched." 

" Eh bien ! we will not go to the French play. 
As for Jenny Vertpre, we can sup with her any 
night. Come to my house, and we will talk over 
every thing. But trust me, if you wish to marry 
Henrietta Temple, you are an idiot if you do not 
have her." 

So saying, the count touched his bright horse, 
and in a few minutes the cabriolet stopped before a 
small but admirably appointed house in Berkeley 
Square. 

" Now, mon cher," said the count, " coffee and 
confidence !" 



CHAPTER XV. 

IJf WHICH THE COUNT MIIIAMF.I. COMMENCES HIS 
OPERATIONS WITH GIIKAT SUCCESS. 

Is there a more gay and graceful spectacle in the 
world than Hyde Park, at the end of a long sun- / 
ny morning in the merry month of May or June ? 
Where can we see such beautiful women, such 
gallant cavaliers, such fine horses, and such bril- 
liant equipages ? The scene, too, is worthy of 
such agreeable accessaries : the groves, the gleam- 
ing waters, and the triumphal arches. In the dis- 
tance, the misty heights of Surrey, and the bow- 
ery glades of Kensington. 

It was the day after the memorable voyage from 
Richmond. Eminent among tl e glittering throng. 



C70 



D'lSRAELI'S NO\^ELS. 



Count Mirabel cantered along on his Arabian, scat- 
tering gay recognitions and bright words. He rein- 
ed in his steed beneath a tree, under whose shade 
were assembled a knot of listless cavaliers. The 
count received their congratulations, for this morn- 
ing he had won his pigeon match. 

" Only think of that old fool, Castlefyshe, bet- 
ting on Poppingfon," said the count. " I want 
to see him — old idiot ! Who knows where Char- 
ley is?" 

" I do, Mirabel," said Lord Catchimwhocan. 
" He has gone to Richmond with Blandford and 
the two little Fiirzlers." 

" That good Blandford ! Whenever he is in 
love, he always gives a dinner. It is a droll way to 
succeed." 

" Apropos, will you dine with me to-day, Mira- 
•>en" said Mr. de Stockville. 

" Impossible, my dear fellow ; I dine with Fitz- 
warrene." 

" I say, Mirabel," drawled out a young man, " I 
saw you yesterday driving a man down to Rich- 
mond yourself Who is your friend 1" 

" No one you know, or will know. 'Tis the 
best fellow that ever lived ; but he is under my 
guidance, and I shall be very particular to whom 
he is introduced." 

" Lord ! I wonder who he can be V said the 
young man. 

" I say, Mirabel, you will be done on Goshawk, 
if you don't take care, I can tell you that." 

" Thank you, good Coventry ; if you like to bet 
the odds, I will take them." 

" No, my dear fellow, I do not want to bet ; but 
at the same time " 

" You have an opinion that you will not back. 
That is a luxury, for certainly it is of no use. I 
would advise you to enjoy it." 

" Well, I nuist say, Mirabel," said Lord Catchim- 
whocan, " I think the same about Goshawk." 

"0.! no, Catch, you do not think so; — you 
think you think. Go and take all the odds you can 
get upon Goshawk. Come, now, to-morrow you 
will tell me you have a very pretty book. Eh ! 
mon cher Catch V 

" But do you really think Goshawk Avill win V 
asked Lord Catchimwhocan, very earnestly. 

" Certain !" 

" Well, damned if I don't go and take the odds," 
said his lordship. 

" Mirabel," said a young noble, moving his horse 
close to the count, and speaking in a low voice, 
" shall you be at home to-morrow morning T" 

" Certainly. But what do you want ?" 

" I am in a devil of a scrape ; I do not know what 
to do. I want you to advise me." 

The count moved aside with this cavalier. 
"And what is itl" said he, " Have you been 
losing?" 

" No, no," .said the young man, shaking his 
head. " Much worse. It is the most infernal busi- 
ness ; I do not know what I shall do. I tliink I 
shall cut my throat." 

* Betise ! It cannot be very bad, if it be not 
money." 

" O ! my dear Mirabel, you do not know what 
tro\ible I am in." 

" Mon chor Henri, soyez tranquille," said the 
ccnuit, in a kind voice. " I am your friend. Rest 
assured I will arrange it. Thiidc no more of it 
until to-morrow at one o'clock, and then call ou 



me. 
sent.' 



If you like, I am at your service at pre 



" No, no — not here : there are letters. 

" Ha ! ha ! Well, to-morrow — at one. In the 
mean time, do not write any nonsense." 
I At this moment the dutchess, with a party of 
equestrians, passed and bowed to the Count Mira- 
, bel. 

" I say, Mirabel," exclaimed a young man, " who 
is that girl ? I want to know. I have seen her 
! several times lately. By Jove, she is a fine crea- 
ture !" 

" Do you not know Miss Temple ?" said the 
count. " Fancy a man not knowing Miss Tem- 
ple ! She is the only woman in London to be 
looked at." 

Now there was a great flutter in the band, and 
nothing but the name of Miss Temple was heard. 
All vowed they knew her very well — at least by 
.sight — and never thought of anybody else. Some 
asked the count to present them — others meditated 
plans by which that great result might be obtained ; 
but, in the midst of all this agitation. Count Mira- 
bel cantered away, and was soon by the very lady's 
side. 

" What a charming voyage yesterday," said the 
count to Miss Temple. " You were amused ?" 

" Very." 

" And to think you should all know my friend 
Armine so well ! I was astonished, for he will never 
go anywhere, or speak to any one." 

" You know him very intimately ?" said Miss 
Temple. 

" He is ray brother ! There is not a human be- 
ing in the world I love so much ! If you only knew 
him as I know him. Ah ! chere Miss Temple, 
there is not a man in London to be compared with 
him, so clever and so good ! What a heart ! so 
tender ! and what talent ! There is no one so 
spirituel !" 

" You have known him long, count ?" 

" Always : but of late I find a great change in 
him. I cannot discover what is the matter with 
him. He has gi-own melancholy. I think ho will 
not live." 

" Indeed !" 

" ?io : I am never wrong. That cher Armiiie 
will not live." 

" You are his friend, surely " 

" Ah ! yes ; but — I do not know what it is. 
Even me he cares not for. I contrive sometimes 
to get him about a little ; yesterday, for instance ; 
but to-day, you see, he will not move. There he 
is, sitting alone, in a dull hotel, with his eyes fixed 
on the ground, dark as night. Never was a man 
so changed. I suppose something has happened 
to him abroad. When you first knew him, I dare 
say now, he was the gayest of the gay ?" 

" He was indeed very different," said Miss Tem- 
ple, turning away her face. 

" You have known that dear Armine a long 
time ?" 

" It seems a very long time," said Miss Temple. 

"If he dies, and die he must, I do not think I 
shall ever be in very good spirits again," said the 
count. " It is the only thing that would quite upset 
me. Now do you think ]\liss 'i'emple, that our 
cher Armine is the most interesting per-son you 
ever met ?" 

" I believe Captain Armine is admired by aU 
those who know liim." 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



671 



" He is so good, so tender, and so clever. Lord 
Montfort, he knows him very well 1" 

" They were companions in boyhood, I believe ; 
but they have resumed their acquaintance only re- 
cently." 

" VVe must interest Lord Montfort in his case. 
Lord Montfort nuist assist in our endeavours to 
bring him out a little." 

" Lord Montfort needs no prompting, count. 
Wc are all alike interested in Captain Armine's 
welfare." 

" I wish you would try to find out what is on 
his mind," said Count Mirabel. " After all, men 
cannot do much. It requires a more delicate sym- 
pathy than we can oiler. And yet I would do any 
thing for the cher Armine, because I really love 
him the same as if he were my brother." 

" He is fortunate in such a friend." 

• Ah ! he does not think so any longer," said 
the count, " he avoids mc, he will not tell me any 
thing. Chcre Miss Temple, this business haunts 
me ; it will end badly. I know that dear Armine 
so well ; no one knows him like mc ; his feelings 
are too strong ; no one has such strong feelings. 
Now, of all my friends, he is the only man I know 
who is capable of committing suicide." 

" God forbid !" said Henrietta Temple with em- 
phasis. 

" I rise every morning with apprehension," said 
the count. " When I call upon him, every day, I 
tremble as I approach his hotel." 

" Are you indeed serious?" 

" Most serious. 1 knew a man once in the same 
state. It was the Due de Crillon. He was my bro- 
ther friend, like this dear Armine. We were at 
college together ; we were in the same regiment. 
He was exactly like tliis dear Armine — young, 
beautiful, and clever, but with a heart all tender- 
ness, terrible passions. He loved Mademoiselle de 
Guise, my cousin ; the most beautiful girl in 
France. Pardon me, but I told Armine yesterday, 
that you reminded me of her. They were going 
to be married ; but there was a contretemps. He 
sent for me ; I was in Spain ; she married the Vis- 
count dc Maisagnac. Until that dreadful morning 
he remained exactly in the same state as our dear 
Armine. Never was a melancholy so profound. 
After the ceremony he shot himself." 

" No, no I" exclaimed Miss Temple, in tlie 
greatest agitation. 

" Perfectly true. It is the terrible recollection of 
that dreadful adventure that overcomes me when I 
see our dear friend here. Because I feel it must be 
love. I was in hopes it was his cousin. But it is 
not so ; it must be something that has happened 
abroad. Love alone can account for it. It is not his 
debts that would so overpower him. What are his 
debts ! I would pay them myself. It is a heart- 
rending business. I am now going to him. How I 
tremble !" 

''How good you are !" exclaimed Miss Temple, 
with streaming ryes. " I never shall be grateful ; I 
mean, we all must. ! do go to him ; go to him 
directly ; tell him to be happy." 

" It is the song I ever sing," said the count ; " I 
wish some of you would come and see him, or send 
him a message. It is wise to show him that there 
are some who take interest in his existence. Now, 
give me that flower, for instance, and let me give 
it to him from you." 

" He will not care for it," said Miss Temple. 
" Try. It is a fancy I have. Let me bear it." 



Miss Temple gave the flower to the count, who 
cantered off with his piize. 

It was about eight o'clock ; Ferdinand was sit- 
ting alone in his room, having just parted with 
Glastonbun,', who was going to dine in Brook 
Street. The sun had set, and yet it was scarcely 
dark enough for artificial light, particularly for a per- 
son without a pursuit. It was just that dreary, 
dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pen- 
sive, if they be alone. And Ferdinand was par- 
ticularly dull ; a reaction had followed the excite- 
ment of the last eight-and-forty hours, and he was 
at this moment feeling singidarly disconsolate, and 
upbraiding himself for being so weak as to permit 
himself to be influenced by Mirabel's fantastic pro- 
mises and projects, when his door flew open, and 
the count, full dressed and graceful as a Versailles 
Apollo, stood before him. 

" Cher ami ! I cannoi stop one minute. I dine 
with Fitzwarrenc, and I am late. I have done your 
business capitally. Here is a pretty flower! Who 
do you think gave it me ] She did, pardy. On 
condition, however, that I should bear it to you, 
with a message — and what a message ! — that you 
should be happy." 

" Nonsense, my dear count." 

" It is true ; but I romanced at a fine rate for it. 
It is the only way with women. She thinks we 
have known each other since the Deluge. Do not 
betray me. But, my dear fellow, I cannot stop now. 
Only, mind, ail is changed. Instead of being gay, 
and seeking her society, and amusing her, and thus 
attempting to regain your influence, as we talked of 
last night ; mind, suicide is Uie sj'stem. To-morrow 
I will tell you all. She has a firm mind and a high 
spirit, w'hich she thinks is priftciple. If we go upon 
the tack of last night, slie will marry Montfort, and 
fall in love with you afterwards. That will never 
do. So we must work upon her fears, her gene- 
rosity, pity, remorse, and so on. It is all planned 
in my head, but I cannot stop. Call upon me to- 
morrow morning, at half-past two ; not before, be- 
cause I have an excellent boy coming to ne at one 
who is in a scrape. At half-past two, ciier, cher 
Armine, we will talk more. In the mean time, 
enjoy your flower; and rest assured, that it is your 
own fault if you do not fling the good Montfort in 
a very fine ditch." 



CHAPTER XVL 
IN WHICH Mn. TEMPLE smpnisEs nis daughter 

WEEPING. 

The Count Mirabel proceeded with his projects 
with all the ardour, address, and audacity of one 
habituated to success. By some means or other he 
contrived to see Miss Temple almost dally. He 
paid assiduous court to the dutchess, on whom he 
had made a very favourable impression from the first; 
in St. James's Square he met Mr. Temple, who was 
partial to the society of an accomplished foreigner. 
He was delighted with Count Mirabel. As for 
Miss Grandison, the count absolutely made her his 
confidant, thou.xh he concr^alcd this bold step from 
Ferdinand. He established his intimacy in the 
three families, and even mystified Sir Ralclilfc and 
Lady Armine so completely, that they imagined 
he must be some acquaintance that Ferdinand had 
made abroad; and iliej' received him accordingly as 
one of their son's oldest aTul most cherished friends. 
But the most amusing circumstance of all, was, 



673 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



h the count, who even in business neve) lost sight 
ot what might divert or interest him, became great 
friends even with Mr. Glastonbury. Count Mira- 
bel quite comprehended and appreciated that good 
man's character. 

All Count Mirabel's efforts were directed to restore 
tlie influence of Ferdinand Armine over Henrietta 
Temple ; and with this view he omitted no oppor- 
tunity of impressing the idea of his absent friend on 
that lady's susceptible brain. His virtues, his ta- 
lents, his accomplishments, his sacrifices; but, above 
all, his mysterious sufferings, and the fatal end which 
the count was convinced awaited him ; were placed 
before her in a light so vivid, that they wholly en- 
grossed her thought and imagination. She could 
not resist the fascination of talking about Ferdinand 
Armine to Count Mirabel. He, was, indeed, the 
constant subject of their discourse. All her feel- 
ings, indeed, now clustered round his image. She 
had quhe abandoned her old plan of marrying him 
to his cousin. That was desperate. Did she regret 
it 1 She scarcely dared urge to herself this secret 
question ; and yet it seemed that her heart, too, 
would break, were Ferdinand another's. But, then, 
what was to become of him 1 Was he to be left 
desolate? Was he indeed to diel And Digby, 
the amiable, generous Digby — ah ! why did she 
ever meet him 1 Unfortunate, unhappy woman ! 
And yet she was resolved to be firm ; she would 
not falter; she would be the victim of her duly, 
even if she died at the altar. Almost she wished 
that she had ceased to live — and then the recollec- 
tion of Armine came back to her so vividly ! And 
those long days of passionate delight ! All his ten- 
derness and all his truth; for he had been true to 
her, always had he been true to her. She was not 
the person who ought to complain of his conduct. 
He said so, and he said rightly. And yet she was 
the person who alone punished him. How different 
was the generous conduct of his cousin 1 She had 
pardoned all ; she sympathized with him, she sor- 
rowed for him, she tried to soothe him. She 
laboured to unite him to her rival. What must he 
thiidc of herself! How hard-hearted, how selfish, 
must the contrast prove her ! Could he indeed be- 
lieve now that she ever loved him I ! no, he 
must despi-ie her. He must believe that she was 
sacrificing her heart to the splendour of rank. O ! 
could he believe this ! Her Ferdinand, her romantic 
Ferdinand, who had thrown fortune and power to 
the winds, but to gain that very heart! What a 
return had she made him ! And for all his fidelity 
he was punished ; lone, disconsolate, forlorn, over- 
powered by vulgar cares, heart-broken, meditating 

even death . The picture was too terrible, too 

harrowing. She hid her face in the pillow of the sofa 
on which she was seated, and wept most bitterly. 

She felt an arm softly twined round her waist ; 
she looked up, it was her father. 

" My child," he said, " you are agitated." 

" Yes : yes ; I am agitated," she said, in a low 
voice. 

" You are unwell." 

" Worse than unv^^ell." 

" Tell me what ails you, Henrietta." 

" Grief for which there is no cure." 

" Indeed ! I am greatly astonished." 

His daughter only sighed. 

" Speaic to me, Henrietta. Tell me what has 
happened." 

" I cannot speak ; notliing has happened ; I have 
liotliing to say." 



" To see you thus makes me most unhappy," 
said Mr. Temple ; " if only for my sake, let me 
know the cause of this overwhelming emotion." 

" It is a cause that will not please you. Forget, 
sir, what you have seen." 

" A father cannot. I entreat you, tell me. If 
you love me, Henrietta, speak." 

" Sir, sir, I was thinking of the past." 

" Is it so bitter 1" 

" ! God I that I should live," said Miss Temple. 

" Henrietta, my own Henrietta, my child, I be- 
seech you tell me all. Something has occurred, 
something must have occurred, to revive such strong 
feelings. Has, has — I know not what to say, but 
so much happens that surprises me — I know, I 
have heard, that you have seen one who once in- 
fluenced your feelings, that you have been thrown 
in unexjiected contact with him — he has not, he 
has not dared — " 

" Say nothing harshly of him," exclaimed Miss 
Temple, wildly, " I will not bear it even from you." 

" My daughter !" 

" Ay ! your daughter, but still a woman. Do I 
murmur, do I complain ? Have I urged you to 
compromise your honour] I am ready for the sa- 
crifice. My conduct is yours, but my feelings ara 
my own." 

" Sacrifice, Henrietta ! What sacrifice 1 I have 
heard only of your happiness ; I have thought only 
of your happiness. This is a strange return." 

" Father, forget what you have seen ; forgive 
what I have said. But let this subject drop for- 
ever." 

" It cannot drop here. Captain Armine prefers 
his suit V continued Mr. Temple, in a tone of stern 
inquiry. 

" VVhat if he did ? He has a right to do so." 

" As good a right as he had before. You are rich 
now, Henrietta, and he perhaps would be faithful." 

" ! Ferdinand," exclaimed Miss Temple, lifting 
up her hands and eyes to heaven, " and you must 
endure even this !" 

" Henrietta," said Mr. Temple, in a voice of af- 
fected calmness, as he seated himself by her side. 
" Listen to me: I am not a harsh parent; you cannot 
upbraid me with insensibility to your feelings. 
They have ever engrossed my thought and care, 
and how to gratify, and when necessary how to 
soothe them, has long been the principal occupation 
of my life. If you have known misery, girl, you 
made that misery yourself. It was not I that in- 
volved you in secret engagements, and clandestine 
correspondence ; it was not I that made you — you, 
my daughter, on whom I have lavished all the so- 
licitude of long years — the dupe of the first calcu- 
lating libertine who dared to trifle with your affec- 
tions, and betray your heart." 

" 'Tis false !" exclaimed Miss Temple, interrupt- 
ing him ; " he is as true and pure as I am ; more, 
much more," she added, in a voice of anguish. 

" No doubt he has convinced you of it," said 
Mr. Temple, with a laughing sneer. " Now mark 
me," he continued, resuming his calm tone, " you 
interrupted me ; listen to me. You are the betrothed 
bride of liOrd Montfort — Lord Montfort, my friend, 
the man I love most in the world ; the most gene- 
rous, the most noble, the most virtuous, the most 
gifted of human beings. You gave him your hand 
freely, under circumstances which, even if he did 
not possess every quality that ought to secure the 
affection of a woman, should bind you to him with 
an unswerving faith. Falter one Joint, and I 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



673 



v'hlstle you off forever. You are no more daughter 
■ •f mine. I am as firm as I am fond ; nor would I 
to this, but tliat I know well I am doing rightly. 
\es! take this Armine once more to your heart, 
«id you receive my curse, the deejjest — the sternest 
—the deadliest that ever descended on a daughter's 
iead." 

•' My father, my dear, dear father, my beloved 
father !" exclaimed Miss Temple, throwing herself 
at his feet. " ! do not say so ; O ! recall those 
words, tiiose wild — those terrible words. Indeed, 
indeed, my heart is breaking. Pity me, pity me; 
for God's sake pity me." 

" I would do more than pity you ; I would save 
you." 

" It is not as you think," she continued with 
streaming eyes ; " indeed it is not. He has not 
preferred his suit, he has urged no claim. He has 
behaved in the most delicate, the most honourable, 
the most considerate manner. He has thought only 
of my situation. He met me by accident. My 
friends are his friends. They knovv not what has 
taken place between us. He has not breathed it to 
liuman being. He has absented himself from his 
liome, that we might not meet." 

" You nuist marry Lord Montfort at once." 
" O ! my father — even as you like. But do not 
curse me — dream not of such terrible things — recall 
those fearful word* >^5 me, love me — say I am 
your child. And Dig/ A am true to Uigby — who 
says I am false to Digny 1 — But, indeed, can I re- 
call the past, can I alter it 1 It* memory overcame 
me. Digby knows all ; Digby knows we met ; he 
did not curse me — he was kind and gentle. O ! 
my father I" 

'• My Henrietta, my beloved Henrietta !" said 
M'. Temple, very much moved: "my child, my 
darling child !" 

" ! my father ! I will do all you wish ; but 
speak not again as you have done of Ferdinand. 
We liave done him great injustice ; I have done 
him great injury. He is good and pure ; indeed he 
is: if you knew all, you would not doubt it. He 
was ever faithful : indeed, indeed he was. Once 
you liked him. Speak kindly of him, father. He 
is the victim. If you meet liim, be gentle to him, 
sir; for, indeed, if you knew all, you would pity 
him." 



CHAPTER XVII. 

IN' WHICH FERDINAND HAS A VF.llT STOIIMT IX- 
TKHVIEW WITH HIS FATHER. 

If we pause now to take a calm and compre- 
hensive review of the state and prospects of the 
three families, in whose feelinsrs and fortunes we 
have attempted to interest the reader, it must be 
confessed that, however brilliant and satisfactory 
they might appear on the surface, the elements of 
discord, gloom, and unhappiness might be more 
profoundly discovered, and indeed might even be 
licld as rapidly stirring into movement. Miss Tem- 
ple was the affianced bride of Lord Montfort, but 
her heart was Captain Anninc's ; Captain .Ermine, 
in the estimation of his parents, was the pledged 
husband of Miss Grandison, while he and his cousin 
had, in fact, dissolved their eiigagcincnt. Mr. 
Temple more than suspected his dauiihtir's par- 
tiality for Ferdinand. 8ir Katclilfe, very much sur- 
prised at seeing so little of his son. and resolved 
that tlic marriage should be no further delayed, was 



about to precipitate confessions, of which he did not 
dream, and which were to shipwreck all the hopes 
of his Ufe. The Count Mirabel and Miss Grandison 
were both engaged in an active conspiracy. Lord 
Montfort alone was calm, and, if he had a purpose 
to conceal, inscrutable. All things, however, fore- 
boded a crisis. 

Sir Ratcliffe, astonished at the marked maimer 
in which his son absented himself from Brook 
Street, resolved upon bringinghim to an explanation. 
At first he thought there might l>e some lovers' 
quarrel ; but the demeanour of Kathcrine, and the 
easy tone in which she ever spoke of her couFin, soon 
disabused him of this fond hope. He ' pnsulted 
his wife. Now, to tell the tnith, Lady Armine, 
who was a very shrewd woman, was not without 
her doubts and perplexities, but she would not con- 
fess them to her Imsband. Many circumstances 
had bom observed by her which filled her with dis- 
quietude, but she had staked all her hopes upon 
('tis cast, and she was of a very sanguine temper. 
She was leading an agreeable life. Katherine ap- 
peared daily more attached to her, and her ladyship 
was quite of opinion that is always very injudicious 
to interfere. She endeavoured to persuade Sir 
Ratcliffe that every thing was quite right, and she 
assured him that tlie season would terminate, as all 
seasons ought to tenninate, by the marriage. 

And, perhaps, Sir liatcliffe would have followed 
her example, only it so happened that as he was 
returning home one morning, he met his son in 
©rosvenor Square. 

" Why, Ferdinand, we never see you now V said 
Sir Ratcliffe. 

" O ! you are all so gay," said Ferdinand. " How 
is my mother ]" 

" She is very well. Katherine and herself have 
gone to see the balloon, with Lord Montfort and 
Count Mirabel. Come in," said Sir Ratcliffe, for 
he was now almost at his door. 

The father and .son entered. Sir Ratcliffe walked 
into a little hbrary on the ground floor, which was 
his morning room. 

" We dine at home to-day, Ferdinand," said Sir 
Ratcliffe. " Perhaps you will come." 
" Thank you, sir, I am engaged." 
" It seems to me you are always engaged. For 
a person who does not like gayety, it is very odd." 
" Heigho I" said Ferdinand. " How do you like 
your new horse, sir V 

" Ferdinand, I wish to speak a word to you," 
said Sir RatcUlfe. " I do not like ever to interfere 
unnecessarily with your conduct ; but the anxiety 
of a j>arent will, I think, excuse the question I 
am about to ask. When do you propose being 
married ]" 

" ! I do not know exactly." 
" Your grandfather has been dead now, you 
know, much more than a year. I cannot help 
thinking your conduct very singular There is no- 
thing wrong between you and ivatlierine, is there !" 
" Wrong, sirl"' 

" Yes, wrong. I mean, is there any misunder 
standing"! Have you quarrelled 1" 

" No, sir, we have not quarrelled ; we perfectly 
understand each other." 

"I am glad to hear it, for I must say I think 
your conduct is very uidike that of a lover. .All [ 
can say is, I did not win your mother'* heart by 
such proceedings." 

" Katherine has made no complaint of me, sir!" 
" Certainly not, and that surprises me stillmore." 



674 



D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. 



Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought. The si- 
lence lasted some minutes. Sir RatclifTe took up 
the newspaper ; his son leant over the mantelpiece, 
and gazed upon the empty fireplace. At length he 
turned round and said, " father, I can bear this no 
longer ; the engagement between Katherine and 
myself is dissolved." 

" Good God ! when and why V exclaimed Sir 
Ratcliffe, the newspaper falling from his hand. 

" Long since, sir : and ever since I loved another 
woman, and she knew it." 

'• Ferdinand ! Ferdinand !" exclaimed the un- 
happy lather : but he was so overpowered that he 
could not give utterance to his thoughts. He threw 
himself in a chair, and wrung his hands. Ferdi- 
nand stood still and silent, like a statue of destiny, 
gloomy and inflexible. 

" Speak again," at length said Sir Ratcliffe. " Let 
me hear you speak again. I cannot believe what 
I have heard. Is it, indeed, true that your engage- 
ment with your cousin has been long terminated 1" 

Ferdinand nodded assent. 

" Your poor mother !" exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe. 
" This will kill her." He rose from his scat, and 
walked up and down the room in the greatest agi- 
tation. 

" I knew all was not right," he muttered to him- 
self, "She will sink under it ; we must all sink 
under it. Madman ! you know not what you have 
done !" 

" It is in vain to regi-et, sir ; my sufferings have 
been greater than yours." • 

" She will pardon you, my boy," said Sir Rat- 
cliffe, in a quicker and kinder tone. " You have 
lived to repent your impetuous folly ; Katherine is 
kind and generous ; she loves us all ; she must love 
you ; she will pardon you. Yes ! entreat her to 
forget it ; your mother, your mother has great in- 
fluence with her ; she will exercise it, she will 
interfere, you are very young, all will yet be well." 

" It is as impossible for me to marry Katherine 
Grandison, as for yourself to do it,, sir," said Fer- 
dinand, in a tone of great calmness. 

" You are not married to another V 

" In faith; lam bound by a tie which I can never 
break." 

" And who is this person?" 

" She must be nameless for many reasons." 

" Ferdinand," said Sir Ratcliffe, " you know 
not what you are doing. My life, your mother's, 
the existence of our family, hang upon your con- 
duct. Yet, there is lime to prevent this desolation. 
I am controlling my emotions ; I wish to save us — 
you — all ! Throw yourself at your cousin's feet. 
She is soft-hearted ; she may yet be yours !" 

" Dear father, it cannot be." 

" Then — then welcome ruin," exclaimed Sir 
Ratcliffe in a hoarse voice. " And," he continued, 
pausing between every word, from the dillicuity of 
utterance, "if the conviction that you have de- 
stroyed all our hopes, rewarded us for all our af- 
fection, our long devotion, by blasting every fond 
idea that has ever illumined our sad lives, that I 
and Constance, poor fools, have clung and clung 
to, if this conviction can console you, sir, enjoy 
it 

" Ferdinand ! my son, my child, that I never 
have s|)oken an unkind word to, that never gave me 
cause to blame or check him, your mother will be 
home soon, your poor, poor mother. Do not let me 
welcome her with ail this misery. Tell me it is not 
true ; recall what you have said ; let us forget tliese 



harsh words ; reconcile yourself to your cousin ; let 
us be happy." 

" Father, if my heart's blood could secure youi 
happiness, my life were ready; but this I cannot do.'' 

" Do you know what is at stake 1 Every thing 
All, all, all ! We can see Armine no more ; ou) 
home is gone. Your mother and myself must be 
exiles. O ! you have not thought of this; say you 
have not thought of this." 

Ferdinand hid his face — his father, emboldened, 
urged the strong plea. " You will save us, Fer 
dinand, you will be our preserver 1 It is all 
forgotten, is it not 1 It is a lover's quarrel, after all V 

"Father, why should I trifle with your feehngsT 
why should I feign what can never be 1 This 
sharp interview, so long postponed, ought not now 
to be adjourned. Indulge ho hopes ; for there are 
none." 

" Then, by every sacred power, I revoke every 
blessing that since your birth I have poured upon 
your head. I recall the prayers that every night I 
have invoked upon your being. Great God ! I can 
eel them. You have betrayed your cousin ; you 
have deserted your mother and myself; you have 
first sullied the honour of our house, and now you 
have destroyed it. Why were you born ? What 
have we done that your mother's womb should 
produce such a curse 1 Sins of my father — they 
are visited upon me ! And Glastonbury, what will 
Glastonbury say 1 Glastonbury, who sacrificed his 
fortune for you." 

" Mr. Glastonbury knows all, sir, and has al- 
ways been my confidant." 

" Is he a traitor 1 For when a son deserts me, 
I know not whom to trust." 

" He has no thoughts, but for our welfare, sir. 
He win convince you, sir, I cannot marry my 
cousin." 

" Boy, boy ! you know not what you say. Not 
marry your cousin ! Then let us die. It were 
better for us all to die." 

" My father ! Be calm, I beseech you ; you 
have spoken harsh words — I have not deserted you 
nor my mother ; I never will. If I have wronged 
my cousin, I have severely suffered, and she has 
most freely forgiven me. She is my dear friend. 
As for our house ; tell me, would you have that 
house preserved at the cost of my happiness ? You 
are not the father I supposed, if such indeed be 
your wish." 

" Happiness ! Fortune, family, beauty, youth, a 
sweet and charming spirit — if these will not secure 
a man's happiness, I know not what might. And 
these I wished you to possess." 

"Sir, it is vain for us to converse upon this sub- 
ject. See Glastonbury, if you will. He can at 
least assure you that neither my feelings are light, 
nor my conduct hasty. I will leave you now." 

Ferdinand quitted the room ; Sir Ratcliffe did not 
notice his departure, although he was not unaware 
of it. He heaved a deep sigh, and was apparently 
plunged in profound thought. 



CHAPTER XVm, 

FERDINAND IS ARRKSTED BY MESS RS. MORRIS AK» 
LEVISOjr, AND TAKEN TO A SPUNOINd HOUSE. 

It must be confessed that the aflfairs of our 
friends were in a critical state ; every one interested 
felt that something decisive in their respective foi- 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



675 



times was at hand. And yet, so vain are all hu- 1 
man plans and calculations, that the unavoidable 
crisis was brought about by an incident which no 
one anticipated. It so happened that the stormy 
interview Itetwcen Sir Ratcliflc and his son was 
overhi-anl by a servant. This servant, who had 
been engaged by Miss Grandison in London, was 
a member of a club to which a confidential clerk of 
Messrs. Morris and Levison belonged. In the en- 
suing evening, when this worthy knight of the 
shoulder-knot just dropped out for an hour to look 
in at this choice society, smoke a pipe, and talk 
over the aifairs of his mistress and the nation, he 
announced the important fact that tlie match be- 
tween Miss Grandison and Captain Armine was 
"no go," which, for his part, he did not regret, as 
he thought his mistress ought to look higher. The 
confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and Levison 
Ustened in silence to this important intelligence, 
and communicated it the next morning to his em- 
ployers. And so it happened that, a very few 
days afterwards, as Ferdinand was lying in bed at 
his hotel, the door of his chamber suddenly opened, 
and an individual, not of the most prepossessing 
appearance, being very much marked with small- 
pox, reeking vi'ith gin, and wearing top hoots and 
a belcher handkerchief, rushed into his room and 
inquired whether he were Captain Armine. 

" The same," said Ferdinand. " And pray, sir, 
who are you V 

" Don't wish to be unpleasant," was the answer, 
" but, sir, you are my prisoner." 

There is something exceedingly ignoble in an 
arrest : Ferdinand felt that sickness come over him, 
which the uninitiated in such ceremonies must ex- 
perience. However, he rallied and inquired at 
whose suit these proceedings were taken. 

" Messrs. Morris and Levison, sir." 

" Cannot I send for my lawyer and give bail 1" 

Tlie bailiff shook his head. " You see, sir, you 
are taken in execution, so it is impossible." 

" And the amount of the debt !" 

" Is £2800, sir." 

" Well, what am I to do V 

" Why, sir, you must go along with us. We 
will do it very quietly. My follower is in a hack- 
ney coach at the door, sir. You can just step in 
as pleasant as possible. I suppose you would like 
to go to a spunging house, and then you can send 
for your friends, you know." 

" Well, if you will go down stairs, I will come 
to you." 

The bailiff grinned. " Can't let you out of my 
sight, sir." 

*• Why — I cannot dress, if you are here." 

The bailiff examined the room to see if there 
were any mode of escape ; there was no door but 
the entrance ; the window offered no chance. 
" Well, sir," he said, " I likes to do things pleasant. 
I can stand outside, sir, but you must be quick." 

Ferdinand rang for his servant. When Louis 
clearly understood the state of affairs, he was ex- 
ceedingly anxious to throw the bailiff out of the 
window, but his master prevented him. Mr. 
Glastonbury had gone out some two hours ; Fer- 
dinand sent Louis with a message to his family, 
to say he was about leaving town for a few days, 
and impressing upon him to be most careful not to 
let them know in Brook Street what had occurred, 
he completed his rapid toilette, and accompanied 
tlie sheriff's officer to the hackney coach that was 
prepared for hbn. 



As they jogged on in silence, Ferdinand re 
volved in his mind how it would be most advisable 
for him to act. Any appHcation to his own 
lawyer was out of the question. That had 
been tried before, and he felt assured that there 
was not the slightest chance of that gentleman dis- 
charging so large a sum, especially when he was 
aware that it was only a portion of his client's 
liabilities; he thought of applying for advice to 
Count Mirabel or Lord Catchimwhocan, but with 
what view ? He would not borrow the money of 
them, even if they would lend it ; and as it was, 
he bitterly reproached himself, for having availed 
himself so easily of Mr. Bond Shai'pe's kind oihces. 
At this moment, he could not persuade himself 
that his conduct had been strictly honourable to 
that gentleman. He had not been frank in tlie ex- 
position of his situation. The money had been 
advanced under as false impression, if not abso- 
lutely borrowed under a false pretence. He cursed 
Catchimwhocan and his levity. The honour of 
the Armines was gone, hke every thing else that 
once belonged to them. The result of Ferdinand's 
reflections was that he was utterly done up ; that 
no ho[)c, or chance of succour remained for him ; 
that his career was closed ; and not daring to con- 
template what the consequences might be to his 
miserable parents, he made a desperate effort to 
command his feelings. 

Here the coach turned up a dingy street, leading 
out of the lower end of Oxford Street, and stopped 
hcfore a large but gloomy dwelling, which Ferdi- 
nand's companion informed him was a spunging 
house. " I suppose j'ou would like to have a pri- 
vate room, sir ; you can have every accommoda- 
tion here, sir, and feel quite at home, I assure 
you." 

In pursuance of this suggestion. Captain Armine 
was ushered into tlie best drawing-room with bar- 
red windows, and treated in the most aristocratic 
manner. It was evidently the chamber reserved 
onlj' for unfortunate gentlemen of the utmost dis- 
tinction. It was amply furnished with a mirror, a 
loo-table, and a very hard sofa. 1'he walls were 
hung with old-fashioned caricatures by Bunbury, 
the fire-irons were of polished brass, over the man- 
tel-piece was the portrait of the master of the house, 
which was evidently a speaking likeness, and in 
which Captain Armine fancied he traced no slight 
resemblance to his friend Mr, Levison, and there 
were also some sources of liteiaiy amusement in 
the room, in the shape of a Hebrew Bible and the 
Racing Calendar. 

After walking up and down the room for an 
hour, meditating over the past — for it seemed hope- 
less to trouble himself any further with the future — 
Ferdinand began to feel very faint, for it may be 
recollected that he had not even bceak fasted. So 
pulling the bell rope with such force that it fell to 
the ground, a funny little waiter immediately ap- 
peared, awed by the sovereign ring, and having, in- 
deed, received private intelligence from the bailiff 
that the gentleman in the drawing-room was a re- 
gular nob. 

And here, perhaps, I should remind the reader, 
that of all the great distinctions in life, none per- 
haps is more important than that which divides 
mankind into the two great sections of Nods and 
Snobs. It might seem at the first glance, that if 
there were a place in the world which should level 
all distinctions, it would be a debtor's prison. Bui 
this would be quite an error. Almost at the very 



676 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



moment that Captain Armine arrived at his sorrow- 
ful hotel, a poor devil of a tradesman, who had been 
arrested for fifty pounds, and torn from his wife and 
family, had been forced to repair to the same asy- 
lum. He was introduced into what is styled the 
Cofiec-room, being a long, low, unfurnished, sanded 
chamber, with a table and benches; and beino- 
very anxious to communicate with some friend, in 
order, if possible, to effect his release, and prevent 
himself from being a bankrupt, he had continued 
meekly to ring at intervals for the last half hour, in 
order that he might write and forward his letter. 
The waiter heard the coffee-room bell rijig, but 
never dreamed of noticing it, though the moment 
the signal of the private room sounded, and sound- 
ed with so much emphasis, he rushed up stairs, 
three steps at a time, and instantly appeared be- 
fore our hero : and all this difference was occasion- 
ed by the simple circumstance, that Captain Armine 
was a Nob, and the poor tradesman a Snob. 

" I am hungry," said Ferdinand. " Can I get 
any thing to eat at this damned place V 

"What would you like, sir] Any thing you 
choose, sir. Mutton chop, rump steak, veal cutlet ] 
Do you a fowl in a quarter of an hour ; roast or 
boiled, sir ?" 

" I have not breakfasted yet, bring me some 
breakfast." 

" Yes, sir," said the httle waiter. « Tea, sir 1 
Coffee, eggs, toast, buttered toast, sir 1 Like any 
meat, sir 1 Ham, sir ? Tongue, sir ? Like a 
devil, sir 1 

" Any thing, every thing, only be quick." 
" Yes, sir," responded the waiter. " Beg par- 
don, sir. No offence, I hope, but custom to pay 
here, sir. Shall be happy to accommodate you, 
sir. Know what a gentleman is." 

" Thank you, I will not trouble you," said Fer- 
dinand ; " get me that note exchanged." 



all their hopes. Little less than a year ago and bo 
was at Bath, and they were all joy an<l triumph. 
What a wild scene had his life been since ! O ! 
Henrietta ! why did we ever meet 1 That fatal, 
fatal morning! The cedar tree rose before him, 
he recalled, he remembered every thing. And poor 
Glastonbury — it was a miserable end. He could 
not disguise it from himself, he had been most im- 
prudent, he had been mad. And yet so near hap- 
piness, perfect, perfect, happiness ! Henrietta 
might have been his, and they might have been so 
happy ! This confinement was dreadful ; it began 
to press upon his nerves. No occupation, not the 
slightest resource. He took up the Racing Calendar, 
he threw it down again. He knew all the carica- 
tures by heart, they infinitely disgusted him He 
walked up and down the room till he was so tired 
that he flung himself upon the hard sofa. It was 
intolerable. A jail must be preferable to this. 
There must be some kind of wretched amusement 
in a jail; but this ignoble, this humiliating soli- 
tude — he was confident he should go mad if he 
remained here. He rang the bell again. 
" Yes ! sir," said the little waiter. 
" This place is intolerable to me," said Captain 
Armine. " I really am quite sick of it. What 
can I do ]" 

The waiter looked a little perplexed. 
" I should Uke to go to jail at once," said Ferdi- 
nand. 

" Lord ! sir !" said the little waiter. 
" Yes ! I cannot bear this," he continued ; "I shall 
go mad." 

" Don't you think your fi-iends will caU soon, sir 1" 
" I have no friends," said Ferdinand. " I hope 
nobody will call." 

" No friends!" said the little waiter, who began 
to think Ferdinand was not such a nob as he had 
imagined. " Why, if you have no friends, sir, it 



" Yes, sir," replied the httle waiter, bowing very [ would be best to go to the Fleet, I think." 



low as he disappeared. 

" Gentleman in best drawing-room wants break- 
fast. Gentleman in best drawing-room wants 
change for a ten pound note. Breakfast imme- 
diately for gentleman in best drawing-room. Tea, 
coffee, toast, ham, tongue, and a devil. A regular 
nob !" 

Ferdinand was so exhausted that he had post- 
poned all deliberation as to his situation until he 
had breakfasted, and when he had breakfasted, he 
felt very dull. It is the consequence of all meals. 
In whatever light he viewed his affairs, they 
seemed inextricable. He was now in a spunging 
house, he could not long remain here, he must be 
soon in a jail. A jail I What a bitter termination 
of all his great plans and hopes ! What a situa- 
tion for one who had been betrothed to Henrietta 
Temple ! He thought of his cousin, he thought of 
her great fortune, which might have been his. 
Perhaps at this moment they were all riding to- 
gether in the Park. In a few days all must be 
known to his father. He did not doubt of the result. 
Armine would immediately be sold, and his father 
and mother, with the wretched wreck of their fortune, 
would retire to the Continent. What a sad vicissi- 
tude ! And he had done it all — he, their only 
child, their only hope, on whose image they had 
lived, who was to restore the house. He looked at 
the bars of his windows, it was a dreadful sight. 
His poor father, his fond mother — he was quite 
sure their hearts would break. They never could 
survive all this misery, this bitter disappoinlment of 



" By Jove, I think it would be better." 

" Master thinks your friends will call, I am sure." 

" Nobody knows I am here," said Ferdinand. 

" O !" said the little waiter, " you want to let 
them know, do you, sir]" 

"Any thing sooner; I wish to conceal my dis- 
grace." 

" ! sir, you are not used to it — I dare say you 
never were nabbed before 1" 

" Ceiiuinly not." 

" There it is ; if you will be patient, you will 
see every thing go well." 

" Never, my good fellow ; nothing can go well." 

" O ! sir, you are not used to it. A regular nob 
like you, nabbed for the first time, and for such a 
long figure, sir, sure not to be diddled. Never 
knowed such a thing yet. Friends sure to stump 
down, sir." 

" The greater the claim, the more difficulty in 
satisfying it, I should think," said Ferdinand. 

" Lord ! no, sir ; you are not used to it. It is 
only poor devils nabbed for their fifties and hun 
dreds that are ever done up. A nob was never 
nabbed for the sum you are, sir, and ever went to 
the wall. Trust my experience, I never knowefl 
such a thing." 

Ferdinand could scarcely refrain from a smile 
Even the conversation of the little waiter was a re- 
lief to him. 

" You sec, sir," continued that worthy, " Morris 
and Levison would never have given you such a 
of a tick unless tlaey knowed your resources. 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



677 



Trust Morris and Levison for that. You done up, 
sir ! a nob like you, that Morris and Levison have 
trusted tor sucli a tick ! Lord, sir, you don't know 
nothini? about it. I could afr)rd to i;ive them fifteen 
shillings in the pound for their dc{)t myself, and a 
good day's business too. Friends will stump down, 
sir, trust me." 

" Weil, it is some satisfaction for me to know 
that they will not, and that Morris and Levison 
will not <?et a farthiufj." 

" Well, sir," said the incredulous little function- 
ary, " when I find Morris and Levison lose two or 
three thousand pounds by a nob who is nabbed for 
the first time, I will pay the money myself, that is 
all I know." 

Here the waiter was obliged to leave Ferdinand, 
but he proved his confidence in that gentleman's 
fortunes by his continual civility, and in the course 
of the day brought him a stale newspaper. It 
seemed to Ferdinand that the day would never 
close. The waiter pestered him about dinner, eulo- 
gizing the cook, ajid assuring him that his master 
was famous for Champagtie. Although he had no 
appetite, Ferdinand ordered diinier in order to en- 
sure the occurrence of one incident. The Cham- 
pagne made him drowsy ; he was shown to his 
room; and for a while he forgot his cares in sleep. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

THE CniSIS RAPIDLY ADVANCES. 

Hexiiietta Temple began once more to droop. 
This change was not unnoticed by her constant 
companion, Lord Montfort — and yet he never per- 
mitted her to be aware of his observation. All that 
he did was still more to study her amusement ; if 
possible to be still more considerate and tender. 
Miss Grandison, however, was far less delicate ; she 
omitted no opportunity of letting Miss Temple 
know that she thought that Henrietta was very un- 
well, and that she was quite convinced Henrietta 
was thinking of Ferdinand. Nay ! .she was not 
satisfied to confine these intimations to Miss Tem- 
ple — she impressed her conviction of Henrietta's 
indisposition on Lord Montfort, and teased him 
with asking his opinion of the cause. 

" What do you think is the cause, Miss Grandi- 
son 1" said his lonlship, very quietly. 

" Perhaps London does not agree with her : but 
then, when she was ill before, she was in the 
countrj- ; and it seems to me to be the same illness. 
I wonder you do not notice it. Lord Montfort. A 
lover to be so insensible — I am surprised !" 

" It is useless to notice that which you cannot 
remedy." 

" Why do you not call in those who can offer 
remedies !" said Miss Grandison. " Why not send 
for Sir Henry ?" 

" I think it is best to leave Henrietta alone," said 
Lord Montfort. 

" Do you think it is the mind, then 1" said Miss 
Grandison. 

"It may be," said Lord Montfort. 

" It may be I Upon my word, you are very 
easy." 

" I am not indifTerent, Miss Grandison. There 
is nothing that I would not do for Henrietta's wel- 
fare." 

" ! yea, there is ; there is something," said 
Miss Grandison, rather maliciously. 



I " You arc really a veiy extraordinary person, 
Miss Grandison," said Lord Montfort. " What 
can you mean by so strange an observation !" 

" I have my meaning; but I suppose I may have 
a mystery as well as anybody else." 

" A mystery. Miss Grandison 1" 

" Yes ! a mystery. Lord Montfort. There is not 
a single individual in the three families who has 
not a mystery, except myself; but I have found out 
something. I feel quite easy now — we are upon 
an equality." 

"You are a very strange person." 

" It may be so ; but I am very happy, for I have 
nothing on my mind. Now that poor Ferdinand 
has told Sir RatclilFe we arc not going to marry, I 
have no part to play. I hate deception ; it is al- 
most as bitter as marrying one who is in love with 
another person." 

" That must indeed be bitter. And is that the 
reason that you do not marry your cousin ]" in- 
quired Montfort. 

" I may be in love with another person, or I may 
not," said Miss (irandison. " But however that 
may be, the moment Ferdinand very candidly told 
me he was, we decided not to marry. I think we 
were wise — do not you, Lord Montfort 1" 

" If you are happy, you were wise," said Mont- 
fort. 

"• Yes, I am pretty happy — as happy as I can 
well be, when all my best friends are miserable." 

" Are they 1" 

"I think so: my aunt is in tears; my uncle in 
despair ; Ferdinand meditates suicide ; Henrietta 
is pining away ; and you — ^you, who are the phi- 
losopher of the society — you look grave. I fancy, 
I think we are a most miserable set." 

" I wish we could all be very happy," said Mont- 
fort 

" And so we might, I think," said Miss Grandi- 
son, " at least some of u.s." 

" Make us, then," said Lord Montfort 

" I cannot make you." 

" I think you could. Miss Grandison." 

At this moment Henrietta entered, and the con- 
versation assumed a diH'ercnt turn. 

" Will you go with us to Lady Bellair's, Kate?" 
said Miss Temple. " The dutchcss has asked me 
to call there this morning." 

Miss Grandison expressed her willingness ; tlio 
carriage was waiting, and Lord Montfort offered to 
attend them. At this moment, the servant entered 
with a note for Miss Grandison. 

" From Glastonbury," she said ; " dear Henri- 
etta, he wishes to see me immediately. What can 
it be] Goto Lady Bellair's and call for me on 
your return. You must, indeed. And then we 
can all go out together." 

And so it was arranged. Miss Temple, accom- 
panied by Lord .Montfort, proceeded to Bellair 
House. 

" Don't come near me," said the old ladv, when 
she saw them, " don't come near me ; I am in de- 
spair; I do not know what I shall do; I think I 
shall sell all my china. Do you know anybody 
who wanU to buy old china 1 They shall have it a 
bargain. But I must have ready money ; ready 
money I must have. Do not sit down in that 
chair; it is only made to look at. — O! if I were 
rich like you ! — I wonder if my china is worth three 
hundred pounds. I could cry my eyes out. that I 
could. The wicked men I should like to tear them 
to pieces. Why is he not in Parliament; and then 
3i. 2 



678 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



they could not take him up 1 They never ^ould 
arrest Charles Fox. I have known him in as much 
trouble as any one. Once he sent all his furniture 
to my house from his lodgings. He lodged in Bury 
street. I always look at the house when I pass by. 
Don't fiddle the pens ; I hate people who fiddle. 
Where is Gregoiy ! — where is mj bell 1 Where 
is the page ? — naughty boy !— why do not you 
come ? There, I do not want any thing — I do not 
know what to do. The wicked men ! The great- 
est favourite I had — he was so charming ! Charm- 
ing people are never rich — .he always looked melan- 
choly — I think I will send to the rich man I dine 
with — but I forget his name. Why do you not 
tell me his name !" 

" My dear Lady Bellair, what is the matter ?" 
" Don't ask me ; don't speak to me. I tell you 
I am in despair. O ! if I were rich ! how I would 
punish those wicked men!" 

"Can I do any thing 1" said Lord Montfort. 
" I do not know what you can do. I have got 
the tic. I always have the tic when my friends are 
in trouble." 

" Who is in trouble, L,ady Bellair 1" 
" My dearest friend ; the only friend I care about. 
How can you be so hard-hearted 1 I called upon 
him this morning, and his servant was crying. I 
must get him a place. He is such a good man, 
and loves his master. Now do you want a ser- 
vant? You never want any thing. Ask every- 
body you know whether they want a servant, an 
honest man, who loves his master. There he is 
crying down stairs in Gregory's room. Poor good 
creature ! I could cry myself, only it is of no use." 
" Who is his master V said Lord Montfort. 
" Nobody you know — yes ! you know him very 
well. It is my dear, dear friend — ^you know him 
very well. The bailiffs went to his hotel yester- 
day, and dragged him out of bed, and took him 
to prison. ! I shall go quite distracted. I want 
to sell my china to pay his debts. Where is Miss 
Twoshoesl" continued her ladyship, " why don't 
you answer T You do every thing to plague me." 
" Miss Grandison, Lady Bellair !" 
" To be sure ; it is her lover." 
'* Captain Arminel" 

" Have I not been telling you all this time. 
They have taken him to prisoji." 
Miss Temple rose and left the room. 
" Poor creature, she is quite shocked. She 
knows him, too," said her ladyship. "I am afraid 
he is quite ruined. There is a knock. I will make 
a subscription for him. I dare say it is my grand- 
son. He is very rich, and very good-natured." 

" My dear Lady Bellair," said Lord Montfort, 
rising, " favour me by not saying a word to any- 
body at present. I will just go into the next room 
to Henrietta. She is very intimate with the family, 
and very much affected. Now, my dear lady, I 
entreat you," continued his lordship, " do not say 
a word. Captain Armine has vei-y good friends, 
but do not speak to strangers. It will do harm, it 
will mdeed." 

"You are a good creature, you are a good crea- 
ture • go away." 

" Lady Frederick Berrington, my lady," an- 
nounced the page. 

"She is very witty, but very poor. It is no use 
speaking to her. I won't say a word. Go to Miss 
Thingabob — go, go." And Lord Montfort escaped 
into the saloon as Lady Frederick entered. 



Henrietta was lying on the sofa, her countenance 
was hid, she was sobbing convulsivel3'. 

" Henrietta," said Lord Montfort, but she did 
not answer. " Henrietta," he again said, " dear 
Henrietta! I will do whatever you wish." 

"Save him, save him!" she exclaimed. "O! 
you cannot save him ! And I have brought him 
to this ! Ferdinand I dearest Ferdinand ! Oil 
shall die !" 

" For God's sake, be calm," said Lord Montfort, 
there is nothing I will not do (or you, for him." 

" Ferdinand, Ferdinand, my own, own Ferdi- 
nand, ! why did we ever part 1 Why was I so 
unjust, so wicked 1 And he was true! I cannot 
survive his disgrace and misery. I wish to die !" 

" There shall be no disgrace, no misery," said 
Lord Montfort, "only, for God's sake, be calm. 
There is a chattering woman in the next room. 
Hush ! hush ! I tell you I will do every thing." 

"You cannot; you must not; you ought not! 

! Digby, kind, generous Digby ! Pardon what 

1 have said ; forget it ; but mdeed I am so wretched, 
I can bear this life no longer." 

" But, you shall not be wretclied, Henrietta ; you 
shall be happy. Everybody shall be happy. I am 
Armine's friend, I am indeed. I will prove it. On 
my honour I will prove that I am his best friend." 

" O ! Digby, will you, though I And yet you 
must not. You are the last person, you are in- 
deed. He is so proud ! Any thing from us will 
be death to him. Yes! I know him, he will die 
sooner than be under an obligation to either of us." 

," You shall place him under still greater obliga- 
tions than this," said Lord Montfort. " Yes ! 
Henrietta, if he have been true to you, j'ou shall 
not be false to him." 

"Digby, Digby, speak not such strange words. 
I am myself again. I left you that I might be 
alone. Best and most generous of men, I have 
never deceived you ; pardon the emotions that 
even you were not to witness." 

" Take my arm, dearest, let us walk into the 
garden. I v.'ish to speak to you. Do not tremble. 
I have nothing to say that is not for your happi- 
ness ; at all times, and under all circumstances, the 
great object of my thoughts." 

He raised Miss Temple gently from the sofa, and 
they walked away far from the observation of Lady 
Bellair, or the auricular powers, though they were 
not inconsiderable, of her lively guest. 



CHAPTER XX. 

IN WHICU FEHniNAND RECEIVES MORE THAIT OWE 
TISIT, AND FINDS THAT ADVERSITT HAS NOT 
aUITE DEPRIVEn HIM OF HIS FHIENDS. 

Ix the mean time morning broke upon the unfor 
tunate Ferdinand. He had forgotten his cares in 
sleep, and, when he woke, it was with some diffi- 
culty that he recalled the unlucky incident of yes- 
terday, and could satisfy himself that he was indeed 
a prisoner. But the bars of his bed-room window 
left him not very long in pleasing doubt. 

His friend, the little waiter, soon made his appear- 
ance. " Slept pretty well, sir ? Same breakfast 
as yesterday, sir ] Tongue and ham, sir ] Per- 
haps you would like a kidney instead of a devil 
It will be a little change." 

" ! I have no appetite." 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



679 



"It will come, sir. You a'n't uscJ to it. No- 
thing else to do here but to eat. Better try the 
kidney, sir ? Is there any thing you fancy 1" 
" I have made up my mind to go to jail to-day." 
'• Lord ! sir, don't think of it. Something will 
turn up, sir, lake my word." 

And, sooth to sav, the experienced waiter was 
not wrong. For bringing in tKc breakfast, followed 
I)}- an undorling with a great jiomp of plated covers, 
he int'ormed Ferdinand with a chuckle, that a gen- 
tleman was inquiring for him. " Told you your 
friends would come, sir." 

The gentleman was introduced, and Ferdinand 
beheld Mr. Glastonbury. 

" My dear Glastonbury," said Ferdinand, scarcely 
daring to meet his glance, " this is very kind, and 
yet I wished to have saved you this." 
"My poor child." said Glastonbury. 
" ! my dear friend, it is all over. This is a 
more bitter moment for you even than for me, kind 
friend. Tliis is a terrible termination of all your 
zeal and labours." 

"IN'ay!" said the old gentleman; "let us not 
think of any thing but the present. For what are 
you held in durance 1" 

" My dear Glastonbury, if it were only ten 
pounds, I could not permit you to pay it. So let 
us not talk of that. This must have happened 
sooner or later. It has come, and come unexpectedly ; 
but it nmst be borne, like all other calamities." 
" But you have friends, my Ferdinand." 
" Would that I had notl All that I wish now 
is, that I were alone in the world. If I could hope 
that my parents would leave me to myself, I should 
be comparatively easy. But when I think of them, 
and the injury I must do them, it is hell, it is hell." 
" I wish you would tell me your exact situation," 
said Mr. Glastonbury. 

'• Do not let us talk of it ; docs mv father know 
of this ]" 
" Not yet." 

" 'Tis well ; he may yet have a happy day. He 
will sell Armine." 

Glastonbury shook his head and sighed. " Is it 
60 bad V he said. 

" My dearest friend, if you will know the worst, 
take it. I am here for nearly three thousand 
pounds, and I owe at least ten more." 
" And they will not take bail 1" 
" Not for this debt ; they cannot. It is a judg- 
ment debt, the only one." 

"And they gave you no notice 7" 
" None : they must have heard somehow or 
other that my infernal marriage was off. They 
have all wailed for that And now that you see 
that allairs are past remedy, let us talk of other 
toj>ics, if you will be so kind as to remain half an 
hour in this dungeon. I shall quit it directly : I 
shall go to jail at once." 

Poor Glastonbury, he did not like to go, and yet 
it v\as a most melancholy visit What could they 
converse about ? Conversation, except on the 
interdicted subject of Ferdinand's affairs, seemed 
quite a mockery. At last Ferdinand said, " Dear 
Glastonbun,-, do not stay here ; it only makes us 
both unhappy. Send Louis with some clothes for 
me, and some books. I will let you know before 
I leave this place. LTpon reflection, I shall not do 
80 for two or three days, if I can stay as long. 
See my lawyer, not that he will do any thing, nor 
Ciii I expect him, but he may as well call and see 
me. Adieu, dear friend." 



{ Glastonbury was. about to retire, when Ferdi- 
' nand called him back. " This affair should be 
kept quiet," he said. " I told Louis to say I was 
out of town in Brook Street. I should be sorry 
were Miss Temple to hear of it, at least until after 
her marriage." 

Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, 
the loo-table, the hard sofa, the caricatures, which 
he hated even worse than his host's portrait, the 
Hebrew Bible, and the Racing Calendar. It seemed 
a year that he had been shut in this apartment, 
instead of a day, he had grown so familiar with 
every object. And yet the visit of Glastonbury 
had been an event, and he could not refrain from 
pondering over it. A sponging house seemed such 
a strange, such an unnatural scene, for such a cha- 
racter. Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower 
at Armine, and all its glades and groves, shining 
in the summer sun, and freshened in the summer 
breeze. What a contrast to this dingy, confined, 
close dungeon ! And was it possible, that he had 
wandered at will in that fair scene with a companion 
fairer? Such thoughts might well drive a man 
mad. \\'ith all his eavs, and all his disposition 
at present not to ext^raatc them, Ferdinand Ar- 
mine could not refrain from esteeming himself 
unlucky. Perhaps it is more distressing to believe 
ourselves unfortunate, than to recognise ourselves 
as imprudent. 

A fond mistress or a faithful friend — either of 
these are great blessings ; and whatever may be 
one's scrapes in life, either of these may well be 
sources of consolation. Ferdinand had a fond 
mistress once, and had Henrietta Temple loved 
him, why, he might struggle with all these calami- 
ties ; but that sweet dream was past. As for 
friends, he had none, at least he thought not. Not 
that he had to complain of human nature. He had 
experienced much kindness from mankuid, and 
many were the services he had received from kind 
acquaintance. With tlie recollection of Catch, to 
say nothing of Bond Sharpe, and above all Count 
Mirabel, fresh in his mind, he could not complain 
of his companions. Glastonbury was indeed a 
friend, but Ferdinand sighed for a friend of his own 
age, knit to him by the same tastes and sympathies, 
and capable of comprehenduig all his secret feel- 
ings ; a friend who could even whisper hope, and 
smile in a spunging house. 

The day wore away, the twilight shades were 
descending, Ferdinand became every moment more 
melancholy, when suddenly his constant ally, the 
waiter, rushed into the room. " My eye, sir, here 
is a regular nob inquiring for you. I told you it 
would be all right." 
"Who is itl" 
" Here he is coming up." 

Ferdinand caught Uie triumphant tones of .Mira- 
bel on the staircase. 

" Which is the room 1 Show me directly. Ah I 
Armine ! mon ami ! mon cher! Is this your frirnd- 
ship? To be in this cursed hole, and not send for 
me ! C'est une mauvaise plaisanterie to pretend 
we are friends ! How are you, good fellow, fine 
fellow, excellent Armine 1 If you were not here 
I would quarrel with you. There, go away, man." 
The waiter disappeared, and Count Mirabel seatc** 
himself on the hard sofa. 

" My dear fellow," continued the count, twirling 
the prctnest cane in the ^vorld, " this is a Ix^tise of 
you to be here and not send forme. Who has put 
you here .'" 



C80 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" My dear Mirabel, it is all up.'' 

" Bptise ! How much is it?" 

" I tell you I am done up. It has got about that 
the marriage is off, and Morris and Levison have 
nabbed me for all the arrears of my cursed annui- 
ties." 

"But how much !" 

" Between two and three thousand." 

The Count Mirabel gave a whistle. 

" I brought five hundred, which I have. We 
must get the rest somehow or the other." 

" My dear Mirabel, you are the most generous 
fellow in the world ; but I have troubled my friends 
too much. Nothing will induce me to take a sous 
from you. Besides, between ourselves, not my least 
mortification at this moment is some =£1500, which 
Bond Sharpe let me have the other day fur nothing 
through Catch." 

" Pah ! I am sorry about that, though, because 
he would have lent us this money. I will ask 
Bevil." 

" I would sooner die." 

" I will aak him for myself." 

" It is impossible." _ 

" We will arrange it; Twill tell you who will 
do it for us. He is a good fellow and immensely 
rich — it is Fitzwarrene ; he owes me great favours." 

" Dear Mirabel, I am delighted to see you. This 
is good and kind. I am so damned dull here. It 
quite gladdens me to see you ; but do not talk 
about money." 

'■ Here is £500 ; four other fellows at £500, we 
can manage it." 

" No more, no more ! I beseech you." 

" But you cannot stop here. Queldrole apparte- 
ment! Before Charley Doricourt was in Parlia- 
ment he was always in these sort of houses, but I 
got him out somehow or other ; I managed it. 
Once I bought of the fellow five hundred dozen of 
Champagne." 

" A new way to pay old debts, certainly," said 
Ferdinand, smiling. 

" I tell you, have you dined V 

" I was going to ; merely to have something to 
do." 

" I will stop and dine with you," said the count, 
ringing the bell, " and we will talk over affairs. 
Laugh, my friend; laugh, my Armine ; this is 
only a scene. This is life. What can we have 
for dinner, man 1 I shall dine here." 

" Gentleman's dinner is ordered, my lord ; quite 
ready," said the waiter. " Champagne in ice, my 
lord ]" 

" To be sure ; every thing that is good. Mon 
cher Armine, we shall have some fun." 

" Yes, my lord," said the waiter, running down 
stairs. " Dinner for the best drawing-room directly, 
green pea soup, turbot, beefsteak, roast duck, and 
boiled chicken, every thing that is good, Champagne 
in ice, two regular nobs !" 

The dinner soon appeared, and the two friends 
seated themselves. 

" Potagc admirable !" said Count Mirabel. " The 
best Champagne I ever drank in my life ! Mon 
brave, your health. This must be Charley's man, 
by the wine. I think we shall have him up ; he 
will lend us some money. Finest turbot I ever 
ate! I will give you some of the tins. Ah! you 
are glad to see me, my Armine, you are glad to 
tee your friend 1 Encore Champagne ! Good 
Armine ! excellent Armine! Keep up your spirits, 
I will manage sliese fellows. You must take some 



bifteak. The most tender bifteab I ever tast» t ! 
This is a fine dinner. Encore un verre ! Man, 
you may go — don't wait." 

" By Jove, Mirabel, I never was so glad to see 
anybody in my life. Now you are my liiend, I 
feel quite in spirits!" 

" To be sure ! always be in spirits. C'est un 
betise not be in spirits. Every thing is sure to go 
well. You will see how I will manage these 
fellows, and I will come and dine with you every 
day, until you are out — you shall not be here eight 
and forty hours. As I go home, I will stop at 
Mitchell's, and get you a novel by Paul de Kock. 
Have you ever read Paul de Kock's books '?" 

" Never !" said Ferdinand. 

" What a fortunate man to be arrested ! Now 
you can read Paul de Kock. You must absolutely 
read Paul do, Kock. C'est un betise, not to read 
Paul de Kock. By Jove, you are the most lucky 
fellow I know. You see you thought yourself very 
miserable in being arrested. 'Tis the finest thing in 
the world, for now you will read AFon Vuisiti Ray- 
mo7id. There are always two sides to a case." 

" I am content to believe myself veiy lucky in 
having such a friend as you," said Ferdinand : " but 
now, as these things are cleared away, let us talk 
over affairs. Have you seen Henrietta 1" 

" Of course, I see her every day." 

" I hope she will not hear of my crash, until she 
has married 1" 

" She will not, unless you tell her." 

" And when do you think she will be married V 

" When you please." 

" Cher ami ! point de moquerie !" 

" By Jove, I am quite serious," exclaimed the 
count. " I am as certain that you will marry hex 
as that we are in this damned spunging house." 

" Nonsense." 

" The very finest sense in the world. If you 
will not marry her, I will myself, for I am resolved 
that good Montfort shall not. It sh;dl never be 
said that I interfered without a result. V/hy, if 
she were to marry Montfort now, it would ruin my 
character. To marry Montfort, after all my trouble 
— dining with that good Temple, and opening the 
mind of that little Grandison, and talking fine 
things to that good dutchess — it would be a betise." 

" What an odd fellow you are, Mirabel !" 

" Of course ! Would yon have me like other 
people and not odd ? We will drink la belle Henri- 
etta! Fill up ! You will be my friend, when you 
are married, eh 1 Mon Armine, excellent gar^on ! 
How we shall laugh some day ; and then, this dinner, 
this dinner will be the best dinner we ever had !" 

" But why do you think there is the slightest 
hope of Henrietta not marrying Montfort 1" 

" Because my knowledge of human nature 
assures me that a young woman, very beautiful, 
very rich, with a very high spirit, and an only 
daughter, will never go and marry one man when 
she is in love with another, and that other one, my 
deal fellow, like you. You are more sure of getting 
her because she is engaged." 

What a wonderful thing is a knowledge of human 
nature! thought Ferdinand to himself. The count's 
knowledge of human nature is like my friend the 
waiter's experience. One assures me that I am 
certain to marry a woman because she is engaged to 
another person, and the other, diat it is quite clear 
my debts will be paid because they are so very 
large. 

The count remainiid with his friend unti' f\e «P 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



681 



o'clock, when everybody was lorkoil up. He 
invited himself to dine with him to-morrow, and 
promised that he should liavc a whole collection of 
French novels before he awoke. And assuring him 
over and over again that he looked upon him as ihc 
most fortunate of all his friends, and that if he 
broke tiic baidi at Crocky's to-night, v^'hich he 
fancied he should, he would send him two or three 
thousand pounds, at the same time he shook him 
hcarlily by the hand, and descended the staircase 
of the spunging house, humming l^'ive la baga- 
telle ! 



CHAPTER XXr. 

THE CllISIS. 

.^LTHoroii, when Ferdinand was once more 
left alone to his reflections, it did not appear to him 
that any thing had, indeed, occurred which should 
change his opinion of his forlorn lot, — there was 
something, nevertheless, very inspiring in the visit 
of his friend Count Mirabel. It did not seem to 
him, indeed, that he was one w-hit nearer extrication 
from his dinkulties than before ; and as for the 
wild hopes as to Henrietta, he dismissed them from 
his mind as the mere fantastic schemes of a sanguine 
spirit, and yet his gloom, by some process diflicult 
to analyze, had in great measure departed. It could 
not be the Champagne, for that was a remedy he 
had previously tried ; it was in some degree doubt- 
less the magic sympathy of a joyous temperament : 
but chiefly it might, perhaps, be ascribed to the 
flattering conviction that he possessed the heartv 
friendship of a man, wliose good-will vcas, in every 
view of the case, a ven,- enviable possession. With 
such a friend as Mirabel, he could not deem him- 
self quite so unlucky as in the morning. If he 
were fortunate, and fortunate so unexpectedly, in 
this instance, he might be so in others. A vague 
presentiment that he had seen the worst of life, 
came over him. It was equally in vain to justify 
the consoling conviction, or to resist it; and Fer- 
dinand Armine, although in a spunging house, fell 
asleep in better humour with his destiny than he 
had been for the last eight months. 

His dreams were charming : he fancied that he 
was at Armine, standing by the Barbary rose tree. 
It was moonlight ; it was, perhaps, a slight recol- 
lection of the night he had looked upon the garden 
from the window of his chamber, the night after he 
had first seen Henrietta. Suddenly Henrietta 
Temple appeared at his window, and waved her 
hand to him with a smiling face. He immediately 
[)lucked for her a flower, and stood with his oflcr- 
ing beneath a window. She was in a riding habit, 
and told him that she had just returned from Italy. 
He invited her to descend, and she disappeared ; 
but instead of Henrietta, there came forward from 
the old Place — the dutchess, who immediately in- 
quired whether he had seen his cousin ; and then 
her grace, by some confused process common in 
dreams, turned into Glastonbury, and pointed to the 
rose tree, where, to liis surprise, Katherine was 
walking with Lord Montfort. Ferdinand called 
out for Henrietta, but, as she did not appear, he 
entered the Place, where he found Count Mirabel 
dining by hunself, and just drinking a glass of 
Champagne. He complained to Mirabel that Hen- 
rietta had disajipeared, but his friend laughed at 
him, and said that, after such a long ride, leaving 
Italy only yesterday, he could scarcely expect to 



sec her. Satisfied with this explanation, Ferdi- 
nand joined the count at his banquet, and was 
woke from his sleep and his dream apparently by 
Mirabel drawing a cork. 

Ah! why did he ever wake 1 It was so real; 
he had seen her so plainly ; it was life ; it was the 
verj' smile she wore at Ducic ; that sunny glance, 
so full of joy, beauty, and love, which he could 
hvc to gaze on ! And now he was in prison, and 
she was going to be married to another. O! 
there are things in this world that may well break 
hearts ! 

The cork of Count Mirabel was, however, a sub- 
stantial sound — a gentle tap at his door : he answer- 
ed it, and the waiter entered his chamber. 

" Beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you ; only eight 
o'clock." 

" 'i'hen why the deuse do you disturb me?" 

" There h;is been another nob, sir. I said as 
how you were not up, and he sent his compliments, 
and said as how he would call in an hour, as he 
wished to see you particular." 

" Was it the count ?" 

"No, sir; but it wa^ a regular nob, sir, for he 
had a coronet on his can. But he would not leave 
his name." 

" Catch, of course," thought Ferdinand to him- 
self. "And sent by Mirabel. I should not wonder 
if, after all, they have broken the bank at Crocky's. 
Nothing shall induce me to take a ducat" 

However, Ferdinand thought fit to rise, and con- 
trived to descend to the best drawing-room about a 
quarter of an hour after the appointed time. To 
his extreme surprise he found Lord Montfort 

" My dear friend," said Lord Montfort looking a 
little confused, "I am afraid I have sadly disturbed 
you. But I could not contrive to find you yester- 
day until it was so late, that I was ashamed to knock 
them up here, and I thought, therefore, you would 
excuse this early call, as — as — as — I wished to see 
you very much indeed." 

" You are extremely kind," said Captain Ar- 
mine. " But really I verj' much regret that your 
lordship should have had all this trouble." 

" O ! what is trouble under such circumstances !" 
replied his lordship. "I cannot pardon myself for 
being so stupid as not reaching you yesterday. 1 
never can excuse myself for the inconvenience you 
have experienced." 

Ferdinand bowed, but was so perplexed that he 
could not say a word. 

" I hope, my dear Armine," said his lordship, 
advancing rather slowly, putting his arm within 
that of Ferdinand, and then walking up and down 
the room together — " I hope you will act at tliis 
moment towanis me as I would towards you, were 
our res])ective situations changed !" 

Ferdinand bowed, but said nothing. 

" Money, you know, my good fellow," continued 
Lord Montfort " is a disagreeable thing to talk 
about but there are circumstances which should 
deprive such conversation between us of any 
awkwardness which otherwise might arise." 

" I am not aware of them, my lord," said Ferdi- 
nand, " though your good feelings command my 
gratitude." 

" I think, upon reflection, we shall find that there 
are some," said Lord Montfort. " For the moment 
I will only hope that you will esteem those good 
feelings — and which, on my part, I am anxious 
should ripen into the most sincere and intimate 
friendship — as suflkient authority for my »)lacing 



682 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



your affairs in general, in that state, that they may 
in future never ileprive your family and friends of 
society neces^sary to their happiness." 

" My lord, I am sure that adversity has assumed 
a very graceful hue with me ; for it has confirmed 
my most amiable views of hiunan nature. I shall 
not attempt to express what I feel towards your 
lordship for this generous goodness, but I will say I 
am profoundly impressed with it; not the less, be- 
cause I cannot avail myself in the sUghtest degree 
of your offer." 

" You are too much a man of the world, I am 
sure, my dear Armine, to be offended with my 
frankness. I shall therefore si)eak without fear of 
misconception. It does appear to me that the offer 
which I have made you is worthy of a httle more 
consideration. You see, my dear friend, that you 
have placed yourself in such a situation that, how- 
ever you may act, the result cannot be one com- 
pletely satisfactory. 'Jlie course you should pursue, 
therefore — as, indeed, all conduct in this world 
should be — is a matter of nice calculation. Have 
you well considered the consequences of your rush- 
ing upon ruin 1 In the fij:|t place, your family will 
receive a blow from which even future prosperity 
may not recover them. Your family estate, already 
in a delicate position, may be irrecoverably lost ; 
the worldly consequences of such a vicissitude are 
very considerable ; whatever career you pursue, as 
long as you visibly possess Armine, you rank 
always among the aristocracy of the land, and a 
family that maintains such a position, however de- 
cayed, will ultimately recover. I hardiv know an 
exception to this rule ; I do not think, of all men, 
that you are most calculated to afford one." 

" What you say has long pressed itself upon us," 
said Captain Armine. 

" Then again," resumed Lord Montfort, " the 
feelings and even interests of your friends are to be 
considered. Poor Glastonbury ! I love that old 
man myself. The tall of Armine might break his 
heart ; he would not like to leave his tower. You 
see I know your place." 

" Poor Glastonbury !" said Ferdinand. 

"But above all," continued Lord Montfort, "the 
happiness, nay, the very health and life of your pa- 
rents, fi-om whom all is now concealed, would per- 
haps be the last and costliest sacriiices of your 
nashness." 

Ferdinand threw himself on the sofa, and cover- 
ed his face. 

" Yet all this misery, all these misfortunes, may 
be avoided, and you yourself become a calm and 
happy man, by — for I wish not to understate your 
view of the subject, Armine — putting yourself un- 
der a pecuniary obligation to me. A circumstance 
to be avoided in the common course of life, no 
doubt ; but is it better to owe me a favour and save 
your family estate, preserve your position, maintain 
your friend, and prevent the misery and probable 
death, of your parents, or be able to pass me in the 
street, in haughty silence if you please, with the 
consciousness that the luxury of your pride has 
been satisfied at the cost of every circumstance 
which makes existence desirable 1" 

" You put the case strongly," said Ferdinand ; 
' but no reasoning can ever persuade me that I am 
justified in borrowing j£i;3,0U0, which I can never 
repay." 

" Accept it, tlien." 

" 'Tis the same thing," said Ferdinand. 



I " I think not," said Lord Montfort ; " but why 
do you say ' never V " 

" Because it is utterly impossible that I ever 
can." 

" How do you know you may not marry a wo- 
man of innnense fortune V said Lord .Montfort. 
" Now, you seem to me exactly the sort of man who 
would marry an heiress." 

" You are thinking of my cousin," said Ferdi- 
nand. " I thought that you had discovered, or that 
you might have learned, that there was na real in- 
tention of our union." 

" No, I was not thinking of your cousin," said 
Lord Montfort, " though, to tell you the truth, I 
was once in hopes that you would marry her. 
However, that I well know is entirely out of the 
question, for I believe Miss Grandison will marry 
some one else." 

" Indeed !" exclaimed Ferdinand, a little agi- 
tated. " Well ! may she be happy ! She deserves 
happiness. I love Kate from the bottom of my 
heart. But who is the fortunate fellow V 

" 'Tis a lady's secret," said Lord Montfort 
" But let us return to our argument. To be brief; 
either, my dear Armine, you must be convinced by 
my reasoning, or I must remain here, a prisoner 
like yourself; for, to tell you the truth, there is a 
fair lady, before whom I cannot present myself, 
except in your company." 

Ferdinand changed countenance. There wanted 
but this to confirm his resolution, which had 
scarcely wavered. To owe his release to Henri- 
etta's influence with Lord Montfort, it was too de- 
grading. 

" My lord," he said, " you have touched upon 
a string that I had hoped might have spared me. 
This conversation must indeed cease. My mouth 
is sealed from giving you the reasons, which never- 
theless render it imperative on me to decline your 
generous offer." 

" Well, then," said Lord Montfort, " I must see 
if another can be more successful," and he held 
forth a note to the astonished Ferdinand, in Henri- 
etta's writing. It dropped from Ferdinand's hand 
as he took it. Lord Montfort picked it up, gave it 
him again, and walked to the other end of the room. 
It was with extreme difficulty that Ferdinand pre- 
vailed on himself to break the seal. The note was 
very short ; the hand tliat had traced the letters 
must have trembled. Thus it ran. 

" Dearest Ferdinand. 

Do every fhinn; that Dighy wishes. 
He is our best friend. God bltsa you ! 

Your faithful Henrietta. 
Dighy is going to marry Katherine — are not 
you glad?" 

Lord Montfort looked round ; Ferdinand Armine 
was lying senseless on the sofa. 

Our friend was not of a swooning mood, but we 
think the circumstances may excuse the weakness. 

As for the young nobleman, he immediately rang 
the bell for the little waiter, who, the moment he 
saw what had occurred, hurried away and rushed 
up stairs again with cold water, a bottle of brandy, 
and a blazing sheet of brown paper, which he de- 
clared was an infallible specific. By some means 
or other, Ferdinand was in time recovered, and the 
little waiter was fairly expelled, 

"My dear friend," said Ferdinand, in a faint 
voice, "I am the happiest man that ever lived; I 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



G83 



hope you wil! je, I am sure you will be — Katlierine 
is an angel. But I cannot speak. It is so strange." 

" My dear fellow, you really must take a glass of 
brandy," said Lord Montfort, " it is very strange 
certainly. But we are all very happy." 

"I hardly know where I am," said Ferdinand, 
after a few minutes, "am I really alive 1" 

"Let us think how we are to get out of this 
place. I sui>pose they will take my cheque. If not 
I must be oil"." 

"O! do not go," said Ferdinand. " If you go I 
shall not believe it is true. My dear Montfort, is it 
really true?" 

" Vou see, my dear Armine," said Lord Mont- 
fort, smiling, " it was fated that I should marry a 
lady you rejected. And to tell you the truth, the 
reason why I did no get to you yesterday, as I 
ought lo have done, was an unexpected conversa- 
tion I had with Miss Grandison. I really think 
this arrest was a most fortunate incident. It brought 
aTairs to a crisis. We should have gone on play- 
ir>g at cross-puqioses forever." 

He»e the little waiter entered again vi'ith a note 
and a packet. 

" The same messenger brought them 1" asked 
Ferdinand. 

'• No, sir ; the count's servant brought the note, 
and waits for an answer ; the packet came by an- 
other person." 

Ferdinand opened the note and read as fol- 
lows ; — 

Berkelei/ Square, half-past 7 morning. 

Mox ATiIl ! 

Best joke in the world ! I broke Crocky's bank 
three times. Of course ; I told you so ! Then 
went out and broke three or four small hells. I win 
jE 15,000. Directly I am awake I will send you 
the three thousand, and I will lend you the rest till 
your marriage. It will not be very long. I write 
tliis before I go to bed, that you may have it early. 
Adieu, chcr ami ! Votre affection, 

Dz Mirabel. 

" Mj' arrest was certainly the luckiest incident 
in the world," said Ferdinand, handing the note to 
Lord Montfort. " Mirabel dined here yesterday, 
and went and played on purpose to save me. I 
treated it as a joke. But what is this]" Ferdi- 
nand opened the packet. The handwriting was 
unknown to him. Ten bank notes of £300 each 
fell to the ground. 

"Do I live in fairy land?" he exclaimed. "Now 
who can this be 1 It cannot be you; it cannot be 
Mirabel 1 It is wondrous strange." 

" I think I can throw some light upon it," said 
Lord Montfort. " Katherine was mysteriously en- 
gaged with Glastonbury yesterday morning. They 
were out togc-ther, and I know they went to her 
lawyer's. 'J'here is no doubt it is Katherine. I 
think, under the circumstance of the case, we need 
have no delicacy in. availing ourselves of this fortu- 
nate remittance. It will at least save us time," said 
Lord Montfort, rinc;ing the bell. " Send your 
master here directly," he continued to the waiter. 

The sheriff's officer appeared ; the debt, the fees, 
all were paid, and the discharge duly taken. Fer- 
dinand in the mean time went up stairs to lock up 
his dressing-case, the little waiter rushed after him 
to pack his portmanteau. Ferdinand did not forget 
his zealous friend, who whis|)ered hope when all 
was black. The little waiter chuckled as he put 
his if guineas in his pocket. " You sec, sir," he 



said, " I was quite right. Knowcd your friends 
would stump down. FaP''y a. nob like you being 
sent to quod I Fiddlededee! You see, sir, you 
weren't used to it." 

And so Ferdinand Anpine bade adieu to the 
spunging he-use, where, in the course of less than 
eight-and-fo) ty hours, he had known alike despair 
and rapture. liOrd Montfort drove along with a 
gayety unusual to him. 

"Now, my dear Armine," he said, "I am not a 
jot the less in love with Henrietta than before. I 
love her as you love Katherine. What folly to 
marry a woman who was in love with another per- 
son ! I should have made her miserable, when the 
great object of all my conduct was to make her 
hapjiy. Now Katherine really loves me as much 
as Henrietta loves you. I have had this plan in 
my head for a long time. I calculated iinely ; I 
was convinced it was the only way to malie us all 
happy-. Apd now we shall all be related ; we shall 
be constantly together; and vvc will be brother 
friends." 

" Ah ! my dear Montfort," said Ferdinand, 
"what will Mr. Templ^say ]" 

" Leave him to me,' said Lord Montfort. 

"I tremble," said Ferdinand, "if it were possible 
to anticipate difficulties to-day." 

"I shall go to him at once," said Lord Montfort; 
" I am not fond of suspense myself, and now it is 
of no use. All will be right." 

" I trust only to you," said Ferdinand, " for I am 
as proud as Temple. He dislikes me, and he is too 
rich for me to bow down to him." 

" I take it upon myself," said Lord Montfort. 
" Mr. Temple is a calm, sensible man. You will 
laugh at me, but the truth is, with him it must 
be a matter of calculation : on the one hand, his 
daughter's happiness, a union with a family second 
to none in blood, alliances, and territorial position, 
and only wanting his wealth to revive all its splen- 
dour; on the other, his daughter broken-hearted, 
and a duke for his son-in-law. Mr. Temple is too 
sensible a man to hesitate, particularly when I re- 
move the greatest difhculty he must experience. 
Where shall I put you down ] — Berkeley Square 1" 



CHAPTER XXn. 

FERDINAND MEDITATES OVER IIIS GOOD FORTUNK. 

In moments of deep feeling, alike in sudden 
bursts of prosperity as in darker hours, man must 
be alone. It requires some self-communion to pre- 
pare ourselves for good fortune, as well as to en- 
counter difficulty, and danger, and disgrace. This 
violent and triumphant revolution in his prospects 
and his fortunes, was hardly yet completely com- 
prehended by our friend, Ferdinand Armine: and 
when he had left a note for the generous Mirabel, 
whose slumbers he would not disturb at this eai'ly 
hour, even with good news, he strolled along up 
Charles Street, and to the park, in one of those wild 
and joyous reveries in which we brooded over com- 
ing bliss, and create a thousand glorious conse- 
quences. 

It was one of those soft symmer mornings, which 
are so deliglitful in a great city. The sky was 
clear, the air was bland, the water sparkled in the 
sun, and the trees seemed doubly green and fresh 
to one who so recently had gazed only on iron bars, 
Ferdinand felt his freedom as well as his happiness 
He seated himself on a bench and thought of Hen 



684 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



rletta Temple ? he took out her note, and read it 
over and over again. It wa-^ indeed her handwrit- 
ing ! Restless with impending; joy, he sauntered 
to the bridge, and leaned over the balustrade, gaz- 
ing on the waters in charmed and charming va- 
cancy. How many incidents, how many charac- 
ters, how many feelings flitted over his memory ! 
Of what sweet and bitter experience did he not 
chew the cud I Four-and-twenfy hours ago, and 
he deemed himself the most miserable and forlorn 
of human beings, and now all the blessings of the 
world seemed showered at his feet? A beautiful 
bride awaited him, whom he had loved with intense 
passion, and who, he had thought, but an hour ago, 
was another's. A noble fortune, which would per- 
mit him to redeem his inheritance, and rank him 
among the richest commoners of the realm, was to 
be controlled by one, a few hours back a prisoner 
for desperate debts. The most gifted individuals in 
the land emulated each other in proving which en- 
tertained for him the most sincere affection. What 
man in the world had friends like Ferdinand Ar- 
mine ? Ferdinand Armine, who, two days back, 
deemed himself alone in the world ! The unswerv- 
ing devotion of Glastonbury, tlie delicate affection 
of his sweet cousin, all the magnanimity of his 
high-souled Montfort, and the generosity of the ac- 
complished Mirabel, passed before him, and won- 
derfully affected him. He could not flatter himself 
that he indeed merited such singular blessings ; and 
yet, with all his faults, which with him indeed were 
but the consequences of his fiery youth, Ferdinand 
had been faithful to Henrietta. His constancy to 
her was now rewarded. As for his friends, the fu- 
ture must prove his gratitude to them. Ferdinand 
Armine had great tenderness of disposition, and 
somewhat of a meditative mind ; schooled by ad- 
versity, there was little doubt that his coming career 
would justify his favourable destiny. 

It was barely a year since he had returned from 
Malta — but what an eventful twelvemonth ! Every 
thing that had occurred previously seemed of an- 
other life ; all his experience was concentrated in 
that wonderful drama that had commenced at Bath, 
and the last scene of which was now approaching, 
— the characters, his parents, Glastonbury, Kathe- 
rine, Henrietta, Lord Montfort, Count Mirabel, him- 
self and — Mr. Temple. 

Ah ! that was a name that a little disturbed him ; 
and yet he felt confidence now in Mirabel's pre- 
science ; he could not but believe that with time even 
Mr. Tem])Ie might be reconciled ! It was at this 
moment that the sound of military music fell upon 
his ear ; it recalled old days ; parades and guards 
at Malta — times when he did not know Henrietta 
Temple — times when, as it seemed to him now, he 
had never paused to think or moralize. That was 
a mad life. What a Neapolitan ball was his career 
then ! It was indeed dancing on a volcano. And 
now all had ended so happily ! ! could it indeed 
be true ] Was it not all a dream of his own crea- 
tion, while his eye had been fixed in abstraction on 
that bright and flowing river ? But then there was 
Henrietta's letter. He might be enchanted, but 
that was the talisman. 

In the present unsettled, though hopeful state 
of affairs, Ferdinand would not go home. He was 
resolved to avoid any explanations until he heard 
from Lord Montfort. He shrank from seeing 
(ilastonbury or his cousin. As for Henrietta, it 
seemed to him that he could never have the heart 
to meet her again, unless they were alone. Count 



Mirabel was the only person to whom he coul3 
aliandon his soul, and Count Mirabel was still in 
his first sleep. 

So Ferdinand entered Kensington Gardens, and 
walked in those rich glades and stately avenues. 
It seems to the writer of this history, that the inha- 
bitants of London are scarcely sufficiently sensible 
of the beauty of its environs. On every side the 
most charming retreats open to them, nor is there 
a metropolis in the world ■surrounded by so many 
rural villages, picturesque parks, and elegant casi- 
nos. With the exception of Constantinople, there 
is no city in the worl<l that can for a moment enter 
into competition with it. For himself, though in 
his time something of a rambler, he is not ashamed 
in this respect to confess to a legitimate cockney 
taste; and for his part he does not know where 
life can flow on more pleasantly than in sight of 
Kensington Gardens, viewing the silver Thames 
winding by the bowers of Rosebank, or inhaling 
from its terraces the refined air of graceful Rich ■ 
mond. 

In exactly ten minutes, it is in the power of 
every man to free himself from all the tumult of 
the world ; the pangs of love, the throbs of ambi- 
tion, the wear and tear of play, the recriminating 
boudoir, the conspiring club, the rattling hell ; and 
find himself in a sublime sylvan solitude superior 
to the cedars of Lebanon, and inferior only in ex- 
tent to the chestnut forests of Anatolia. It is Ken- 
sington Gardens that is almost the only place that 
has realized his idea of the forests of Spenser and 
Ariosto. What a pity, that instead of a princesa 
in distress we meet only a nursery maid ! But 
here is the fitting and convenient locality to brood 
over our thoughts, to project the great and to 
achieve the happy. It is here that we should get 
our speeches by heart, invent our impromptus, muse 
over the caprices of our mistresses, destroy a cabi- 
net, and save a nation. 

About the time that Ferdinand directed his steps 
from these green retreats towards Berkeley Square, 
a servant summoned Miss Temple to her father. 

"Is papa alone 1" inquired Miss Temple. 

" Only my lord with him," was the reply. 

" Is Lord Montfort here 1" said Miss Temple, 
a little surprised. 

" My lord has been with master these three 
hours," said the servant. 



CHAPTER XXm. 

FEUDINAND HECKIVES THE MOST INTERESTIXS 
INVITATION TO DINNEU EVER OFFERED TO 
HIM. 

"Is it not wonderful?" said Ferdinand, when 
he had finished his history to Count Mirabel. 

" Not the least," said the count : " I never knew 
any thing less surprising. 'Tis exactly what I said; 
'tis the most natural termination in the world." 

" Ah ! my dear Mirabel, you are a prophet ! 
What a lucky fellow I am to have such a friend as 
you!" 

" To be sure you are. Take some more coffee. 
What arc you going to do with yourself?" 

" I do not know what to do with myself. I 
really do not like to go anywhere until I have 
heard from Montfort. I think I shall go to my 
hotel." 

" I will drive you. It is now three o'clock," 

But, just at this moment, Mr. Bevil called o» 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



685 



the count, and another hour disappeared. When 
they were fairly in the cabriolet, there were so many 
places to call at, and so many persons to see, that 
it was nearly six o'clock when they reached the 
hotel. Ferdinand ran up stairs to sec if there was 
any letter from Lord Montfort. He found his 
lordship's card, and also Mr. Temple's. They had 
called about half an hour ago. There was also a 
note. These were its contents. 

Grosvenor Square, Thtirsdaij. 

Mr 71T.ATI Captaix AnMiNE : — I have prepared 
myself with (his note, as I fear I shall hardly be so 
fortiniate as to fmd you at home. It is only very 
recentiv that I have learned from Henrietta that 
vou were in London, and I much regret to hear 
that you have been so great an invalid. It is so 
long since we met, that I hope you will dine with 
us to-day ; and indeed I am so very anxious to see 
you, that I trust, if you have unfortunately made 
any other engagement, that you may yet contrive 
to gratify my request. It is merely a fanuly party : 
you will only meet our friends from St. James's 
Square, and your own circle in Brook Street. I 
have asked no one else, save old Lady Bellair, and 
your friend Count Mirabel ; and Henrietta is so 
anxious to secure his presence, that I shall be 
greatly obliged by your exerting your influence to 
induce him to accompany you, as I fear there is 
little hope of finding him free. 

Henrietta joins with me in kindest regards ; and 
I beg you to believe me. 

My dear Captain Armine, 

Most cordially yours, 

Pkliiam Temple. 

"Well, what is the matter?" said the count, 
when Ferdinand returned to the cabriolet, with the 
note in his hand, and looking very aeritated. 

" The strangest note !" said Ferdinand. 

"Give it me," said the count. "Do you call 
that strange 1 'Tis the most regular epistle I ever 
read. I expected it 'Tis an excellent fellow, that 
Mr. Temple : I will certainly dine with him, and 
send an excuse to that old Castlefyshe. A family 
party — all right; and he asks me — that is very 
proper. I should not wonder if it ended by my 
being your trustee, or your executor, or your first 
child's godfather. Ah ! that good Temple is a very 
sensible man. I told you I would settle this busi- 
ness for you. You should hear me talk to that 
good Tem[ile. I open his mind. A family party 
— it will he amusing ! I would not miss it for a 
thousand pounds. Besides, I must go to take care 
of you, for you will be committing all sorts of be- 
tines. I will give you one turn in the Park. Jump 
in ! You see I was right — I am always right. 
But I will confess to you a secret — I never was so 
right as I have been in the present case. 'Tis the 
best business that ever was !" 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

■OME ACCOUNT OF THE PAIITT, AXI) ITS RESULT. 

Is spite of the Count Mirabel's inspiring compa- 
niocship, it must be confessed that Ferdinand's 
heart failed him when he entered Mr. Temple's 
house. Indeed, had it not been for the encou- 
ragement and jolly raillery of his light-hearted 
friend, it is not quite clear that he would have suc- 
ceeded in ascending the staircase. A mist came 



over his vision as he entered the room ; variou 
forms, indeed, glanced before him, but he could 
distinguish none. He felt»so embarrassed, that he 
was absolutely miserable. It was Mr. Temple's 
hand that he found he had hold of — the calm de- 
meanour and bland tones of that gentleman some- 
what reassured him. Mr. Temple was very cordial, 
and Count Mirabel hovered about Ferdinand and 
covered his confusion. Then he recognised the 
dutchess and his mother — they were sitting together, 
and he went up and saluted them. He dared not 
look round for the lady of the house. Lady Bell- 
air was talking to his father. At last he heard his 
name called by the count. 

" Armine, i/io/i c/ier, see this beautiful work !" 
and Ferdinand advanced, or rather staggered, to a 
window, where stood the count before a group, and 
in a minute he clasped the hand of Henrietta Tem- 
ple. He could not speak. Katherine was sitting 
by her, and Lord Montfort standing behind her 
chair. But Count Mirabel never ceased talking, 
and with so nmch art and tact, that in a few mo- 
ments he had succeeded in produchig comparative 
ease on all sides. 

" I am so glad that you have come to-day," said 
Henrietta. Her eyes sparkled with a strange 
meaning, and then she suddenly withdrew her 
gaze. The rose of her cheek alternately glowed 
and faded. It was, indeed, a moment of great em- 
barrassment, and afterwards they often talked of it. 

Dinner, however, was soon announced and served, 
for Mirabel and Ferdinand had purposely arrived at 
the last moment. As the duke advanced to offer 
his arm to Miss Temple, Henrietta presented Fer- 
dinand with a flower, as if to console him for the 
separation. It was a round table — the dutchess 
and Lady Bellair sat on each side of Mr. Temple, 
the duke on the right hand of Miss Temple. 
Where tliere were so many members of the same 
family, it was difficult to arrange the guests. Fer- 
dinand held back, when Count Mirabel, who had 
secured a seat by Henrietta, beckoned to Ferdinand, 
and saying that Lady Bellair wished him to sit 
next to her, pushed Ferdinand, as he himself 
walked away, into the vacated seat. Henrietta 
caught the count's eye as he moved off — it was a 
very laughing eye. 

" I am glad you sit next to me," said Lady Bell- 
air to the count, " because you are famous. I love 
famous people, and you arc very famous. Why 
don't you come and see me 1 Now I have caught 
you at last, and you shall come and dine with me 
the 7th, 8th, or 9th of next month. I have dinner 
parties every day. You shall dine with me on the 
8th, for then Lady Frederick dines with me, and 
she will taste you. You shall sit next to Lady 
Frederick, and mind you flirt with her. I wonder 
if you are as amusing as your grandfather. I re- 
member dancing a minuet with him at Versailles 
seventy years ago." 

" It is well recollected in the family," said the 
count. 

'.' Ah ! you rogue !" said the little lady, chuck- 
ling, "you lie! I like a lie sometimes,'' she re- 
sumed, " but then it must be a good one. Do you 
know, I only say it to you, but I am half afraid 
lies are more amusing than truth." 

" Naturally," said the count, " because truth 
must in general be commonplace, or it would not 
be true." 

In the mean time Ferdinand was seated next to 
Henrietta Temple. He might be excused lor feel 
3M 



686 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



ing a little bewildered. Indeed, the wonderful [ 
events of the last four-and-twenty hours were 
enough to deprive any one of a complete command 
over his senses. What marvel then that he nearly 
carved his soup, almost ate his fish with a spoon, 
and drank water instead of wine ! In fact, he was 
labouring under a degree of nervous excitement, 
which rendered it quite impossible for him to ob- 
serve the proprieties of life. The presence of all 
these persons was insupportable to him. Five 
minutes alone with her in the woods of Ducie, and 
he would have felt quite reassured. Miss Temple 
rather avoided his glance ! She was, in truth, as 
agitated as himself, and talked almost entirely to 
the duke ; yet sometimes she tried to address him 
and say kind things. She called him Ferdinand ; 
that was quite sufficient to make him very happy, 
although he felt very awkward. He had been 
seated some minutes before he observed that Glas- 
tonbury was next to him. 

"I am so nervous, dear Glastonbury," said Fer- 
dinand, " that I do not think I shall be able to re- 
main in the room." 

" I have heard something," said Glastonburj', 
with a smile, " that makes me quite bold." 

" I cannot help fancying that it is all enchant- 
ment," said Ferdinand. 

" There is no wonder, my dear boy, that you are 
enchanted," said Glastonbury. 

" Ferdinand," said Miss Temple, in a low voice, 
"papa is taking wine with you." Ferdinand 
looked up and caught Mr. Temple's kind salute. 

" That was a very fine horse you were riding to- 
day," said Count Mirabel across the table to Miss 
Grandison. 

" Is it not very pretty 1 It is Lord Montfort's." 

" Lord Montfort's !" thought Ferdinand. " How 
strange all this seems !" 

" You were not of the riding party this morning," 
said his grace to Henrietta. 

" I have not been very well this day or two," 
said Miss Temple. 

" Well, I think you are looking particularly well 
to-day," replied the duke. " What say you. Cap- 
tain Armine?" 

Ferdinand blushed, and looked very confused at 
this appeal, and muttered some contradictory com- 
pliments. 

" O ! I am very well now," said Miss Temple. 

" You must come and dine with me," said Lady 
Bellair, to Count Mirabel, " because you talk well 
across a table. I want a man who talks well across 
a table. So few can do it without bellowing. I 
think you do it very well." 

" Naturally ;" replied the count. " If I did not do 
it well, I should not do it at all." 

" Ah ! you are very audacious," said the old lady. 
" I like a little impudence. It is better to be impu- 
dent than to be servile." 

•' Mankind are generally both," said the count. 

" I think they are," said the old lady. " Pray, is 
the old Duke of Thingabob alive 1 You know 
whom I mean : he was an emigre, and a relation 
of yours." 

" De Crillon. He is dead, and his son too." 

" He was a great talker," said Lady Bellair ; 
"but, then, he was the tyrant of conversation. 
Now, men were made to listen, as well as to 
talk." 

" Without doubt," said the count ; " for nature 
has given us tvi'o cars, but only one mouth." 

" You said that we might all be very happy," 



whispered Lord Montfort to Miss Grandison, 
" What think you — have we succeeded'?" 

" I think we all look very confused," said Miss 
Grandison. " What a fortunate idea it was, inviting 
Lady Bellair and the count ! They never could 
look confused." 

" Watch Henrietta," said Lord Montfort. 

" It is not fair ; how silent Ferdinand is !" 

" Yes, he is not quite sure whether he is Chris- 
topher Sly or not," said Lord Montfort. " What a 
fine embarrassment you have contrived, Miss Grandi- 
son !" 

" Nay, Digby, you were the author of it. I can- 
not help thinking of your interview with Mr. Tem- 
ple. You were prompt !" 

" Why, I can be patient, fair Katherine," said 
Lord Montfort; "but in the present instance I 
shrank from suspense, more, however, for others 
than myself. It certainly was a very singular inter- 
view." 

" And were you not very nervous 1" 

"Why, no: I felt convinced that the interview 
could only have one result. I thought of your 
memorable words ; I felt I was doing what you 
wished, and that I was making all of us happy. 
However, all honour be to Mr. Temple ! He has 
proved himself a man of sense." 

As the dinner proceeded, there was an attempt 
on all sides to be gay. Count Mirabel talked a 
great deal, and Lady Bellair laughed at what he 
said, and maintained her reputation for a repartee. 
Her ladyship had been for a long time anxious to 
seize hold of her gay neighbour, and it was very 
evident that he was quite a " favourite." Even 
Ferdinand grew a little more at his ease. He ven- 
tured to relieve the duke from some of his labours, 
and carve for Miss Temple. 

" What do you think of our family party 1" said 
Henrietta to Ferdinand, in a low voice. 

" I can think only of one thing," said Ferdinand, 

" I am so nervous,'' she continued, " that it 
seems to me I shall every minute give a scream and 
leave the room." 

" I feel exactly the same ; I am stupified." 

" Talk to Mr. Glastonbury ; drink wine, and 
talk. Look, look at your mother ; she is watching 
us. She is dying to speak to you, and so is some 
one else." 

At length the ladies withdrew, Ferdinand at- 
tended them to the door of the dining-room. Lady 
Bellair shook her fan at him, but said nothing. He 
pressed his mother's hand. " Good-by, cousin 
Ferdinand," said Miss Grandison in a laughing 
tone. Henrietta smiled upon him as she passed 
by. It was, indeed, a speaking glance, and touched 
his heart. The gentlemen remained behind much 
longer than was the custom in Mr. Temple's esta- 
blishment. Everybody seemed resolved to drink a 
great deal of wine, and Mr. Temple always ad- 
dressed himself to Ferdinand, if any thing were re- 
([uired, in a manner which seemed to recognise his 
responsible position in the family. 

Anxious as Ferdinand was to escape to the draw- 
ing-room, he could not venture on the step. He 
longed to speak to Glastonbury on the subject 
which engrossed his thoughts, but he had not cou- 
rage. Never did a man, who really believed himself 
the happiest and most fortunate person in the 
world, ever feel more awkward and more embar- 
rassed. Was his father aware of wliat had occurred ] 
He could not decide. Ap[iarently Henrietta ima 
giaed that his mother wae, by the observation which 



HENRIETTA TEMPLE. 



687 



bHc had made at dinner. Thrn his father must bo 
conscious of every thin"-. Kalherine must have told 
all. AV^erc Lord Motitfort's family in the secret 1 
But what use were these perplexing inquiries 7 It 
was certain that Henrietta was to be his bride, and 
that Mr. Temple had sanctioned their alliance. 
There could be no doubt of that, or why was he 
there? 

At length the gentlemen rose, and Ferdinand 
once more beheld Hcnrirtta Temple. As he en- 
tered, she was crossing the room with some music 
in her hand, she was a moment alone. He stopped, 
he would have spoken, but his lips would not move. 

" Well," she said, " are you happy ?" 

" My head wanders. Assure me that it is all 
true," he murmured, in an agitated voice. 

" It is all true ; — there, go and speak to Lady 
Armine. I am as nervous as you are." 

Ferdinand seated himself by his mother. 

" Well, Ferdinand," she said, " I have heard 
verj' wonderful things." 

" And I hope they have made you very happy, 
mother V 

" I should, indeed, be both unreasonable and 
ungrateful if they did not ; but I confess to you, my 
dear child, I am even as much astonished as grati- 
fied." 

" And my father, he knows every thing?" 

" Every thing. But we have heard it only from 
Lord Montfort and Katherine. We have had no 
communication from any one else. And we meet 
here to-day in this extraordinary manner, and but 
for them we should be completely in the dark." 

" And the dutchess.. do they kiiow all ?" 

" I conclude so." 

" 'Tis vcrj' strange, is it not 1" 

" I am quite bewildered." 

" O mother ! is she not beautiful ? Do you not 
love her ? Shall we not all be the happiest family 
in the world 1" 

" I think we ought to be,"'dear Ferdinand. But 
I have not recovered from my astonLshment. Ah ! 
mv child, why did you not tell me when you were 
ill'?" 

" Is it not for the best that affairs should have taken 
the course they have done ? But you must blame 
Kate as well as me ; dear, dear Kate." 

" I think of her," said Lady Armine, " I hope 
Kate will be happy." 

" She must be, dear mother; only think what an 
excellent person is Lord Montfort." 

" He is indeed an excellent person," said Lady 
Armine, " but if I had been engaged to you, Fer- 
dinand, and it ended by my marrjing Lord Mont- 
fort, I should be very disappointed." 

" The dutchess would be of a different opinion," 
said Ferdinand, smiling. 

Lady Bellair, who was sitting on a sofa opposite, 
and had hitherto been conversing with her grace, 
who had now quitted her and joined the musicians, 
began shaking her fan at Ferdinand in a manner 
which si:^nified her extreme desire that he should 
approach her. 

" Well, Lady Bellair," said Ferdinand, Beating 
himself by her side. 

" I am in the secret, you know," said her lady- 
ehip. 

" What secret. Lady Bellair ?' 

"Ah! you will not commit yourself. Well, I 
like discretion. I have always seen it from the first. 
No one has worked for you as I have. I like true 
love, and I have left her all my china in my will." 



"I am sure the legatee is very fortunate, who- 
ever she may be." 

" Ah ! you rogue, you know very well whom I 
mean. You are saucy : you never had a warmer 
friend than myself. I always admired you : you 
have a great many good qualities and a great many 
bad ones. You always were a little saucy. But I 
like a little spice of sauciness; I think it takes. I 
hear you are great friends with Count Thingabob 
— the count, whose grandfather I danced with 
seventy years ago. That is right ; always have dis- 
tinguished friends. Never have fools for friends ; 
they are no use. I suppose he is in the .secret too ?" 

" Really, Lady Bellair, I am in no secret. You 
quite excite my curiosity." 

" Well, I can't get any thing out of you, I see 
that. However, it all happened at my house, that 
can't be denied. I tell you what I will do; 1 will 
give you all a dinner, and then the world will do 
quite certain that I made the match." 

Lady Armine joined them, and Ferdinand 
seized the opportunity of effecting his escape to the 
piano. 

" I suppose Henrietta has found her voice again, 
now," whispered Katherine to her cousin. 

" Dear Katherine, really if you are so malicious, 
I shall punish you," said Ferdinand. 

" Well, the comedy is nearly concluded. We 
shall soon join hands, and the curtain will drop." 

" And I hope in your opinion, not an unsuccess- 
ful performance." 

" Why, I certainly cannot quarrel with the ca- 
tastrophe," said Miss Grandison. 

In the mean time the Count Mirabel had ob- 
tained possession of Mr. Temple, and lost no op- 
portunity of confirniingevery favourable view which 
that gentleman had been influenced by Lord Mont- 
fort to take of Ferdinand and his conduct. Mr. 
Temple was quite convinced that his daughter 
must be very happy, and that the alliance, on the 
whole, would be productive of every satisfaction that 
he had ever anticipated. 

The evening drew on ; carriages were announced ; 
guests retired ; Ferdinand hngercd ; Mr. Temple 
was ushering Lady Bellair, the last guest, to her 
carriage ; Ferdinand and Henrietta were alone. 
They looked at each other, their eyes met at the 
same moment, there was but one mode of satisfac- 
torily terminating their mutual embarrassments — 
they sprang into each others' arms. Ah ! that was 
a moment of rapture, sweet, tiirilling, rapid ! '['here 
was no need of words, their souls vaulted over 
all petty explanations ; upon her lips, her choice 
and trembling lips, he scaled his gratitude and his 
devotion. 

The sound of footsteps was hoard, the agitated 
Henrietta made her escape by an opposite entrance. 
Mr. Temple returned, he met Captain Armine with 
his hat, and inquired whether Henrietta h.id retired ; 
and when Ferdinand answered in the affirmative, 
wished him good night, and begged him to breakfast 
with them to-morrow. 



CHAPTER X.YV. 

WHICn, THOCGU FINAL, IT IS HOPED WILL PRGVI 
SATISFACTOnT. 

OoR kind reader will easily comprehend that 
from the happy dav we have just noticed, Fer- 
dinand Armine was seldom absent from Grosvcnor 



688 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Square, or from the society of Henrietta Temple. 
They both of them were so happy that they soon 
overcame any little embarrassment which their 
novel situation might first occasion them. In this 
effort, however, they were g-reatly encouraged by 
the very calm demeanour of Lord Montfort, and the 
very Complacent carriage of his intended bride. 
The world wondered and whispered, marvelled and 
hinted, but nothing disturbed Lord Montfort, and 
Katherine had the skill to silence raillery. Al- 
though it was settled that the respective marriages 
should take place as soon as possible, the settlements 
necessarily occasioned considerable delay. By the 
apj)lication of his funded property, and by a consid- 
erable charge upon his Yorkshire estates, Mr. Tein- 
ple paid off all the mortgages on Armine, which, 
with a certain life-charge in his own favour, was 
settled in strict entail upon the issue of his daughter. 
A certain portion of the income was to be set aside 
annually to complete the Castle, and until that edi- 
fice was ready to receive them, Ferdinand and 
Henrietta were to live with Mr. Temple, principally 
at Ducie, which Mr. Temple had now purchased. 

In spite, however, of the lawyers, the eventful 
day at length arrived. Both happy couples were 
married at the same time and in the same i)lace, 
and Glastonbury performed the ceremony. Lord 
and Lady Montfort immediately departed for a seat 
in Sussex, belonging to his father; Ferdinand and 
Henrietta repaired to Armine : while Sir Ratcliffe 
and his lady paid a visit to Mr. Temple in York- 
shire, and Glastonbury found himself once more in 
his old quarters in Lancashire with the duke and 
dutchess. 

Once more at Armine ; wandering once more to- 
gether in the old plaisance — it was so strange and 
sweet, that both Ferdinand and Henrietta almost 
began to believe that it was well that the course of 
their tnie love had for a moment not run so 
smoothly as at present, and they felt that their ad- 
versity had rendered them even more sensible of 
their illimitable bliss. And the woods of Ducie, 
they were not forgotten ; nor least of all, the old 
farmhouse that had been their shelter. Certainly 
they were the happiest people that ever lived, and 
though some years have now passed since these 
events took place, custom has not sulUed the 
brightness of their love. They have no cares now, 
and yet both have known enough of sorrow to make 
them rightly appreciate their unbroken and un- 
bounded blessings. 

When the honeymoon was fairly over, for they 
would neither of them bate a jot of this good old- 
fashioned privilege, Sir Ratclilfe and Lady Armine 
returned to the Place, and Glastonbury to his tower; 
while Mr. Temple joined them at Ducie, accom- 
panied by Lord and Lady Montfort. The autumn also 
brought the Count Mirabel to slaughter the phea- 
sants, gay, brilliant, careless, kind-hearted as ever. 
He has ever remained one of Ferdinand's most 
cherished friends — indeed I hardly think that there 
is any individual to whom Ferdinand is more at- 
tached. And after all, as the count often observes, 
if it had not been for Ferdinand's scrapes they 
would not have known each other. Nor was Lord 
Catchimwhocan passed over. Ferdinand Armine 
was not the man to neglect a friend or to forget a 
good service ; and he has conferred on that good- 
natured, though somewhat improvident young no- 
bleman, more substantial kindness than the hospi- 
tality which is always cheerfully extended to him. 
When Ferflinand repaid Mr. Bond Sharpe his fifteen 



hundred pounds, he took care that the interest 
should appear in the shape of a golden vase, which 
is now not th.e least gorgeous ornament of that 
worthy's splendid sideboard. The deer have ap- 
peared too again in the park of Armine, and many 
a haunch smokes on the epicurean table of Cleave- 
land Row, 

Lady Bellair is as Hvely as ever, and bids fair to 
amuse society as long as the famous Countess of 
Desmond, 

" Who lived to the age of ahiindrPil and ten, 
And died I'v a fall from a ciierry-lree then ; 
What a frisky old girl !" 

In her annual progresses through the kingdom she 
never omits laying every establishment of the three 
families, in whose fortunes she was so unexpectedly 
mixed up, under contribution. As her ladyship 
persists in asserting, and perhaps now really be- 
lieves, that both matches were the result of her 
matrimonial craft, it would be the height of ingra- 
titude if she ever could complain of the want of a 
hearty welcome. 

In the daily increasing happiness of his beloved 
daughter, Mr. Temple has quite forgotten any little 
disappointment which he might once have felt at 
not having a duke for his son-in-law, and such a 
duke as his valued friend, Lord Montfort. But 
Ferdinand Armine is blessed with so sweet a tem- 
per, that it is impossible to live with him and not 
love him ; and the most cordial intimacy and confi- 
dence subsist between the father of Henrietta Tem- 
ple, and his son-in-law. From the aspect of public 
affairs also, Mr. Temple, though he keeps this thought 
to himself, is inclined to believe that a coronet may 
yet grace the brow of his daughter, and that the 
barony of Armine may be revived. Soon after 
the passing of the memorable act of 1828, Lord 
Montfort became the representative of his native 
county, and a very active and influential mem- 
ber of the House of Commons. After the re- 
form, Mr. Armine was also returned for a borough 
situated near the duke's principal seat, and although 
Lord Montfort and Mr. Armine both adhere to the 
whig politics of their families, they have both also, 
in the most marked manner, abstained from voting 
on the appropriation clause ; and there is little doubt 
that they will ultimately support that British and 
national administration which Providence has 
doubtless in store for these outraged and distracted 
realms. At least this is Mr. Temple's more than 
hope, who is also in the House, and acts entirely 
with Lord Stanley. 

The Montforts and the younger Armines contrive, 
through mutual visits and a town residence during 
the session, to pass the greater part of their lives 
together ; they both honestly confess that they are 
a little in love with each other's wives, but this only 
makes their society more agreeable. The family 
circle at Armine has been considerably increased of 
late ; there is a very handsome young Armine who 
has been christened Glastonbury, a circumstance 
which repays the tenant of the tower for all his 
devotion, and this blending of his name and 
memory with the illustrious race that has so long 
occupied his thoughts and hopes is to him a source 
of constant self-congratulation. The future Sir 
Glastonbury has also two younger brothers, quite 
worthy of the blood, Temple and Digby ; and the 
most charming sister in the world, with large violet 
eyes and long dark lashes, who is still in arms, and 
who bears the hallowed name of Henrietta. And 
thus ends our Love Stohy. 



VE N E T I A. 



€89 



».7 



VENETIA. 



" Is thy face like thy mother's,my fair child V 

"The child of love, thoueh born in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion." t 



TO LORD LYNDHURST. 

Is happier hours, when I first mentioned to you 
the idea of this work, it was my intention, while 
inscribing it with your name, to have entered into 
some details as to the principles which had 
guided me in its composition, and the feelings 
with which I had attempted to shadow forth, 
though as " in a glass darkly," two of the most 
renowned and refined spirits that have adorned 
these our latter days. But now, I will only ex- 
press a hope that the time may come when in these 
pages you may find some relaxation from the cares 
and some distraction from the sorrows, of exist- 
ence, and that you will then receive this dedication 
as a record of my respect and my affection. 

May, 1837. 



CHAPTER I. 

So?rE ten years before the revolt of our Ame- 
rican colonies, there was situate in one of our mid- 
land counties, on the borders of an extensive forest, 
an ancient hall that belonged to the Herberts, but 
which, though ever well preserved, had not until 
ihat period been visited by any member of the fa- 
mily, since the exile of the Stuarts. It was an 
edifice of considerable size, built of gray stone, 
much covered with ivy, and placed upon the last 
gentle elevation of a long ridge of hills, in the cen- 
tre of a crescent of woods that far overtopped its 
clusters of tall chimneys and turreted gables. Al- 
though the principal chambers were on the first 
story, you could nevertheless step forth from their 
windows on a very broad terrace, whence you de- 
scended into the gardens by a double flight of 
broad stone steps, exactly in the middle of its 
length. These gardens were of some extent, and 
filled with evergreen shnibbcries of remarkable 
overgrowth, while occasionally turfy vistas, cut in 
the distant woods, came sloping down to the south, 
as if they opened to receive the sunbeam that 
greeted the genial aspect of the mansion. The 
groundfloor was principally occupied by the hill 
itself, which of course was of great dimensions, 
hung round with many a family portrait and ru- 
ral picture, furnished with long oaken seats, co- 
vered with scarlet cushions, and ornamented with 
a parti-coloured floor of alternate diamonds of | 



black and white marble. From the centre of tha 
roof of the mansion, which was always covered 
with pigeons, rose the clock-tower of the chapel, 
surmounted by a vane; and, before the mansion 
itself, was a large plot of grass, with a fountain in 
its middle, surrounded by a hedge of honeysuckle. 

This plot of grass was separated from an ex- 
tensive park, that opened in front of the hall, by 
very tall iron gates, on each of the pillars of which 
was a lion rampant, supporting the escutcheon of 
the family. The deer wandered in this enclosed 
and well-wooded demesne, and about a mile firom 
the mansion, in a direct line with the iron gates, 
was an old-fashioned lodge, which marked the 
limit of the park, and from which you emerged 
into a veiy fine avenue of limes, bounded on both 
sides by fields. At the termination of this avenue 
was a strong but simple gate, and a woodman's 
cottage ; and then spread before you a vast land- 
scape of open, wild lands, which seemed on one 
side interminable, while on the other the eye rested 
on the dark heights of the neighbouring forest 

This picturesque, and very secluded abode, was 
the residence of Lady Annabel Herbert and her 
daughter, the young and beautiful Venetia, a child, 
at the time when our history commences, of very 
tender age. It was nearly seven years, since Lady 
Annabel and her infant daughter had sought the 
retired shades of Chcrburj', which they had never 
since quitted. They lived alone and for each 
other; the mother educated her child, and the 
child interested her mother by her affectionate dis- 
position, the development of a mind of no ordinary 
promise, and a sort of captivating grace and charm- 
ing playfulness of temper, which were extremely 
delightful. Lady Annabel was still young and 
very lovely. That she was wealthy her establish- 
ment clearly denoted, and she was a daughter of 
one of the haughtiest houses in the kingdom. It 
was strange then that with all the brilliant acci- 
dents of birth, and beauty, and fortune, she should 
still, as it were in the morning of her life, have 
withdrawn to this secluded mansion, in a county 
where she was personally unknown, distant from 
the metropolis, estranged fi-om all her own rela- 
tives and connexions, and without the resource of 
even a single neighbour, for the only place of im- 
portance in her vicinity was iminhabited. The 
general impression of the villagers was that Lady 
Annabel was a widow ; and yet there were Bomo 
speculators who would shrewdly remark, tliat hei 

C9i 



698 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



ladyship had never worn weeds, although, if Vene- 
tia were her only child, her husband could not have 
heen long dead when she first arrived at Cherbury. 
On the whole, however, these good people were 
not very inqul«itive, and it was fortunate for theni ; 
for there was little chance and slight means of 
gratifying their curiosity. The wliole of the esta- 
bhshinent had been formed at Cherbury, with the 
exception of her ladyship's waiting-woman, Mis- 
tress Pauncsfort, and she was by far too great a per- 
sonage to condescend to reply to any question which 
was not made to her by Lady Amiabel herself. 

The beauty of the young Venetia was not the 
hereditary gift of her beautiful mother. It was 
not from Lady Annabel thai Venetia Herbert had 
derived those seraphic lod^ that fell over her 
shoulders and down her rfeck in golden streams, 
nor that clear gray eye even whose childish glance 
might perplex the gaze of manhood, nor that little 
aquiline nose, that gave a haughty expression to 
a countenance that had never yet dreamed of 
pride, nor that radiant complexion, that dazzled 
with its brilliancy, like some winged minister of 
Raftael or Murillo. The peasants that passed the 
lady and her daughter in their walks, and who 
blessed her as they passed, for all her grace and 
goodness, often marvelled why so fair a mother 
and so fair a child should be so dissimilar, that 
one indeed might be compared to a starry night, 
and the other to a sunny day. 



CHAPTER n. 

It was a bright and soft spring morning: the 
dewy vistas of Cherbury sparkled in the sun, the 
cooing of the pigeons sounded around, the jjea- 
cocks strutted about the terrace and spread their 
tails with infinite enjoyment and conscious pride, 
and Lady Annabel came forth with her little 
daughter, to breathe tlie renovating odours of the 
season. The air was scented with the violet, tufts 
of dafibdils were scattered all about, and, though 
the snowdrop had vanished, and the primr£)ses 
were fast disappearing, their wild and shaggy 
leaves still looked picturesque and glad. 

"Mamma," said the little Veiifitia, "is this 
spring 1" 

" This is spring, my child," replied Lady An 
nabel, " beautiful spring ! The year is young and 
happy, like my little girl." 

" If Venetia be like the spring, mamma is like 
the summer !" replied the child ; and the mother 
smiled. "And is not the summer young and 
happy 1" resumed Venetia. 

" It is not quite as young as the spring," said 
Lady Annaliel, looking down with fondness on 
her little companion, " and I fear, not quite as 
happy." 

'■ But it is as beautiful " said Venetia. 

" It is not beauty that makes us happy," said 
Lady Annabel ; " to be happy, my love, we must 
be good." 

"Am I goodi" said Venetia. 

" Very good," said Lady Annabel. 

" I am very happy," said Venetia ; " I wonder 
whether, if I be always good, I shall always be 
happy." 

" You cannot be happy without being good, my 
love ; but happiness depends upon the will of God. 
If you be good he will guard over you." 



" WImc can make me unhappy, mamma V in- 
quired Venetia. 

" An evil conscience, my love." 

"Conscience!" said Venetia; "what is con- 
science V 

" You are not yet quite old enough to under- 
stand," said Lady Annabel, " but some day I will 
teach you. Mamma is now going to take a long 
walk, and Venetia shall walk with her." 

So saj'ing, the Lady Annabel summoned Mis- 
tress Pauncefort, a gentlewoman of not more dis- 
creet years than might have been expected in the 
attendant of so yoimg a mistrcp&-; but one well 
qualified for her oifice, very js<(SIous and devoted, 
somewhat consequential,^ifnll of energy and deci- 
sion, capable of directing, fond of giving advice, 
and habituated to command. The Lady Annabel, 
leatling her daughter, and accompanied by her 
faithful blood-hound, Marmion, ascended one of 
those sloping vistas that we have noticed. Mistress 
Pauncefort following them about a pace behind, 
and after her a groom, at a very respectful dis- 
tance, leading Miss Herbert's donkey. 

They soon entered a winding path through the 
wood, which was the background of their dwelling. 
Lady Annabel was silent, and lost in her reflec- 
tions ; Venetia plucked the beautiful wild hyacinths 
that then abounded in the wood, in such profusion 
that their beds spread like patches of blue enamel, 
and gave them to Mistress Pauncefort, who, as the 
collection increased, handed them over to the groom; 
who, in turn, deposited them in the wicker seat 
prepared for his young mistress. The bright sun 
bursting through the tender foliage of the year, the 
clear and genial air, the singing of the birds, and 
the wild and joyous exclamations of Venetia, as 
she gathered her flowers, made it a cheerful party, 
notwithstanding the silence of its mistress. 

When they emerged from the wood, they found 
themselves on the brow of the hill, a small down 
over which Venetia ran, exulting in the healthy 
breeze which, at this exposed height, was strong 
and fresh. As they advanced to the opposite de- 
clivity to that which they had ascended, a wide and 
peculiar landscape opened before them. The ex- 
treme distance was formed by an undulating ridge 
of lofty and savage hills ; nearer than these were 
gentler elevations, partially wooded ; and at their 
base was a rich valley, its green meads fed by a 
clear and rapid stream, which glittered in the sun 
as it coursed on, losing itself at length in a wild 
and sedgy lake that formed the furthest limit of a 
widely spreading park. In the centre of this park, 
and not very remote from the banks of the rivulet, 
was an ancient gothic building, that had once been 
an abbey of great repute and wealth, and had not 
much suffered in its extcriiihl character, by having 
served for nearly two centuries and a half as the 
principal dwelling of an old baronial family. 

Descending the downy hill, that here and there 
was studded with fine old trees, ein-iching by their 
presence the view from the abbey. Lady Annabel 
and her party entered the meads, and, skirting the 
lake, approached the venerable walls without cross- 
iug the stream. 

It was diificult to conceive a scene more silent 
and more desolate. There was no sign of life, and 
not a sound save the occasional cawing of a rook. 
Advancing towards the abbey, they passed a pile 
of buildings that, in the sununer, might be screened 
from sight by the foUage of a group of elms. to# 



VENETIA. 



6&3 



Bcanty at present to veil their desolation. Wide 
gaps in tlic roofs proved that the vast and dreary 
Btables were no longer used ; there were empty 
granaries, nhose doors had fallen from their hinges ; 
the gate of the court-yard was prostrate on the 
ground ; and the silent clock that once adorned the 
cupola over the noble entrance arch, had long lost 
its index. Even the litter of the yard appeared 
dusty and gray with age. You felt sure no human 
foot could have disturbed it for years. At the back 
of these buildings were nailed the trophies of the 
gamekeeper; hundredsof wild cats, dried to black- 
ness, stretched their downward heads and legs from 
the niouldrriiig w all ; hawks, magpies, and jays 
hung in tattered remnants ; but all gray, and even 
green, with age ; and the heads of birds in plente- 
ous rows, nailed beak upward, and so dried and 
shrivelled by the suns and winds and frosts of 
many seasons, that their distinctive characters were 
lost. 

" Do you know, my good Pauncefort," said Lady 
Annabel, " that I have an odd fancy to-day to force 
an entrance into the old abbey. It is strange, fond 
as I am of this walk, that we have never yet enter- 
ed it. Do you recollect our last vain efforts 1 
Shall we be more fortunate this time, think you ?" 

Mistress Pauncefort smiled and smirked, and 
advancing to the old gloomy porch, gave a very 
determined ring at the bell. Its sound might be 
heard echoing through the old cloisters, but a 
considerable time elapsed without any other effect 
being produced. Perhaps Lady Annabel would 
have now given up the attempt, but the little 
Venetia expressed so much regret at the disap- 
pointment, that her mother directed the groom to 
reconnoitre in the neighbourhood, and sec if it 
were possible to discover any person connected 
with the mansion. 

"I doubt our luck, my lady," said Mistress 
Pauncefort, " for they do say that the abbey is quite 
uninhabited." 

" 'Tis a pity," said Lady Annabel, " for with all 
its desolation, there is something about the spot 
which ever greatly interests me." 

" Mamma, why docs no one hve here 1" said 
Venetia. 

" The master of the abbey lives abroad, my 
child." 

" Why does he, mammal" 

" Never ask questions. Miss Venetia," said Mis- 
tress Pauncefort, in a hushed and solemn tone ; " it 
is not pretty." Lady Annabel had moved away. 

The gronm returned, and said he had met a very 
old man, picking water-cresses, and he was the 
only person who lived in the abbey, except his 
wife, and she was bed-ridden. The old man had 
promised to admit them when he had completed 
his task, but not before, and the groom feared it 
would be some time before he arrived. 

" Come Pauncefort, rest yourself on this bench," 
said Lady A nnal)el, seating herself in the porch; 
"and A'enetia, my child, come iiithcr to me." 

"Manmia," said Venetia, "what is the name of 
the gentleman to whom this abbey belongs?" 

" Lord Cadurcis, love." 

"I should like to know why Lord Cadurcis 
lives abroad V said Venetia musingly. 

" There are many rca.«ions why persons may 
choose to quit their native country, and dwell in 



another, my love," said Lady Annabel, very quietly; 
" some change the climate for their health." 

" Did Lord Cadurcis, mamma!" asked Venetia. 

" I do not know Lord Cadurcis, dear, or any 
thing of him, except that he is a verj' old man, 
and has no family." 

At this moment there was a sound of bars and 
bolts withdrawn, and the falling of a chain, and at 
length the massy door slowly opened, and the old 
man appeared and beckoned to them to enter. 

" 'Tis eight years, come ]\[artinmass, since I 
opened this door," said the old man, " and it sticks 
a bit. You must walk about by yourselves, for I 
have no breath, and my mistress is bed-ridden. 
There, straight dcnm the cloister, you can't miss 
your way ; there ^^bt much to see." 

The interior of t^Fabbey formed a quadrangle, 
surrounded by the clcSstcrs, and in this inner court 
was a very curious fountain, carved with exquisite 
skill by some gothic artist in one of those capricious 
moods of sportive invention, that ])roduccd those 
grotesque medleys for which the feudal sculptor 
was celebrated. Not a sound was heard except 
the fall of the fountain and the light echoes that 
its voice called up. 

The staircase led Lady Annabel and her party 
through several small rooms, scantily garnished 
with very ancient furniture, in some of which 
were portraits of the family, until they at length 
entered a noble saloon, once the refecton,' of tlio 
abbey, and not deficient in splendour, though sadly 
soiled and worm-eaten. It was hung with tapestry 
representing the Cartoons of Raffael, and tlieir 
still vivid colours contrasted with the faded hang- 
ings and the' dingy damask, of the chairs and 
sofas. A mass of Cromweilian armour was hud- 
dled together in a comer of a long monkish gal- 
lery, with a standard, encrusted with dust, and a 
couple of old drums, one broken. From one of 
the windows they had a good view of the old 
walled garden, which did not tempt them to enter 
it ; it was a wilderness, the walks no longer dis- 
tinguishable from the rank vegetables of the once 
cultivated lawns ; the terraces choked up with the 
unchecked shrubberies ; and here and there a 
leaden statue, a goddess or a satyr, prostrate, and 
covered with moss and lichen. 

" It makes me melancholy," said Lady Anna- 
bel ; " let us return." 

" Mamma," said Venetia, " are there any ghost-; 
in this abbey?" 

" You may well ask me, love," replied Lady 
Annabel; "it seems a spell-bound place. But, 
Venetia, I have often told you there are no such 
things as ghosts." 

" Is it naucrhty to believe in ghosts, mamma, for 
I cannot help believing in them?" 

" When you arc older, and have more know- 
ledge, you will not believe in them, Venetia," 
replied Lady Annabel. 

Our friends left Cadurcis abbey. Venetia 
mounted her donkey, her mother walked by her 
side; the sun was beginning to decline when they 
again reached Cherbury, and the air was brisk. 
I/ady Annabel was glad to fin<l herself by her 
fireside in her little terr.ice-room, and Venetia, 
fetching her book, read to her mother until their 
dinner hour. 



694 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



CHAPTER III. 

Two serene and innocent years had glided 
away at Cherbuiy since this morning ramble to 
Cadurcis abbey, and Venetia had gi'own in loveli- 
ness, and goodness, and intelligence. Her lively 
and somewhat precocious mind had become greatly 
developed ; and, though she was only nine years 
of age, it scarcely needed the affection of a mother 
to find in her an interesting and engaging com- 
panion. Although feminine education was little 
regarded in those days, that of Lady Annabel had 
been an exception to the general practice of 
society. She had been brought up with the con- 
sciousness of other objectaPi female attainment 
and accomplishment than embroidery, " the com- 
plete art of making pastry," and reading " The 
Whole Duty of Man." She had profited, when a 
child, by the guidance of her brother's tutor, Vvdio 
had bestowed no unfruitful pains upon no ordinary 
capacity. She was a good linguist, a fine musi- 
cian, was well read in our elder poets and their 
Italian originals, was no unskilful artist, and had 
acquired some knowledge of botany when wan- 
dering, as a girl, in her native woods. Since her 
retirement to Cherbuiy, reading had been her 
chief resource. The hall contained a library 
whose shelves, indeed, were more full than choice ; 
but amid folios of theological controversy and 
civil law, there might be found the first editions 
of most of the celebrated writers of the reign of 
Anne, which the contemporary proprietor of Cher- 
bury, a man of wit and fashion in his day, had 
duly collected in his yearly visits to the metropo- 
lis, and finally deposited in the family book-room. 

The education of her daughter was not only the 
principal duty of Lady Annabel, but her chief 
delight. To cultivate the nascent intelligence of 
a child, in those days, was not the mere piece of 
scientific mechanism that the admirable labours of 
so many ingenious writers have since permitted it 
comparatively to become. In those days there 
was no Mrs. Barbauld, no Madame de Genlis, no 
Miss Edgcworth ; no " Evenings at Home," no 
" Children's Friend," no " Parent's Assistant." 
Venetia loved her book ; indeed, she was never 
happier than when reading ; but she soon recoiled 
from the gilt and lilliputian volumes of the good 
Mr. Newbury, and her mind required some more 
substantial excitement than "Tom Thumb," or 
even " Goody Two-Shoes." " The Seven Cham- 
j)ions" was a great resource and a great favourite ; 
but it required all the vigilance of a mother to 
eradicate the false impressions which such studies 
were continually making on so tender a student; 
and to disenchant, by rational discussion, the fas- 
cmated imagination of her child. Lady Annabel 
endeavoured to find some substitute in the essays 
of Addison and Steele; but they required more 
knowledge of the every day world for their enjoy- 
ment than an infant, bred in such seclusion, could 
at present afford ; and at last Venetia lost herself 
in the wildering pages of Clelia and the Arcadia, 
which she pored over with a rapt and ecstatic 
spirit, that would not comprehend the warning 
scepticism of her parent. Let us picture to our- 
selves the high-bred Lady Annabel in the terrace- 
loom of her ancient hall, working at her tapestry, 
and, seated at her feet, her little daughter Venetia, 
reading aloud the Arcadia ! The peacocks have 



jumped up on the window sill, to look at their 
friends who love to feed them, and by their peck 
ing have aroused the bloodhound, crouching at 
Lady Annabel's feet. And Venetia looks up from 
her folio with a flushed and smiling face to catch 
the sympathy of her mother, who rewards her 
daughter's study with a kiss. Ah ! there are n« 
such mothers and no such daughters now ! 

Thus it will be seen that the life and studies of 
Venetia tended rather dangerously, in spite of all 
the care of her mother, to the dcvelopement of her 
imagination, in case indeed she possessed that 
terrible and fatal gift. She passed her days in 
unbroken solitude, or broken only by affections 
which softened her heart, and in a scene which 
itself might well promote any predisposition of the 
kind ; beautiful and picturesque objects surrounded 
her on all sides ; she wandered, as it were, in an 
enchanted wilderness, and Watched the deer 
reposing under the green shadow of stately trees ; 
the old hall itself was calculated to excite mysteri- 
ous curiosity ; one wing was uninhabited and 
shut up ; each morning and evening she repaired 
with her mother and tlie household through long 
galleries to the chapel, where she knelt to her 
devotions, illumined by a window blazoned with 
the arms of that illustrious family of which she 
was a memlier, and of which she knew nothing. 
She had an indefinite and painful consciousness 
that she had been early checked in the natural 
inquiries which occur to every child ; she had 
insensibly been trained to speak only of what she 
saw ; and, when she listened, at night, to the long 
ivy rustling about the windows, and the wild owls 
hooting about the mansion, with their pining, 
melancholy voices, she might have been excused 
for believing in those spirits, which her mother 
warned her to discredit ; or she forgot these 
mournful impressions in dreams caught from her 
romantic volumes, of bright knights and beautiful 
damsels. 

Only one event of importance had occurred at 
Cherbury, during the two years, if indeed that be 
not too strong a phrase to use in reference to an 
occurrence which occasioned so slight and passing 
an interest. Lord Cadurcis had died. He had 
left his considerable property to his natural child- 
ren, but the abbey had descended with the title to 
a very distant relative. The circle at Cherbury 
had heard, and that was all, that the new lord 
was a minor, a little boy, indeed very little older 
than Venetia herself; but this information pro- 
duced an impression. The abbey was still 
deserted and desolate as ever. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Eteht Sunday afternoon, the rector of a 
neighbouring, though still somewhat distant 
parish, of which the rich living was in the gift 
of the Herberts, came to perform' divine servici, 
at Cherbury. It was a subject of deep regret to 
I>ady Annabel that herself and lior family were 
debarred from the advantage of more ij-equcnt and 
convenient spiritual consolation ; but at this time, 
the parochial discipline of the Church of England 
was not so strict as it fortunately is at present. 
Cherbury, though a vicarage, possessed neither 
parish church, nor a residence for the clergyman ; 



V E N E T I A . 



695 



nor was there indeed a vllagc. The peasants on 
the estate, or labourers as they arc now styled, a 
term whose introduction into our rural world is 
much to be lamented, lived in the respective 
farm-houses on the lands which they cultivated. 
These were scattered about at considerable dis- 
tances, and many of their inmates found it more 
convenient to attend the church of the contiguous 
parish than to repair to the hall chapel, where the 
household and the dwellers in the few cottages 
scattered about the park and woods always 
assembled. The Lady Annabel, whose lot it 
had been in life to find her best consolation in 
religion, and who was influenced by not only a 
sincere, but even a severe piety, had no other 
alternative, therefore, but engaging a chaplain ; 
but tliis, after much consideration, she had resolved 
not to do. She was indeed her own chaplain, 
herself performing each day such parts of our 
morning and evening service whose celebration 
l)ecomes a laic, and reading portions from the 
writings of those eminent divines, who, from the 
Restoration to the conclusion of the last reign, 
have so eminently distinguished the communion 
oi our national Church. 

Each Sunday, after the performance of divine 
service, the Rev. Dr. Masham dined with the 
family, and he was the only guest at Cherbury 
Venetia ever remembered seeing. The doctor 
was a regular orthodox divine of the eighteenth 
centurv' ; with a large cauliflower wig, shovel-hat, 
and huge knee-buckles, barely covered by his top- 
boots ; learned, jovial, humorous, and somewhat 
courtly ; tmly pious, but not enthusiastic ; not for- 
getful of his tithes, but generous and charitable 
when they were once paid ; never neglecting the 
sick, yet occasionally following a fox ; a fine 
scholar, an active magistrate, and a good shot; 
dreading the pope, and hating the presbyterians. 

The doctor was attached to the Herbert family 
not merely because they had given him a good 
living. He had a great reverence for an old 
English race, and turned up his nose at the Wal- 
polian loanmongers. Lady Annabel, too, so 
l)eautlful, so dignified, so amiable and highly bred, 
and, above all, so pious, had won his regard. He 
was not a little proud, too, that he was the only 
person in the county who had the honour of her 
acquaintance, and yet was disinterested enough to 
regret that she led so secluded a life, and often 
lamented that notlung would induce her to show 
her elegant person on a race-course, or to attend 
an assize ball, an assembly which was then 
l)ecoming much the fashion. The little Venetia 
was a ciiarming child, and the kind-hearted doc- 
tor, though a bachelor, loved children ; 

"Ol inalre piilchra, filia pulclirior," 
was the Rev. Dr. Masham's apposite and favourite 
i}uotation after his weekly visit to Cherbury. 

Divine service was concluded; the doctor had 
preached a capiUil sermon ; for he had been one 
of the shining lights of his university until his 
rich but isolating preferment had apparently 
closed the great career which it was once supposed 
awaited Inia. The accustomed walk on the 
terrace was completed, and dinner was announced. 
This meal was always celebrated at Cherbury, 
where new fishions stole down with a lingering 
pace, in the great hall itself. An ample table was 
placed in the centre on a mat of rushes, sheltered 
by a large screen covered with huge maps of the 



shire and the neighbouring counties. The Lady 
Annabel and her good pastor seated themselves at 
each end of the table, while Venetia, mounted on 
a high chair, was waited on by Mistress Paunce- 
I'ort, who never condescended by any chiince 
attention to notice the presence of any other 
individual but her little charge, on whose chair 
she just leaned with an air of condescending 
devotion. The butler stood behind his lady, and 
two other servants watched the doctor; rural 
bodies all, but decked on this day in gorgeous 
livery coats of blue and silver, %vhich had been 
made originally for men of very different size and 
bearing. Simple as was the usual diet at Cher- 
bury, the cook was permitted on Sunday full 
play to her art, whifeh in the eighteenth cen- 
tury, indulged in the production of dishes more 
numerous and substantial than our refined tastes 
could at present tolerate. The doctor appreciated 
a good dinner, and his countenance glistened with 
approbation as he surveyed the ample tureen of 
pottage royal, with a boned duck swimming in its 
centre. Before him still scowled in death the 
countenance of a huge roast pike, flanked on one 
side by a leg of mutton a-hi-dauhp, and on the 
other by the tempting delicacies of bombarded 
veal. To these succeeded tliat master-piece of 
the culinary art, a great battalia pie, in which the 
bodies of chickens, pigeons and rabbits were 
embalmed in spices, cocks' combs, and savory 
balls, and well bedewed with one of those rich 
sauces of claret, anchovj', and sweet herbs, in 
which our great-grandfathers delighted, and which 
was technically termed a Lear. But the grand 
essay of skill was the cover of this pasty, whereon 
the curious cook had contrived to represent all the 
once-living forms that were now entombed in that 
gorgeous sepulchre. A Florentine tourte or 
tansey, an old English custard, a more refined 
blamango, and a riband jelly of many colours, 
offered a pleasant relief after these vaster inven- 
tions, and the repast closed with a dish of oyster 
loaves and a pompetone of larks. 

Notwithstanding the abstemiousness of his 
hostess, the doctor was never deterred from doing 
justice to her hospitality. Few were the dishes 
that ever escaped him. The demon dyspepsia had 
not waved its fell wings over the eighteenth 
century, and wonderful were the feats then 
achieved by a rountry gentleman with the united 
aid of a good digestion and a good conscience. 

The servants had retired and Dr. Masham had 
taken his last glass of port, and then he rang a 
bell on the table, and — I trust my fiiir readers will 
not be frightened from proceeding with this 
historj' — a servant brought him his pipe. The 
pipe was well stuffed, duly lighted, and duly 
puffed ; and then, taldng it from his mouth, the 
doctor spoke. 

" And so, my honoured lady, you have got a 
neighbour at last." 

" Indeed I" exclaimed Lady Annabel. 

But the claims of the pipe prevented tlie good 
doctor from too quickly satisfying her natural 
curiosity. Another puff or two, and he then 
continued. 

" Yes," said he, " the old abbey has at last found 
a tenant." 

" A tenant, doctor 1" 

" Ay ! the best tenant in the world — ^iti 
I proprietor." 



696 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" You quite surprise me. When did this 
occur?" 

"They have been tl.ere these three days; I 
have paid them a vibit. Mrs. Cadurcis has come 
to live at the abbey with the little lord." 

" This is indeed news to us," said Lady Anna- 
bel ; and what kind of people are they V 

'• You know, my dear madam," said the doctor, 
just touching the ash of his pipe with his tobacco- 
stopper of chased silver, " that the present Lord 
is a very distant relative of the late one !" 
Lady Annabel bowed assent. 
" The late Lord," continued the doctor, " who 
was as strange and wrong-headed a man as ever 
breathed, though I trust he is in the kingdom of 
heaven for all that, left all his property to his 
unlawful children, with the exception of tliis estate 
laitailed on the title, as all estates should be. 'Tis 
a fine place, but no great rental. I doubt whether 
'tis more than a clear twelve hundred a-ycar." 
" And Mrs. Cadurcisl" inquired Lady Annabel. 
" Was an heiress," replied the doctor, " and 
the late Mr. Cadurcis a spendthrift. He was a 
bad manager, and, worse, a bad husband. Provi- 
dence was pleased to summon him suddenly from 
this mortal scene, but not before he had dissipated 
the greater part of his wife's means. Mrs. 
Cadurcis, since she was a widow, has lived in 
strict seclusion with her little boy, as you may, 
ray dear lady, with your dear little girl. But I 
am afraid," said the doctor, shaking his head, 
" .she has not been in the habit of dining as well 
as we have to-day. A very limited income, my 
dear madam ; a very limited income, indeed. And 
the guardians, I am told, will only allow the little 
Lord a hundred a-year ; but, on her own income, 
whatever it may be, and that addition, she has 
resolved to live at the abbey ; and I believe — I 
believe she has it rent-free ; but I don't know." 

" Poor woman !" said Lady Annabel, and 
not without a sigh. " I trust her child is her 
consolation." 

Venetia had not spoken during this conversa- 
tion, but she listened to it very attentively. At 
length she said, " Mamma, is not a widow a wife 
that has lost her husband ?" 

" You are right, my dear," said Lady Annabel, 
rather gravely. 

Venetia mused a moment, and then replied, 
" Pray, mamma, are you a widow ]" 

" My dear little girl," said Dr. Masham, " go 
and give that beautiful peacock a pretty piece of 
cake.'' 

Lady Annabel and the doctor rose from the 
table with Venetia, and took a turn in the park, 
while the doctor's horses were getting ready. 

" I think, my good lady," said the doctor, " it 
would be but an act of Christian charity to call 
apon Mrs. Cadurcis." 

" 1 was thinking the same," said Lady Annabel ; 
" I am interested by what yon have told me of 
her history and fortunes. We have some woes in 
common — T hope some jo3's. It seems that this 
rase shoulil indeed be an exception to my rule." 

" I would not ask you to sacrifice your inclina- 
tions to the mere pleasures of the world," said the 
Doctor : " Viut duties, my dear lady, duties ; there 
are such things as duties to our neighbour ; and 
nere is a case where, believe me, they might b^ 
fulfilled." 

The doctor's horses now appeared. Both 



master and groom wore their pistols in their 
holsters. The doctor shook hands warmly with 
Lady Annabel, and patted Venetia on the head, 
as she ran up from a little distance, with an eagei 
countenance, to receive her accustomed blessing. 
Then mounting his stout mare, he once more 
waved his hand with an air of courtliness to his 
hostess, and was soon out of sight. Lady Amiabel 
and ^"^cnctia retmned to the terrace room. 



CHAPTER V. 

' And so I would, my lady," said Mistress 
Pauiicefort, when Lady Annabel communicated 
to her faithful attendant, at night, the news of the 
arrival of the Cadurcis family at the abbey, and 
her intention of paying Mrs. Cadurcis a visit ; 
" and so I would, my lady," said Mistress Paunce- 
fort, " and it would be but an act of Christian 
charity after all, as the doctor says ; for, although 
it is not for me to complain when my betters are 
satisfied, and after all I am always content, if your 
ladyship be ; still there is no denying the fact, that 
this is a terrible lonesome life after all. And I 
cannot help thinking your ladyship has not been 
looking so well of late, and a little society would 
do your ladyship good ; and Miss Venetia, too, 
after all, she wants a playfellow ; I am certain 
sure that I was as tired of playing at ball with her 
this morning as if I had never sat down in my 
born days ; and, I dare say, the little lord will 
play with her all day long. 

" If I th((Ught that this visit would lead to what 
is understood by the word society, my good 
Paunccfort, I certainly should refrain from paying 
it," said Lady Annabel, very quietly. 

" O ! Lord, deal" my lady, I was not for a 
moment dreaming of any such thing," replied 
Mistress Paunccfort ; " society, I know as well as 
any one, means grand balls, Ranelagh, and the 
masquerades. I can't abide the thought of them, I 
do assure your ladysiiip ; all I meant was that a 
quiet dinner now and then with a few friends, a 
dance perhaps in the evening, or a hand of whisk, 
or a game of romps at Christinas, when the abbey 
vvill of course be quite full, a — " 

" I believe there is as little chance of the abbey 
being full at Christmas, or any other time, as 
there is of Cherbury," said Lady Annabel. " Mrs. 
Cadurcis is a widow, with a very slender fortune. 
Her son will not enjoy his estate until he is of 
age, and its rental is small. I am led to believe 
that they will live quite as quietly as ourselves ; 
and when I spoke of Christian charity, I was 
thinking only of kindness towards them, and not 
of amusement for ourselves." 

"Well, my lady, your la'ship knows best," 
replied Mistress Paunccfort. evidently very disa.})- 
pointed; for she had indulged in momentary 
visions of noble visiters and noble valets ; " I am 
always content, you know, when your la'ship is ; 
but, I nuist say, I think it is very odd for a lord 
to be so poor. I never heard of such a thing. I 
think they will turn out richer than you have an 
idea, my lady. Your la'ship knows 'tis quite a 
saying, ' As rich as a lord.' " 

Lady Annabel smiled, but did not repiy. 

The next morning the old fawn-coloured chariot, 
which had not been used since Lady Annabel'B 



VENETIA, 



697 



iTiival at CherTiury, and four black long-tailed 
coach-horses, tliat from ahsolutc necessity had 
Deen dej^adcd, in the interval, to the service of the 
cart and the plough, made their appearance, after 
much bustle and ellbrt, before the hall-door. Al- 
though a morning's stroll from Cherbury through 
the woods, Cadurcis wx'^ distant nearly ten miles 
by the road, and that road was in great part im- 
passable, save in favourable seasons. This visit, 
therefore, was an expedition ; and I.ady Annabel, 
fearing the fatigue for a child, determined to leave 
Venetia at home, from whom she had actually 
never been separated one Iiour in her life, Vene- 
tia could not refrain from shedding a tear when 
her mother embraced and quitted her, and begged, 
as a last favour, that she might accompany her 
through the park to the avenue lodge. So Paunce- 
fort and herself entered the chariot, that rocked 
like a ship, in ^ite of all the skill of the coach- 
man and the postilion, 

Venetia walked home with Mistress Paiancefort, 
but Lady Annabel's little daughter wais not in her 
usual lively spirits ; many a butterfly glanced 
around without attracting her pursuit, and the 
deer trooped by without eliciting a single observa- 
tion. At length she said, in a veiy thoughtful 
tone, " !\Tistress Paunccfort, I should have liked 
to have gone and seen the little boy." 

" You shall go and sec him another da}^ Miss," 
replied her attendant. 

"Mistress Pauncefort," said Venetia, "are 5'ou 
a widow 1" 

Mistress Pauncefort almost started ; had the 
inquir}- been made by a man, she would almost 
have supposed he was going to be vcr}' rude. She 
was indeed very much surprised, 

" And pra)', Miss Venetia, what could put it in 
your head to a.sk such an odd question ?" ex- 
claimed Mistress Paunccfort, " A widow ! Miss 
Venetia; I have never yet changed my name, 
and I shall not in a hurry, that I can tell you." 

"Do widows change their names?" said Ve- 
netia. 

" All women change tlieir names when they 
marry," responded Mistress Pauncefort, 

" Is mamma married 1" inquired Venetia, 

" La ! Miss Venetia, Well, to be sure, you do 
nsk the strangest questions. Married ! To be sure 
she is married," said Mistress Pauncefort, exceed- 
ingly flustered, 

" And whom is she married to 1" pursued the 
unwearied Venetia. 

" Your papa, to be sure," said Mistress Paunce- 
fort, blushing up to her eyes, and looking very 
confused ; " that is to say. Miss Venetia, you are 
never to ask questions about such subjects. Have 
not I often told you it is not pretty 1" 

" Why is it not pretty V said Venetia, 

" Because it is not proper," said Mistress 
Paunccfort ; " because your mamma does not like 
you to ask such questions, and she will be very 
angry witli me for answering them, I can tell you 
that," 

" I tell you what. Mistress Pauncefort," said 
Venetia, " I think mamma is a widow." 

" And what then, Miss Venetia ] There is no 
shame in that," 

" tSname !" exclaimed Venetia. " What is 
fihamc '" 

88 



" Look, there is a pretty butterfly !" exclaimed 
Mistress Paunccfort, " Did you ever see such a 
pretty butterfly, Miss T" 

" I do not care about butterflies to-day. Mistress 
Paunccfort; I like to talk about widows," 

" Was there ever such a child 1" exclaimed 
Mistress Paunccfort, with a wondering glance. 

" I must have had a papa," said Venetia ; " all 
the ladies I read about had papas, and married 
husbands. Then whom did my mamma marry ?" 

" Lord ! Miss Venetia, you know very well 
your mamma always tells you that all those books 
you read are a pack of stories," observed Mistress 
Pauncefort, with an air of triumphant art. 

" There never were such persons, perhaps,'' 
said Venetia, " but it is not true that there never 
were such things as papas and husbands, for all 
people have papas ; you must have had a papa. 
Mistress Paunccfort ?" 

" To be sure I had," said Mistress Pauncefort, 
bridling up. 

" And a mamma too 1" said Venetia. 

" As honest a woman as ever lived," said Mis- 
tress Pauncefort. 

" Then if I have no papa, mamma must be a 
■wife that has lost her husband, and that, mamma 
told me at dinner yesterday, was a widow." 

" Was the like ever seen ?" exclaimed Mistress 
Paunccfort. " And what then. Miss Venetia 1" 

" It seems to me so odd that only two people 
should live here, and both be widows," said 
Venetia, " and both have a little child ; the only 
difference is, that one is a little boy, and I am a 
little gid," 

" When ladies lose their husbands, they do not 
like to have their names mentioned," said Mistress 
Paunccfort; " and so yon mu.st never talk of your 
papa to my lady, and that is the truth," 

" I will not now," said Venetia, 

When they returned home. Mistress Pauncefort 
brought her work, and seated herself on the ter- 
race, that she might not lose sight of her charge. 
Venetia played about for some little time ; she 
made a castle behind a ti'ce, and fancied .she was a 
knight, and then a lady, and conjured up an ogre 
in the neighbouring shrubbery ; but these day- 
dreams did not amuse her as much as usual. She 
went and fetched her book, but even " The Seven 
Champions" could not intefest her. Her eye was 
fixed upon the page, and apparently she was 
absorbed in her pursuit, but her mind wandered, 
and the page was never turned. She indulffcd in 
an unconscious revery ; her fancy was with her 
motlier on her visit ; the old abbey rose up before 
her : she painted the scene without an effort : the 
court, with the fountain ; the grand room, with 
the tnpcstrj- hangings ; that desolate garden, with 
the fallen statues ; and that long, gloomy jrallery. 
And in all these scenes appeared tliat little boj-, 
who, somehow or other, seemed wonderfully 
blended with her imaginings. It was a very long 
day this ; Venetia dined alone with Mistress 
i Paunccfort ; the time hung very heavy ; at length 
she fell a-slcep in Mistress Pauncefort's lap, A 
sound roused her — the carriage had returned : she 
ran to greet her mother, but there was no news ; — 
Mrs. Cadurcis had been absent; she hud gore to 
a distant town to buy .some furniture ; and, after 
all, Lady Annabel had not seen the little boy. 
3N 



698 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



CHAPTER VI. 



A FEW days after the visit to Cadurcis, when 
Lady Annabel was sitting alone, a post-chaise 
drove up to the hall, whence issued a short and 
very stout woman with a rubicund countenance, 
and dressed in a style which remarkably blended 
the shabby with the tawdry. She was accompa- 
nied by a boy between eleven and twelve years of 
age, whose appearance, however, very much con- 
trasted with that of his mother, for he was very 
pale and slender, with long curling black hair and 
large black eyes, which occasionally, by their 
transient flashes, agreeably relieved a face, the 
general expression of which might be esteemed 
somewhat shy and sullen. The lady, of course, 
was Mrs. Cadurcis, who was received by Lady 
Annabel with the greatest courtesy. 

" A terrible journey," exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, 
fanning herself as she took her seat, and so very 
hot ! Plantagenet, my love, make your bow ; 
liave not I always told you to make a bow when 
you enter a room, especially where there are 
strangers 1 This is Lady Annabel Herbert, who 
was so kind as to call upon us. Make your bow 
to Lady Annabel.' 

The boy gave a sort of sulky nod, but Lady 
Annabel received it so graciously and expressed 
herself so kindly to him that his features relaxed 
a little, though he was quite silent and sat on the 
edge of his chair, the picture of dogged indiffer- 
ence. 

" Charming country. Lady Annabel," said Mrs. 
Cadurcis, " but worse roads, if possible, than we 
had in Northumberland, where, indeed, there 
were no roads at all. Cherbury a delightful place, 
very unlike the abbey ; dreadfully lonesome I 
assure you I find it. Lady Annabel. Great change 
for us from a little town and all our kind neigh- 
bours. Very different from Morpeth ; is it not, 
Plantagenet 1" 

" I hate Morpeth," said the boy. 
" Hate Morpeth !" exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, 
" Well, I am sure, that is very ungrateful, with so 
many kind friends as we always found. Besides 
Plantagenet, have I not always told you that you 
are to hate nothing ] It is very wicked. The 
trouble it costs me, Lady Aimabel, to educate this 
dear child !" continued Mrs. Cadurcis, turning to 
Lady Annabel, and speaking in a semi-tone. " I 
have done it all myself, I assure you; and, when 
he likes, he can be as good as any one. Can't 
you, Plantagenet 1 

Lord Cadurcis gave a grim smile ; seated him- 
self at the very back of the deep chair and swung 
his feet, which no longer reached the ground, to 
and fro. 

" I am sure that Lord Cadurcis always behaves 
well," said Lady Annabel. 

" There, Plantagenet," exclaimed Mrs. Cadur- 
cis, " only listen to tliat. Hear what Lady Anna- 
bel Herbert says ; she is sure you always behave 
well. Now mind, never give her ladyship cause 
to change her opinion. 

Plantagenet curled his lip, and half-turned his 
oack on his companions. 

'' I regretted so much that I was not at home 
when you did me the honour to call," resumed 
Mrs. CaduiT.is ; " but I had gone over for the day 



it is to buy furniture, Lady Annabel !" added Mrs. 
Cadurcis, with a piteous expression. 

" It is indeed very troublesome," said Lady 
Annabel. 

" Ah ! you have none of these cares," continued 
Mrs. Cadurcis, surveying the pretty apartment. 
" V/hat a difference between Cherbury and the 
abbey ! I suppose you have never been there 1" 

" Indeed it is one of my favoiirite walks," 
answered Lady Annabel, " and some two years 
ago I even took the liberty of walking through the 
house." 

" Was there ever such a place !" exclaimed Mrs, 
Cadurcis. "I assure you my poor head turns, 
whenever I try to find my way about it. But the 
trustees offered it us, and I thought it my duty to 
my son to reside there. Besides it 'Was a great 
offer to a widow ; if poor Mr. Cadurcis had beea 
alive it would have been different. I hardly know 
what I shall do there, particularly in v/inter. My 
spirits are always dreadfully low. I only hope 
Plantagenet will behave well. If he goes into his 
tantarums at the abbey, and particularly in winter, 
I hardly know what will become of me I" 

" I am sure Lord Cadurcis will do every thing 
to make the abbey comfortable to you. Besides 
it is but a very short walk from Cherbury, ani 
you must come very often and see us." 

O ! Plantagenet can be good if he likes, I 
can assure you. Lady Annabel ; and behave as 
properly as any little boy I know. Plantagenet 
my dear, speak. Have not I always told you, 
when you pay a visit, that you should open your 
mouth now and then. I don't like chatting chil- 
dren," added Mrs. Cadurcis, " but I like them to 
answer when they are spoken to." 

" Nobody has spoken to me," said Lord Cadur- 
cis, in a sullen tone. 

" Plantagenet, my love !" said his mother, in a 
solemn voice. 

" Well, mother, what do you want?" 

" Plantagenet, my love, you know you promised 
me to be good !" 

" Well ! what have I done 1" .«r, 

" Lord Cadurcis," said Lady Annabel, interfeiS 
ing, " do you like to look at pictures 1" 

' Thank you," replied the little lord, in a more 



to Soudiport, buying furniture. What a busmess 1 like a man." 



courteous tone, " I like to be left alone." 

" Did you ever know such an odd child !" said 
Mrs. Cadurcis ; " and yet. Lady Annabel, you 
must not judge him by what you see. I do assure 
you he can behave, when he likes, as pretty as 
possible." 

" Pretty !" muttered the little lord between his 
teeth. 

" If you had only seen him at Morpeth some- 
times at a little tea-party," said Mrs. .Cadurcis ; 
" he really was quite the ornament of the com- 
pany." 

" No, I wasn't," said Lord Cadurcis. 
■ " Plantagenet !" said his mother again in a 
solemn tone, "have I not always told you that 
you are never to contradict any one 1" 

The little lord indulged in a suppressed giowl. 

" There was a httle play last Christmas," con 
tinned Mrs. Cadurcis, " and he acted quite delight- 
fully. Now you would not, think that from the 
way he sits upon that chair. Plantagenet, my 
dear, I do insist upon your behaving youi^selfl Sit 



VENETIA. 



699 



" I am not a man, said Lord Cadurcis very 
quietly ; " I wish I were." 

" Plaiitagcnet !" said llae mother, " have not I 
always told you that you arc never to answer me 1 
It is not proper for children to answer. ! Lady 
Annabel, if you Icnew what it cost me to educate 
my son. lie never does any thing I wish, and it 
IS so provoking, because I know that he can 
behave as properly as possible if he likes. He 
does it to provoke me, — you know you do it to 
provoke me, you little brat ; row, sit properly 
sir ; I do desire you fo sit properly. How vexa- 
tious tliat you shoula call at Cherbury for the first 
time, and behave in this manner ! Plantagcnet, 
db you hear me?" exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis, with 
a face reddening to scarlet, and almost menacing 
a move from her seat. 

" Yes, everj- body hears you, Mrs Cadurcis," 
said the httie lord. 

' ' Don't call me Mrs. Cadmcis," exclaimed the 
mother in a dreadful rage. " That is not the 
way to speak to your mother. I will not be called 
Mrs. Cadurcis by you. Don't answer me, sir, — I 
desire you not to answer me. I have half a mind 
to get up and give you a good shake, that I have, 
Lady Annabel," sighed Mrs. Cadurcis, while a 
tear trickled down her check, " if you only knew 
the life [ lead, and what trouble it costs me to 
educate that child !" 

" My dear madam," said Lady Annabel, " I am 
sure that Lord Cadurcis has no other wish but to 
please you. Indeed you have misiuiderstood 
him." 

" Vea .' she always misunderstand* me," said 
Lord Cadurcis, in a softer tone, but with pouting 
lips and suffused eyes. 

" Now he is going on," said bis mother, begin- 
ning herself to cry dreadfully. " He knows my 
weak heart ; he knows nobody in the world loves 
him like his mother ; and Uiis is the way he treats 

" My dear Mrs. Cadarcls," said Lady Annabel, 
" pray take luncheon, after your long drive ; and 
Lora Cadurcis, I ain sure you must be fatigued." 

" Thank you, I never eat, my dear lady," said 
Mrs. Cadurcis, " except at my meals. But one 
glass of Mountain, if you please, I would just take 
the liberty of tasting, for the weather is so dread- 
fully hot ; and Plantagcnet has so aggravated me, 
I really do not feel myself" 



cajolery, now \<^ith menace, till at length, worked 
up by the united stimulus of her copious draughts 
of Moiuitain and her own ungovernable rage, she 
dashed down the glass and unfinished slice of 
cake, and before the astonished Lady Annabel, 
rushed forward to give him what she had long 
threatened, and what she in gcneraJ vdtimately had 
recourse to — a good shake. 

Her agile son, experienced in these storms, es- 
caped in time, and pushed liis chair before his in- 
furiated mother ; Mrs. Cadurcis, however, rallied, 
and clla^^cd him round the room ; once more she 
flattered herself she had captured him, once more 
he evaded hex , in iier despair she took up Veno- 
tia's " Seven Champions," and threw the volume 
at his head ; he laughed a fiendish laugh, as, duck- 
ing Ids head, the book flew on, and dashed through 
a pane of glass; Mrs. Cadurcis made a desperate 
charge, and her son, a little frightened at her 
almost uianiacal passion, saved himself by sudden- 
ly seizing Lady Annabel's work-table, and whirling 
it before her ; Mrs. Cadurcis fell over the leg of 
the table, and went into violent hysterics ; while 
the blood-hovmd, who had long started from hia 
repose, looked at his mistress for instructions, and 
in the meantime continued baiking. The aston- 
ished and agitated Lady Annabel assisted Mrs. 
Cadurcis to rise, and led her to a. couch. Lord 
Cadurcis, pale and dogged, stood in a comer, and 
after all this uproar there was a comparative 
calm, only broken by the sobs of the mother, each 
instant growing fainter and fainter. 

At this moment the door opened, and Mistress 
Pauncefort ushered in the little ^'enetia. She 
really looked like an angel of peace sent from 
heaven on a mission of concord, with her long 
golden hair, her bright face, and smile of ineffable 
loveliness. 

" Manmia !" said Venetia, in the sweetest tone. 
" Hush ! darhng," said Lady Annabel, " this 
lady is not very well." 

Mrs. Cadurcis opened her eyes and sighed- 
She beheld Venetia and stared at her with a feel- 
ing of wonder. " O ! Lady Annabel," she faintly 
exclaimed, " what must you think of me ! But 
was there ever such an unfortunate mother ! and 
I have not a thought in the world but for that boy. 
I have devoted my life to him, and never would 
have buried myself in this abbey but for his sake. 
And this is the way he treats me, and his father 



Lady Annabel sounded her silver hand-bell, and before him treated me even worse. Am I not the 



the butler brought some cakes and tlie Mountain. 
Mis. Cadurcis revived by virtue of her single glass, 
and the providential co-operation of a few subse- 
quent ones. Even the cakes and the Mountain, 
however, would not tempt her son to open his 
mouth ; and this, in spite of her returning com- 
posure, drove her to desperation. A conviction 
that the Mountain and the calves were delicious, 
an amiable desire that tlie palate of her spoiled 
child should be gratified, somQ reasonable maternal 
anxiety that after so long gind fatiguing a drive he 
in fact needed some rcfresIuJ|uttfad Ifte agonising 
consciousness that all b|^^^Hp^^cal }>lcasure 
at the moment was de^pH^^the mental suffer- 
ings she endured at haMflg quarrelled with her 
son, and that he was depriving himself of what 
was so agrrealile only to pique her. quite over- 
whelmed the ill-regidatcd mind of lliis fund mo- 
ther. Between each sip and each mouthful, she! Plantagcnet, 
appealed to him to follow her example, now withj heert," 



most mifcrtunate woman you ever knew ?' 

" My dear madam," said the kind Lady Anna- 
bel, in a soothing tone, "you will be very happy 
yet. All will be quite right and quite happy." 

"Is this angel your cliildl" inquired I^lrs. Ca- 
durcis, in a low voice. 

" This is my little girl — Venetia. Come liither, 
Venetia, and speak to Mrs. Cadurcis." 

'■How do you do, Mrs. Cadurcis]" said Ve- 
netia. "I am so glad you have come to live at 
the abbey." 

" The angel !" exclaimed Mrs. Cadurcis. " The 
sweet seraph ! Oh ! why did not my Plantagcnet 
speak to you. Lady Annaliel, in the same tone 1 
And he can, if he likes : — he can, indeed. It was 
his silence that so mortified me ; it was his silence 
that led to all. I am so proud of lum . and then 
he comes here and never speaks a word. O . 
I am sure vou will break my 



700 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



Venetia went up to the little lord in the comer, 
and gently stroked his dark cheek. " Are you the 
little boy V she said. 

Cadurcis looked at her ; at first the glance was 
rather fierce, but it instantly relaxed. " What is 
your name?" he said, in a low, but not unkind, tone. 
" Venetia." 

" I like you, Venetia," said the boy. " Do you 
live here !" 

" Yes, with my mamma." 

" I like your mamma, too ; but not as much as 
you. I like your gold hair." 

" Oh, how funny ! to like my gold hair !" 

" If you had come in sooner," said Cadurcis, 
" we should not have had this row." 

" What is a row, little boy T" said Venetia. 

" Do not call me little boy," he said, but not in 
an unkind tone ; " call me by my name." 

" What is your namel" 

" Lord Cadurcis ; but you may call me by my 
Christian name, because I like you." 

" What is your Christian name ] " 

" Plantagenet." 

" Plantagenet ! What a long name !" said 
Venetia. " Tell me, then, Plantagenet, what is a 
row V 

" What often takes place between me and my 
mother, but which I am very sorry now has hap- 
pened here, for I like this place, and should like to 
fome often. A row is a quarrel." 

" A quarrel ! What ! do you quarrel with your 
mammal" 

" Oiten." 

" Why, then, you are not a good boy." 

" Ah ! my mamma is not like yours," said the 
little lord, with a sigh. " It is not my fault. But 
now I want to make it up ; how shall I do it 1 " 

" Go and give her a kiss." 

" Poh ! that is not the way." 

" Shall I go and ask my mamma what is best 
It} dol" said Venetia, and she stole away on tip- 
toe, and whispered to Lady Annabel that Planta- 
genet wanted her. Her mother came forward and 
invited Lord Cadurcis to walk on the terrace with 
)ier, leaving Venetia to amuse her other guest. 

Lady Annabel, though very kind, was very 
frank and firm in her unexpected confidential in- 
terview with her new friend. She placed before 
him very clearly the enormity of his conduct, 
which no provocation could justify ; it was a vio- 
lation of divine law as well as human propriety. 
She found the little lord attentive, tractable, and 
repentant, and, what might not have been expect- 
ed, exceedingly ingenious and intelligent. His 
observations, indeed, were distinguished by re- 
markable acuteness ; and though he could not, 
and indeed did not even attempt to vindicate his 
conduct, he incidcntly introduced much that might 
1)6 urged in its extenuation. There was, indeed, 
in this his milder moment, something very winning 
in his demeanour, and Lady Annabel deeply re- 
gretted that a nature of so nnioh promise and 
capacity should, by the injudicious treatTuent of a 
parent, at once fond and violent, afl'ord such slight 
hopes of future happiness. It was arranged be- 
tween Lord Cadurcis and Lady Annabel that she 
should lead him to his mother, and that he should la- 
ment the past, and ask her forgiveness ; so they re- 
entered the room. Venetia was listening to a very 
I«np story from Mrs. Cadurcis, who appeared to 



have entirely recovered herself; but her counten- 
ance assumed a befiting expression of grief and 
gravity, when she observed her son. 

" My dear madam," said Lady Annabel, " your 
son is very unhappy that he should have ofiended 
you, and he has asked my kind offices to effect a 
perfect reconciliation between a chdd who wishes 
to be dutiful to a parent who, he feels, has always 
been so affectionate." 

Mrs. Cadurcis began crying, 

" Mother," said her son, " I am sorry for what 
has occurred ; mine was the fault. I shall not be 
happy till you pardon me." 

" No, yours was not the fault," said poor Mrs. 
Cadurcis, crying very bitterly. " Oh ! no, it was 
not ; I was in fault, only I. There, Lady Anna- 
bel, did I not tell you he was the sweetest,dearest, 
most generous-hearted creature that ever lived 1 
Oh ! if he vi'ould only always speak so, I am sure 
I siiould be the happiest woman that ever breathed ! 
He puts me in mind quite of his poor dear lather, 
who was an angel upon earth, he was indeed, when 
he was not vexed. O ! my dear Plantagenet ! 
my only hope and joy ! you are the treasure and 
consolation of my life, and always will be. God 
bless you m}' darling child ! You shall have that 
pony you wanted ; I am sure I can manage it; I 
did not think I could." 

As Lady Annabel thought it was as well that 
the mother and the son should not be imme- 
diately thrown together after this storm, she very 
kindly proposed that they should remain, and pass 
the day at Cherbury ; and as Plantagenet's eyes 
brightened at the proposal, it did not require much 
trouble to persuade his mother to accede to it. 
The day, that had commenced so inauspiciously, 
turned out one of the most agreeable, both to Mrs. 
Cadurcis and her child. The two mothers con- 
versed together, and, as Mrs. Cadurcis was a great 
workwoman there was at least one bond of sympa- 
thy between her and the tapestry of her hostess. 
They all took a stroll in the park ; and as Mrs. 
Cadurcis was not able to walk for any length of 
time, the children were permitted to stroll about 
together, attended by Mistress Pauncefort, while 
Mrs. Cadurcis, chatting without ceasing, detailed 
to Lady Annabel all the history of her life, all the 
details of her various complaints and her econo- 
mical arrangements, and all the secrets of her 
husband's treatment of her, — that favourite subject 
on which she ever waxed most eloquent. Plan- 
tagenet, equally indulging in confidence, which 
with him, however, was very unusual, poured all 
his soul into the charmed ear of Venetia. He 
told her how he and his mother had lived at Mor- 
peth, and how he hated it ; how poor they had 
i)een, and how rich he should be ; how he loved 
the abbey, and cspecio.lly the old gallery, and the 
drums and armour ; how he had been a day- 
scholar at a little school which he abhorred, and 
how he was to go some day to Eaton, of which 
he was very proud. 

At length they were obliged to return, and when 
dinner was over the post-chaise was announced. 
Mrs. Cadurcis parted from Lady Annabel with all 
the warm expressions of a heart naturally kind 
and generous ; and Phmtagencl embraced Venetia, 
and promised that the next day he would find his 
way alone from Cadurcis, through the wood, and 
come and take another walk with her. 



V E N E T I A . 



701 



CHAPTER VII. 



Tfirs settlement of Mrs. Cadurc'.s and her son 
tn the neighbourhood was an event of no slight 
importance in the life of the family at Chcrbury. 
Venetia at length found a companion of her own 
age, itself an incident which, in its inllucnce upon 
her character and pursuits, was not to he disre- 
garded. There grew up between the little lord 
and the daughter of Lady Annabel that fond inti- 
macy which not rarely occurs in childhood. Plan- 
tagenet and \''enctia quickly imbibed for each 
other a singular aliVction, not displeasing to Lady 
Annabel, who observed, without dissatisfaction, 
the increased happiness of her own child, and 
encouraged by her kindness the frequent visits of 
the boy, who i?oon learnt the shortest road from 
the abbey, and almost daily scaled the hill, and 
traced his way through the woods, to the hall. 
There was much, indeed, in the character and the 
situation of Lord Cadurcis which interested Lady 
Annabel Herbert. His mild, engaging, and affec- 
tionate manners, when he was removed from the 
injudicious influence of his mother, won upon her 
feelings; she felt for this lone child, whoai nature 
had gifted with so soft a heart and with a thought- 
ful mind whose out-breaks not unfrequently at- 
tracted her notice ; with none to guide him, and 
with only one heart to look up to for fondness ; 
and that, too, one that had already contrived to 
forfeit the respect even of so young a child. 

Yet Lady Annabel was too sensible of the 
paramount claims of a mother — herself, indeed, 
too jealous of any encroackment on the full privi- 
leges of maternal love — to sanction in the slightest 
degree, by her behaviour, any neglect of Mrs. 
Cadurcis by her son. For his sake, therefore, she 
courted the societj- of her new neighbour ; and 
although Mrs. Cadurcis offered little to engage 
Lady Annabel's attention as a companion, though 
she was violent in her temper, far from well in- 
formed, and — from the society in which, in spite 
of her original good birth, her later years liad 
passed — very far from being rctined, she was not 
without her good qualities. She was generous, 
kind-hearted, and grateful ; not insensible of her 
own deficiencies, and respectable from her misfor- 
tunes. Ladj' Annabel was one of those who 
always judged individuals rather by their good 
qualities than their bad. With the exception of 
her violent temper, which — under the control of 
Lady Annabel's presence, and bj' the aid of all 
that kind person's skilful management — Mrs. Ca- 
durcis generally contrived to bridle, her principal 
faults were those of manner, which, from the force 
of habit, every day became less painful. Mrs. 
Cadurcis — who, indeed, was only a child of a 
larger growth — became scarcely less attached to 
the Herbert family than her son ; she felt that her 
life, under their influence, was happier and serener 
than of yore ; that there were less domestic broils 
than in old days ; that her son was more dutiful ; 
and, as she could not help suspecting, though she 
found it difficult to analyse the cause, herself more 
amiable. The truth wasf Lady Annabel always 
treated Mrs. Cadurcis with studied respect ; and 
the children, and especially Venetia, followed her 
example. Mrs. Cadurcis' self-complacency was 
not only less shocked, but more gratified than 
before ; and tliis was the secret of her happiness. 



For no one w.as more mortified by her rages, when 
they were past, than Mrs. Cadurcis herself; she 
felt they compromised her dignity, and had lost 
her all moral command over a child whom she 
loved at the bottom of her heart with a kind of 
wild passion, though she would menace and .strike 
him, and who often jirccipitated these paroxysms 
by denying his mother that duty and affection 
which were, after all, the great charm and pride of 
her existence. 

As Mrs. Cadurcis was unable to walk to Cher- 
bury, and as Plar.tagenet soon fell into the habit 
of passing every morning at the hall, Lady Anna- 
bel was frequent in her visits to the mother, and 
soon she persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to order the old 
post-chaise regularly on Saturday, atid remain at 
Chcrbury until the following Monday ; by these 
means both families united together in tlie chapel 
at divine service, while the presence of Dr. Masham, 
at their now increased Sunday dinner, was an 
incident in the monotonous life of Mrs. Cadurcis 
far froiVi displeasing to her. The doctor gave her 
a little news of the neighbourhood, and of the 
country in general ; a'.nused her with an occa- 
sional anecdote of the queen and the young prin- 
cesses ; and always lent her the last number of 
" Sylvanus Urban." 

This W'eeklj' visit to Chcrbury, the great per- 
sonal attention which she always received there, 
and the frequent morning walks of Lady Annabel 
to the abbey, effectually repressed on the whole 
the jealousy whicli was a characteristic of Mrs. 
Cadurcis' nature, and which the constant absence 
of her son from her in the mornings might other- 
wise liave fatallj' developed. But Mrs. Cadurcis 
could not resist the conviction that the Herberts 
were as much her friends a-s her child's ; her jea- 
lousy was balanced by her gratitude ; she was 
daily, almost hourly, sensible of some kindness of 
Lady Annabel, for there were a thousand services 
in the power of the opulent and ample establish- 
ment of Chcrbury to afford the limited and deso- 
late household at the abbey. Living in seclusion, 
it is difficult to refrain from imbibing even a strong 
regard for our almost solitary companion, however 
incompatible may be our pursuits, and however 
our tastes may var\% especially when that compa- 
nion is gniteful, and duly sensible of the conde- 
scension of our intimacy. And so it happened 
that, before a year had elapsed, that very Mrs. Ca- 
durcis, whose first introduction at Chcrbury had 
been so unfavourable to her, and from whose tem- 
l)er and manners the elegant demeanour and the 
disciplined mind of Lady Annabel Herbert might 
have been excused for a moment revolting, had 
succeeded in establishing a strong hold upon the 
affections of her refined neighbour, who .nought, 
on every occasion, her society, and omitted few 
opportunities of contributing to her comfort and 
welfare. 

In the mean time her son was the companion 
of Venetia, both in her pastimes and studies. The 
education of Lord Cadurcis had received no fur- 
ther assistance than was afforded by the little 
grammar-school at Morpeth, where he had passed 
three or four years as a day scholar, and where his 
mother had invariably taken his part on every 
occasion that he had incurred the displeasure «if 
his master. There he had obtained some imper- 
fect knowledge of Latin ; yet the boy was fond of 
reading, and had picked up, in an odd wav, moi 
3 N 2 



ro3 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



knowledge than might have been supposed. He 
had read "Baker's Chronicle," and "The Old 
Universal History," and " Plutarch ;" and had 
turned over — in the book-room of an old gentle- 
man at Morpeth, who had been attracted by his 
intelligence — not a few curious old folios, from 
which he had gleaned no contemptible store of 
curious instances of human nature. His g^iardian, 
whom he had never seen, and who was a great 
nobleman and lived in London, had signified to 
Mrs. Cadurcis his intention of sending liis ward 
i!:to Eton ; but that time had not yet arrived, and 
Mrs. Cadurcis, who dreaded parting with her son, 
determined to postpone it by evciy maternal arti- 
fice in her power. At present it would have 
seemed that her son's intellect was to be left ut- 
terly uncultivated, for there was no school in the 
neighbourhood which he could attend, and no 
occasional assistance which could be obtained; 
and to the constant presence of a tutor in the 
house Mrs. Cadurcis was not less opposed than 
his lordship could have been himself. 

It was by degrees that Lord Cadurcis became 
the partner of Venetia in her studies. Lady An- 
nabel had consulted Dr. Masham about the poor 
little boy, whose neglected state she deplored ; and 
the good doctor had offered to ride over to Cher- 
bury at least once a week, besides Sunday, prO' 
vided Lady Annabel would undertake that his 
directions, in his absence, should be attended to. 
This her ladyship promised cheerfully ; nor had 
she any dithculty in persuading Cadurcis to con- 
bent to the arrangement. He listened with docility 
and patience to her representation of the fatal 
effects, in his after-life, of his neglected education ; 
of the generous and advantageous offer of Dr. 
Masham ; and how cheerfully she would exert 
herself to assist his endeavours, if Plantagenet 
would willingly submit to her supervision. The 
little lord expresped to her his determination to do 
all that she desired, and voluntarily promised her 
that she should never repent her goodness. And 
he kept his word. So every morning, with the 
full concurrence of Mrs. Cadurcis, whose advice 
and opinion on the affair were most formally so- 
licited by Lady Annabel, Plantagenet arrived 
early at the hall, and took his writing and French 
lessons with Venetia, and then they alternately 
read aloud to Lady Annabel from the histories of 
Hooke and Echard. When Venetia repaired to 
her drawing, Cadurcis sat down to his Latin excr- 
(•ise, and, in encouraging and assisting him, Lady 
Annabel, a proficient in Italian, began herself to 
learn the ancient language of the Eonians. With 
such a charming mistress even these Latin exer- 
cises were achieved. In vain Cadurcis, after turn- 
ing leaf over leaf, would look around with a piteous 
air to his fair assistant — " O ! Lady Annabel, I am 
sure the word is not in the dictionary ;" Lady An- 
nabel was in a moment at his side, and, by some 
magic of her fair fingers the word would somehow 
or other make its appearance. After a little expo- 
sure of this kind, Plantagenet would labour with 
double energy, until, heaving a deep sigh of ex- 
haustion and vexation, he would burst forth — " O ! 
Lady Annabel, indeed there is not a nominative 
case in this sentence." And then Lady Annabel 
would quit her easel, with her pencil in her hand, 
and give all her intellect to the puzzling construc- 
tion; at length, she would say, "I think* Plan- 



tagenet, this must be our nombiative case ;" and 
so it always was. 

Thus, when Wednesday came, the longest and 
most laborious morning of all Lord Cadurcis' 
studies, and when he neither wrote, nor read, nor 
learnt French with Venetia, but gave up all his 
soul to Dr. Masham, he usually acquitted himself 
to that good person's satisfaction, who left him, in 
general, v,'ith commendations that were not lost 
on the pupil, and plenty of fresh exercises to oc- 
cupy him and Lady Annabel until the next week. 
When a year had thus passed away, the happiest 
year yet in Lord Cadurcis' life, in spite of all his 
disadvantages, he had contrived to make noincort- 
siderablc progress. Almost deprived of a tutor, he 
had advanced in classical acquirement more than 
during the whole of his preceding years of scholar- 
ship, while his hand-writing began to become intel- 
ligible ; he could read French with comparative 
facility, and had turned over many a volume in 
the well-stored library at Cherbury. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

Whex the hours of study were past, the chil 
dren, with that zest for play which occupation can 
alone secure, would go forth together, and wander 
in the park. Here they had made a little world 
for themselves, of which no one dreamed ; for Ve- 
netia had poured forth all her Arcadian lore into 
the ear of Plantagenet, and they acted together 
many of the adventures of the romance, under the 
fond names of Musidorus and Philoclea. Cher- 
bury was Arcadia, and Cadurcis Macedon; while 
the intervening woods figured as the forests of 
Thessaly, and the breezy downs were the heights 
of Pindus. Unwearied was the innocent sport of 
their virgin imaginations ; and it was a great treat 
if Venetia, attended by Mistress Pauncefort, were 
permitted to accomjiany Plantagenet some way on 
his return. Then they parted with an embrace in 
the woods of Thessaly, and Musidorus strolled 
home with a heavy heart to his Macedonian realm. 

Parted from Venetia, the magic suddenly seemed 
to cease, and Musidorus was instantly transformed 
into the little Lord Cadurcis, exhausted by the uncon- 
scious efforts of his fancy, depressed by the separa- 
tion from his sweet companion, and shrinking from 
the unpoetical iTception which at the best awaited 
him in his ungcnial home. Often, when thus 
alone, would he loiter on his way and seat himself 
on the ridge, and watch the setting svm, as its dy- 
ing glory illumined the turrets of his ancient house, 
and burnished the waters of the lake, until the 
tears stole down his check ; and yet he knew not 
why. No thoughts of sorrow had flitted through 
his minol, nor indeed had ideas of any description 
occurred to him. It was a trance of unmeaning 
abstraction ; all that he felt was a mystical pleasure 
in watching the sunset, and a conviction that, if lie 
were not with Venetia, that which he loved next 
best was to be alone. 

The little Cadurcis in general returned home 
moody and silent, and his mother too often, irri- 
tated by his demeanour, indulged in all the ex- 
pressions of a quick and offended temper; but 
since his intimacy with the Herberts, Plantagenet 
had learnt to control his emotions, and often sue- 



VENETIA. 



?03 



ccssfully laboured to prevent those scenes of do- 
mcstic recrimination once so paLnfully frequent. 
There often, too, was a note from Lady Annabel 
to Mrs. Cadurcis, or sonic other slight memorial, 
borne by her son, which enlisted all the kind feel- 
ings of that lady in favour of her Chcrbury friends, 
and then the cvcnincr was sure to pass over in 



.secure him a quiet evening at Cadurcis ; and when- 
ever this had not been obtained, the last words of 
Venclia were ever not to loiter, and to remember 
to speak to his mother as much as he possibly 
could. Vcnctia returne<l to a happy home, wel- 
comed by the smile of a soft and beautiful parent, 
and with words of afi'ection sweeter than music. 



peace; and, when Plantagenetwiis not thus armed,! She found an engaging companion, who had no 
he exerted himself to be cordial; and so, on the thought but for her welfare, her amusement, and 
whole, with some skill in management, and some her instruction; and often, v.hen the curtains were 
trials of temper, the mother and the child contrived ! drawn, the candles lit, and Venetia, holding her 



to live together with far greater comfort than they 
had of old. 

Bed-time was always a great relief to Plantagc- 
nct. for it secured him solitude. He would lie 
awake for hours, indulging in sweet and uncon- 
scious reveries, and brooding over the future morn, 
that always brought happiness. All that he used 
to ligh for was to be Lady Annabel's son ; were 
he Venctla's brother, then he was sure he never 
should be for a moment unhappy — that parting 
from Chcrbury, and the gloomy evenings at Ca- 
durcis, would then be avoided. In such a mood, 
and lying awake upon his pillow, he sought refuge 
from the painful reality that surrounded him in the 
creative solace of his imagination. Alone, in his 
little bed, Cadurcis was Venetia's brother, and he 
conjured up a thousand scenes in which they were 
never separated, and wherein he always played an 
amiable and graceful part. Yet he loved the ab- 
bey ; his painful infcUicy was not associated with 
tliat scene ; it was not connected with any of those 
provelling common-places of his life, from which 
he had shnmk back with instinctive disgust, even 
at a very tender age. Cadurcis was the spot to 
which, in his most miserable moments at Morpeth, 
he had always looked forward, as the only ch;mce 
of emancipation from the distressing scene that 
surrounded him. He had been brought up with a 
due sense of his future position, and althou[;h he 
had ever affected a haughty indifference on the sub- 
ject, from his disrelish from the coarse acquaint- 
ances who were perpetually reminding him, with 
chuckling self-complacency, of his future greatness, 
in secret he had ever brooded over his destiny as 
his only consolation. He had imbibed him from 
liis own reflections, at a very early period of life, 
a due sense of the importance of his lot ; he was 
proud of his hereditary honours, blended, as they 
were, with some glorious passages in the history 
of his country', and prouder of his still more an- 
cient line. The eccentric exploits and the violent 
passions, by which his race had been ever charac- 
terised, were to him a source of secret exultation. 
Even the late lord, who certainly had no claims to 
his gratitudo, for he liad robbed the inheritance to 
the utmost of his power, commanded, from the wild 
decision of his life, the savage respect of his suc- 
cessor. In vain Mrs. Cadumis would pour forth 
upon this, the favourite theme for her wrath and 
her lamentations, all the bitter expressions of her 
rage and wo. Plantagcnet had never imbibed her 
prejudices againtt the departed, and had often irri- 
tated his mother by maintaining that the late lord 
was perfectly justified in his conduct. 

But in these almost daily separations between 
Plantazenet and Venetia, how different was her 
lot to that of her companion! She was the confi- 



mother's hand, opened her book, she thought 
poor Plantagcnet, so differently situated, with n^ 
one to be kind to liim, with no one to sympathise 
with his thoughts, and perhaps, at the very mo- 
ment, goaded into some unhappy quaiTcl with his 
mother. 



CHAPTER IX. 

The appearance of the Cadurcis famil}- on the 
limited stage of her life, and the engrossing socie- 
ty of her companion, had entirely distracted the 
thoughts of Venetia from a subject to which in old 
days they were constantly recurring, and that was 
her fothcr. By a process which had often per- 
plexed her, and which she could never succeed in 
analysing, there had arisen in her mind, without 
any ostensible agency on the part of her mother 
which she could distinctly recall, a conviction that 
this was a topic on which she was never to speak. 
This idea had once haunted her, and she had sel- 
dom found herself alone without almost unconsci- 
ously musing over it. Notwithstanding the unva- 
rying kindness of Lady Annabel, she exercised 
over her child a complete and unquestioned con- 
trol. Venotia was brought up with strictness, 
which was only not felt to be severe, because the 
system was founded on the most entire alfection ; 
but, fcr\ent as her love was for her mother, it wa-s 
equalled by her profound respect, which every 
word and action of Lady Annabel tended to main- 
tain. 

In all the confidential effusions wiUi Plartage- 
net, Venetia had never dwelt upon this mysteri- 
ous subject ; indeed in these conversations when 
they treated of their real and not ideal life, Vene- 
tia was a mere recipient: all that she could com- 
municate, Plantagcnet could observe ; he it was 
who avenged himself at these moments for his ha- 
bitual silence before third persons ; it was to Vene- 
tia that he poured forth all his soul, and she was 
never wcar^' of hearmg his stories about Morpeth, 
and all his sorrows, disgusts, and afflictions. There 
was scarcely an individual in that little town with 
whom, from his lively narratives, she was not fa- 
miliar ; and it was to her sympathising heart that 
he confided all his future hopes and prospects, and 
confessed the strong pride he experienced in being 
a Cadurcis, which from all others was studiously 
concealed. 

It had happened that the first Christmas-day 
after the settlement of the Cadurcis family a^ he 
abbey occurred in the middle of the week ; and as 
the weather was severe, in order to prevent two 
journeys at such an inclement season, Lady An- 



dante of nil his domestic sorrows, and often he had nabcl persuaded Mrs. Cadurcis to pass the whole 
jcqucstcd her to exert her influence to obtain some week at the hall. This arrangement gave such 
pacifying missive from Lady Amiabel, which might] pleasure to Plantagenet that the walls of the a 



704 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



bey, as the old post-chaise was preparing for their 
journey, quite resounded with liis merriment. In 
vain, his mother, harassed with all the mysteries of 
packing, indulged in a thousand irritable expres- 
sions, which at any other time might have pro- 
duced a broil or even a fray ; Cadurcis did nothing 
but laugh. There was at the bottom of this boy's 
heart, with all his habitual gravity and reserve, a 
fund of humour which would occasionally break 
out, and which nothing could withstand. When 
he was alone with Venetia, he would imitate the 
^ old maids of Morpeth, and all the ceremonies of a 
provincial tea-party, with so much life and genuine 
fun, that Venetia was often obliged to stop in their 
rambles to indulge her overwhelming mirth. When 
they were alone, and he was gloomy, she was often 
accustomed to say, " Now, dear Plantagenet, tell 
me how the old ladies at Morpeth drink tea." 

This moTiing at the abbey Cadurcis was irre- 
sistible, and, the more excited his mother became 
with the difficulties wliich beset her, the more gay 
and fluent were his quips and cranks. Puffing, 
panting, and perspiring, now directing her waiting- 
woman, now scolding her man-ser\ant, and now 
ineffectually attempting to box her son's ears, Mrs. 
Cadurcis indeed offered a most ridiculous spec- 
tacle. 

" John !" screamed Mrs. Cadurcis, in a voice of 
bewildered passion, and stamping with rage, " is 
that the place for my cap-box '.' You do it on 
purpose, that you do !" 

" John," mimicked Lord Cadurcis, " how dare 
you do it on purpose !" 

" Take that, you brat," shrieked the mother, 
and she struck her own liand against the door- 
way. " ! I'll give it you, I'll give it you," she 
bellowed under the united influence of rage and 
pain, and she pursued her agile child, who dodged 
her on the other side of the post-chaise, which he 
persisted in calling the fiimily carriage. 

" O ! ma'am, my lady," exclaimed tlie waiting- 
woman, sallying forth from the abbey, " what is 
to be done with the parrot when we are away ! 
Mrs. Brown says she won't see to it, that she 
won't ; 'ta'n't her place." 

This rebellion of Mrs. Brown was a diversion 
1.1 favour of Plantagenet. Mrs. Cadurcis wad- 
dled down the cloisters with precipitation, rushed 
into the kitchen, seized tlie surprised Mrs. Brown 
by the shoulder, and gave her a good shake ; and 
darting at the cage which held the parrot, she bore 
it in triumph to the carriage. " I will take the 
bird with me," said Mrs. Cadurcis. 

" We cannot take the bird inside, madam," said 
Plantagenet, " for it will overhear all our conversa- 
tion, and repeat it. We shall not be able to abuse 
our friends." 

Mrs. Cadurcis threw the cage at her son's head, 
who, for the sake of the bird, dexterously caught it, 
but declared at the same time he would imme- 
diately throw it into the lake. Then Mrs. Cadurcis 
began to cry with rage and seating herself on the 
open steps of the chaise, sobbed hysterically. 
Plantagenet stole round on tip-toe, and peeped in 
her face , — " A merry Christmas and a happy new 
year, Mrs. Cadurcis !" said her son. 

" How can I be merry and happy, treated as I 
ami" sobbed the mother. "You do not treat 
Lady Annabel so. ! no, it is only your mother 
whom you use in this manner ! Go to Cherbury. 
Go by all means, but go by yourself; I shall not 



go : go to your friends, Lord Cadurcis ; they are 
your friends, not mine, and I hope they are satis- 
fied, now that they have robbed me of the affec- 
tions of my child. I have seen what they have 
been after all this time. I am not so blind as 
some people think. No ! I see how it is. I am 
nobody. Your poor mother, who brought you up, 
and educated you, is nobody. This is the end of 
all your Latin and French, and your fine lessons 
Honour your father and your mother. Lord 
Cadurcis ; that's a finer lessc« than all. Oh ! oh ! 
oh !" 

This allusion to the Herberts suddenly calmed 
Plantagenet. He felt in an instant the injudici- 
ousness of fostering by his conduct the latent 
jealousy which always lurked at the bottom of his 
mother's heart, and which nothing but the united 
talent and goodness of Lady Annabel could have 
hitherto baffled. So he rejoined, in a kind yet 
playful tone, " If you will be good, I will give you 
a kiss for a Christmas-box, mother, and the parrot 
shall go inside if you like." 

" The parrot may stay at home, I do not care 
about it : but I cannot bear quarrelling ; it is not 
my temper, you naughty, very naughty boy." 

" My dear mother," continued his lordship, in a 
soothing tone, " these scenes always happen when 
people are going to travel. I assure you it is quits 
a part of packing up." 

" You will be the death of me, that you will," 
said the mother, " with all your violence. You 
are worse than your father, that you are." 

" Come, mother," said her son, drawing nearer, 
and just touching lier shoulder vnth his hand, 
" will you not have my Christmas-box'?" 

The mother extended her cheek, which the son 
slightly touched with his lip, and then Mrs. Ca- 
durcis jumped up as lively as ever, called for a 
glass of Mountain, and began rating the foot-boy. 

At length the post-chaise was packed; they had 
along journey before them, because Lord Cadurcis 
would go round by Southport, to call upon a 
tradesman whom a month before he had commis- 
sioned to get a trinket made for him in London, 
according to the newest fashion, as a present for 
Venetia. The commission was executed; P»Irs. 
Cadurcis, who had been consulted in confidence 
by her son on the subject, was charmed with the 
result of their united taste. She had very good- 
naturedly contributed one of her own few, but 
very fine, emeralds, to the gift ; upon the back of 
the brooch was engraved : — 

TO TEKETIA, PKOM HER AFFECTIOIfATE DROTHEIt, 
PLANTAGEIVET. 

" I hope she will be a sister, and more than a 
sister to you," said Mrs. Cadurcis. 

" Why ?" inquired her son, rather confused. 

" You may look further, and fare worse," said 
Mrs. Cadurcis. 

Plantagenet blushed ; and yet he wondered why 
he blushed: he understood his mother, but he 
could not pursue the conversation ; his heart flut- 
tered. 

A most cordial greeting awaited them at Cher- 
bury; Dr. Mashani was there, and was to remain 
until Monday. Mrs. Cadurcis would have opened 
about the present inunediately, but her son warned 
her on the threshold that if she said a word about 
it, or seemed to be aware of its previous existence, 



VENETIA. 



705 



even when it was sIiowti, he would fling it in-| 
stantly away in the snow ; and her horror of this ■ 
catastrophe bridled her tonj^e. Mrs. Cadurcis, 
however, was happy, and Lady Annabel was glad 
to see her so ; the doctor, too, paid her some most 
charming compliments ; the good lady was in the 
liighcst spirits, for she was always in extremes, 
and at this moment she would willingly have laid 
down her life if she had thought the sacrifice 
could have contributed to the welfare of the Her- 
berts. 

Cadurcis himself drew Venetia aside, and then, 
holding the brooch reversed, he said, with rather a 
confused air, " Read that, Venetia." 

" Oh I Plantagcnet !" she said, very much as- 
tonished. 

" You see, Venetia," he added, leaving it in her 
hand, " it is yours." 

Venetia turned the jewel ; her eye was dazzled 
with its brilliancy. 

" It is too grand for a Uttle girl, Plantagcnet," 
she exclaimed, a little pale. 

" No, it is not," said Plantagcnet, firmly ; " be- 
eides, you will not always be a little girl ; and 
then, if ever we do not live together as we do now, 
you will always remember you have a brother." 

" I must show it mamma ; I must ask her per- 
mission to take it, Plantagcnet." 

Venetia went up to her mother, who was talking 
to Mrs. Cadurcis. She had not courage to speak 
before that lauy and Dr. Mashani, so she called 
her mother aside. 

" Mamma," she said, " something has happen- 
ed." 

" What, my dearl" said Lady Annabel, some- 
what surprised at the seriousness of her tone. 

" Look at this, mamma !" said Venetia, giving 
her the brooch. 

Lady Annabel looked at the jewel, and read the 
inscription. It was a more precious ofTcnng than 
the mother would willingly have sanctioned, but 
she was too highly bred, and too thoughtful of the 
fecUngs of others, to hesitate for a moment to ad- 
mire it herself, and authorise its acceptance by her 
daughter. So she walked up to Cadurcis and 
gave him a mother's embrace for his magnificent 
present to his sister, placed the brooch itself near 
Vcnetia's heart, and then led her daughter to Mrs. 
Cadurcis, that the gratified mother might admire 
the testimony of her son's taste and affection. 
It was a most successful present, and Cadurcis 
felt grateful to his mother for her share in its pro- 
duction, and the very proper manner in which she 
received the announcement of its offering. 



CHAPTER X. 

This w^as Christmas-eve ; the snow was falling 
hriskly. After dinner they were glad to cluster 
lound the larp;e fire in the preen drawing-room. 
Dr. Masham had promised to read the evening 
service in the chapel, which was now lit up, and 
the bell was sounding that the cottagers might 
have the opporluffity of attending. 

Plantagcnet and Venetia followed the elders to 
the chapel ; they walked hand-in-hand down the 
ong galleries. 

" I should like to go all over this house," said 
89 



Plantagcnet, to his companion. " Have you ever 
beenl" 

"Never," said Venetia; "half of it is shut up. 
Nol)ody ever goes into it except mamma." 

In the night there was a violent snow-storm ; 
not only was the fall extremely heavy, but the 
wind was so high that it carried the snow olf the 
hills, and all the roads were blocked up ; in many 
places ten or twelve feet deep. All communica- 
tion was stopped. This was an adventure that 
amused the children, though the rest looked rather 
grave. Plantagcnet expressed to Venetia his wish 
that the snow would never melt, and that they 
might remain at Cherburj' for ever. 

The children were to have a holyday this week, 
and they had planned some excursions in the park 
and neighbourhood, but now they were all prisoners 
to the house. They wandered about, turning the 
staircase into mountains, the great hall into an 
ocean, and the different rooms into so many vari- 
ous regions. They amused themselves with their 
adventures, and went on endless voyages of dis- 
covery. Every moment Plantagcnet longed still 
more for the opportunity of exploring the unin- 
habited chambers ; but Venetia shook her head, 
because she was sure Lady Annabel would not 
grant them permission. 

" Did you ever live at any place before you 
came to Cherburyl" inquired Lord Cadurcis of 
Venetia. 

" I know I was not born here," said Venetia ; 
" hut I was so young that I have no recollection 
of any other place." 

" And did any one live here before you camel" 
said Plantagcnet. 

" I do not know," said Venetia, " I never heard 
if any body did. I — I," she continued, a little 
constrained, " I know nothing." 

" Do you remember your papal" said Plantagc- 
net. 

" No," said Venetia. 

" Then he must have died almost as sOon as you 
were born," said Lord Cadurcis. 

" I suppose he must," said Venetia, and her 
heart trembled. 

"I wonder if he ever Uved here?" said Plantagc- 
net. 

"Mamma does not like me to ask questions 
about my papa," said Venetia, "and I cannot tell 
you any thing." 

" Ah ! your papa was different to mine, Vene- 
tia," said Lord Cadurcis ; my mother talks of him 
often enough. They did not agree \exy well ; and, 
when we quarrel, she always says I remind her of 
him. I dare say Lady Annabel loved your papa 
very much." 

" I am sure mamma did," replied Venetia. 

The children returned to the drawing-room, and 
joined their friends: Mrs. Cadurcis was sitting on 
the sofa, occasionally dozing over a sermon ; Dr. 
Masham was standing with Lady Annabel in the 
recess of a distant window. Her ladyship's coun- 
tenance was averted ; she was reading a newspa- 
per, which the doctor had given her. .\s the door 
opened, Lady Annabel glanced round ; her coun- 
tenance was agitated; she folded up the newspaper 
rather hastily, and gave it to the doctor. 

" And what have you been doing, little folks?" 
inquired the doctor of the newcomers. 

" "We have been playing at the History of Rome " 



ro6 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



said Venetla, " and, now that we have conquered 
every place, we do not know what to do." 

" The Ui5ual resuH of conquest," said the doctor, 
smiUng. "This snow-storrn is a great trial for 
j'ou ; I begin to believe that, after all, you would 
be more pleased to take your holydays at another 
opportunity." 

''We could amuse ourselves very well," said 
Plantagenet, " if Lady Annabel would be so kind 
as to permit us to explore the part of the house 
that IS shut up." 

" That would be a strange mode of diversion," 
said Lady Amabel, very quietly, " and I do not 
think by any means a suitable one. There cannot 
be much amusement in roaming over a number of 
dusty unfurnished rooms." 

" And so nicely dressed as you are too !" said 
Mrs. Cadurcis, rousing herself: I wonder such an 
idea could enter your head!" 

''It snows harder than ever," said Venetia;'! 
think, after all, I shall learn my French vocabu- 
lary." 

" If it snows to-morrow," said Plantagenet, " we 
will do our lessons as usual. Holydays, I find, are 
not so amusing as I supposed." 

The snow did continue, and the next day the 
children voluntarily suggested that they should re- 
sume their usual course of life. With their morn- 
ings occupied, they found their sources of relaxa- 
tion ample ; and in the evening they acted plays, 
and Lady Annabel dressed them up in her shawls; 
and Dr. Masham read Shakspeare to them. 

It was about the fourth day of the visit that Plan- 
tagenet, loitering in the hall with Venetia, said to 
her, " I saw your mamma go into the locked-up 
rooms last night. I do so wish that she would let 
us go there." 

"Last night!' siiid Venetia ;" when could you 
have seen her last nightl" 

" Very late : the fact is, I could not sleep, and I 
took it into my head to walk up and down the gal- 
lery. I often do so at the abbey. I like to walk 
up and down an old gallery alone at night. I do 
not know why ; but I like it very much. Every 
thing is so still, and then you hear the owls. I 
cannot make out why it is ; but nothing gives nie 
more pleasure than to get up when every body is 
asleep. It seems as if one were the only living 
person in the world. I sometimes think, when I 
am a man, I will always get up in the night, and 
go to bed in the day-time. Is not that odd!" 

"But mamma!" said Venetia, "how came you 
to see mammal" 

" O ! I am certain of it," said the little lord ; " for, 
to tell you the truth, I was rather frightened at 
first; only I thought it would not do for a Cadur- 
cis to be afraid, so I stood against the wall, in the 
shade, and I was determined, whatever happened, 
not to cry out." 

" O ! you frighten me so, Plantagenet !" said Ve- 
netia. 

" Ah ! you might have been frightened if you 
had been there; past midnight, a tall white figure, 
and a light! — However, there is nothing to be 
alarmed about ; it was Lady Annabel, nobody else. 
J saw her as clearly as I see you now. She walked 
along the gallery, and went to the very door you 
showed me the other morning. I marked the door ; 
1 could not mistake it. She urdocked it, and she 
went in." 

"And thcnl" inquired Venetia, eagerly. 



" Why then, like a fool, I went back to bed,' 
said Plantagenet. " I thought it would seem so 
foolish if I were caught, and I might not have had 
the good fortune to escape twice. I know no 
more." 

Venetia could not reply. She heard a laugh, 
and then her mother's voice. They were called 
with a gay summons to see a colossal snow-ball, 
that some of the younger servants had made and 
rolled to the window of the ten-ace-room. It wa.s 
ornamented with a crown of holly and misletoe, 
and the parti-coloured berries looked bright, in a 
straggling sunbeam which had fought its way 
through the still loaded sky, and fell upon the 
terrace. 

In the evening, as they sat round the fire, Mrs. 
Cadurcis began telling Venetia a long rambling 
ghost story, which she declared was a real ghost 
story, and had happened in her own family. Such 
communications were not very pleasing to Lady 
Annabel, but she was too well bred to interrupt 
her guest. W'hen, however, the narrative was 
finished, and Venetia by her observations, evidently 
indicated the effect that it had produced upon her 
mind, her mother took the occasion of impi-essing 
upon her the little credibility which should be at- 
tached to such legends, and the rational process by 
which many unquestionable apparitions might 1)6 
accounted for. Dr. Masham, following this train, 
recounted a story of a ghost which had been ge- 
nerally received in a neighbouring village for a con- 
siderable period, and attested by the most veracious 
witnesses, but which was explained afterwards by 
turning out to be an instance of somnambulism, 
Venetia appeared to be extremely interested in the 
subject; she inquired much about sleep-walkers and 
sleep-walking ; and a great many examples of the 
habit were cited. At length she said, " mamma, 
did you ever walk in your slecpl" 

"Not to my knowledge," said Lady Annabel, 
smiling; "I should hope not." 

" Well, do you know," said Plantagenet, who 
had hitherto listened in silence, " it is very curious, 
but I once dreamt that you did. Lady Annabel." 

" Indeed !" said the lady. 

" Yes ! and I dreamt it last night too," continued 
the little lord. " I thought I was sleeping in the 
uninhabited rooms here, and the door opened, aiul 
you walked in with a light." 

"No, Plantagenet," said Venetia, who was seat- 
ed by him, and who spoke in a whisper, " it was 
not — " 

" Hush !" said Lord Cadurcis, in a low voice. 

" Well, that was a strange dream," said Mrs. 
Cadurcis; was it not, doctor?" 

" Now, children, I will tell you a very curious 
story," said the doctor , " and it is quite a true one, 
for it happened to myself." 

The doctor was soon embarked in his tale, and 
his audience speedily became interested in the nar- 
rative ; but Lady Annabel for some tune maintained 
complete silence. 



CHAPTER XL 

The spring returned ; the intimate relations be- 
tween the two families were each day more con- 
firmed. Lady Annabel had presented her daugh 
ter and Plantagenet each with a beautiful pony, 



VENiJTIA 



707 



bat their ritlcs were at first to be confined to the 
park, and to be ever attended by a groom. In time, 
however, duly accompanied, they were permitted 
to extend their progress as far as Cadurcis. Mrs. 
Cadurcis had consented to the wishes of her son 
to restore the old garden, and Vcnetia was his prin- 
cipal adviser and assistant in the enterprise. Plan- 
tagenet was fond of the old abbey, and nothing but 
the agreeable society of Cherbury on the one hand, 
and the relief of escaping from his mother on the 
other, could have induced him to pass so little of 
his time at home; but, with Vcnetia for his com- 
panion, his mornings at the abbey passed charm- 
ingly, and, as the days were now at their full 
lenijth again, there was abundance of time after 
their studies at Cherbury to ride together through 
the woods to Cadurcis, spend several hours there, 
and for Venetia to return to the hall before sunset. 
Plantagenet always accompanied her to the limits 
of the Cherbury grounds, and then returned by 
himself solitary and full of fancies. 

Ladj' Annabel had promised the children that 
they should some day ride together to Marring- 
hurst, the rectory of Dr. Masham, to eat strawber- 
ries and cream. This was to be a great festival, 
and was looked forward to with corresponding in- 
terest. Her ladyship had kindly offered to accom- 
pany Mrs. Cadurcis in the carriage ; but that lady 
was an invalid, and declined the journey ; so Lady 
Annabel, who herself was a good horsewoman, 
mounted her mare with Vcnetia and Plantagenet. 

Marringhurst was only five miles from Cherbury 
by a cross-road, which was scarcely passable for 
carriages. The rectory house was a substantial, 
square-built, red brick mansion, shaded by gigantic 
elms, but the southern front covered with a famous 
vine, trained over it with elaborate care, and of 
which and his espaliers the doctor was very proud. 
The garden was thickly stocked with choice fruit- 
trees ; there was not the slightest pretence of plea- 
sure grounds; but there was a capital bowling- 
green, and, above all, a grotto, where the doctor 
smoked his evening pipe, and moralized in the 
midst of his. cucumbers and cabbages. On each 
side extended the meadows of his glebe, where his 
kine ruminated at will. It was altogether a scene 
as devoid of the picturesque as any that could be 
well imagined ; flat, but not low, and rich, and 
green, and still. 

His expected guests met as warm a reception as 
such a hearty friend might be expected to afford. 
Dr. Masham was scarcely less delighted at the ex- 
cursion than the children themselves, and rejoiced 
in the sunny day that made every thing more glad 
and bright. The garden, the grotto, the bowling- 
green, and all the novelty of the spot, greatly di- 
verted his young companions; they visited his 
f;irm-yard, were introduced to his poultry, rambled 
over his meadows, and admired his cows, which he 
had collected with equal care and knowledge. Nor 
was the interior of this bachelor's residence devoid 
of amusement. Every nook and corner was filled 
with objects of interest ; and every thing was in 
the most admirable order. The goddess of neat- 
ness and precision reigned supreme, especially in 
his hnll, which, though barely six feet square, was 
a cabinet of rural curiosities. His gims, his fish- 
ing tackle, a cabinet of birds stuffed by himself, a 
fox in a glass case that seemed absolutely nmning, 
onJ an otter with a real fish in its mouth, in turn 



[delighted them; but chiefly, perhaps, his chimney 
I corner of Dutch tiles, all scriptural subjects, which 
Venetia and Plantagenet emulated each other iii 
discovering. 

'i'hen his library, which was rare and splendid, 
for the doctor was one of the most renowned scho 
lars in the kingdom, and his pictures, his prints 
and his gold fish, and his canary birds ; it seemed 
they never could exhaust such sources of endless 
amusement ; to say nothing of every other room in 
the house, for, from the garret to the dairj', his 
guests encouraged him in introducing them to 
every thing, every person, and every place. 

" And this is the way we old bachelors contrive 
to pass our lives,*' said the good doctor; "and 
now, my dear lady. Goody Blount will give us 
some dinner. ' 

The doctor's repast was a very substantial one ; 
he seemed resolved, at one ample swoop, to repay 
Lady Annabel lor all her hospitality ; and he really 
took such delight in their participation of it, that 
his principal guest was constrained to check her- 
self in more than one warning intimation that 
moderation was desirable, were it only for the 
sake of the strawberries and cream. All this time, 
his housekeeper. Goody Blount, as he called her, 
in her lace cap and ruffles, as precise and starch 
as an old picture, stood behind his chair with 
pleased solemnity, directing, with unruffled com- 
posure, the movements of the liveried bumpkin 
who this day was promoted to the honour of 
" waiting at table." 

" Come," said the doctor, as the cloth was 
cleared, " I must bargain for one toast, Lady An- 
nabel : Church and State." 

" What is Church and State 1" said Venetia. 

" As good things. Miss Venetia, as strawberries 
and cream," said the doctor, laughing; "and, hke 
them, always best united." 

After their repast, the children went into the 
garden to amuse themselves. They strolled about 
some time, until Plantagenet at length took it into 
his head that he should like to learn to play at 
bowls ; and he said, if Venetia would wait in the 
grotto, where they then were talking, he would 
run back and ask the doctor if the servant might 
teach him. He was not long absent; but ap)- 
peared, on his return, a little agitated. Venetia 
inquired if he had been successful ; but he shook 
his head, and said, he had not asked. 

" Why did you not?" said Vcnetia. 

" I did not like," he replied, looking very se- 
rious ; " something happened." 

" What could have happened 1" said Venetia. 

" Something strange," was his answer. 

" O, do tell me, Plantagenet !" 

" Why," said he, in a low voice, " your mamma 
is crying." 

" Crying !" exclaimed Venetia ; " my dear mam- 
ma crying ! I must go to her directly." 

" Hush !" said Plantagenet, shaking his head, 
" you must not go." 

" I must." 

" No, you must not go, Venetia," was his re- 
ply ; " I am sure she does not want us to know 
she is cn,-ing." 

" What did she say to you?" 

" Slie did not see me ; the doctor did, and he 
gave me a nod to go away." 

" I never saw mamma cry," said Venetia. 



70f8 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Don't you say any thing about it, Venetia," 
said Plantagenet, with a very manly air. " Listen 
to what I say." 

" I do, Plantagenet, always ; but still I should 
like to know what mamma is crying about. Do 
I ell me all about it." 

" Why I came to the room by the open windows, 
and your mamma was standing up, with her back 
to me, and leaning on the mantel-piece, with her 
face in her handkerchief; and the doctor was 
standing up too, only his back was to the fire-place ; 
and when he saw me, he made me a sign to go 
away, and I went directly." 

"Are you sure mamma was crying V 

" I heard her sob." 

" I think I shall cry," said Venetia. 

" You must not ; you must know nothing about 
it. If you let your mamma know that I saw her 
ciying, I shall never tell you any thing again." 

" What do you thiidi she was crying about, 
Plantagenet'!" 

" I cannot say ; perhaps she had been talking 
about your papa. I do not want to play at bowls 
now," added Plantagenet. " Let us go and see 
the cows." 

In the course of half an hour the servant sum- 
moned the children to the house. The horses 
were ready, and they were now to return. Lady 
Annabel received them with her usual cheerful- 
ness. 

" Well, dear children," she said, " have you 
been very much amused 1" 

Venetia ran forward and embraced her mother 
with even unusual fondness. She was mindful 
of Plantagenet's injunctions, and was resolved not 
to revive her mother's grief by any allusion that 
could recall the past ; but her heart was, neverthe- 
less, full of sympathy, and she could not have 
rode home, had she not thus expressed her love 
for her mother. 

With the exception of this strange incident, 
over which, afterwards, Venetia often pondered, 
and which made her rather serious the whole of 
the ride home, this expedition to Marringhurstwas 
a very happy day. 



CHAPTER XII. 

This happy summer was succeeded by a smgu- 
larly wet autumn. Weeks of continuous rain 
rendered it difficult even for the little Cadurcis, 
who defied the elements, to be as constant as here- 
tofore in his daily visits to Cherbury. His mother, 
too, grew daily a greater invalid, and, with in- 
creasing sufferings and infirmities, the natural 
captiousness of her temper proportionably exhi- 
bited itself She insisted upon the companionship 
of her son, and that he should not leave the house 
in such iinseasonable weather. If he resisted, she 
fell into one of her jealous rages, and taunted him 
with loving strangers better than his own mother, 
Cadurcis, on the whole, behaved very well ; he 
thought of Lady Annabel's injunctions, and rc- 
stramed his passion. Yet he was not repaid for 
the sacrifice ; his mother made no effort to render 
their joint society agreeable, or even endurable. 
She was rarely in an amiable mood, and generally 
either irritable or sullen. If the weather held up 
a little, and he ventured to pay a visit to Cherbury, 



he was sure to be welcomed back with a fit of 
passion ; either Mrs. Cadurcis was angered for 
being left alone, or had fermented herself into fury 
by the certainty of his catching a fever. If Plan- 
tagenet remained at the abbey, she was generally 
sullen; and, as he himself was naturally silent 
under any circumstances, his mother would in- 
dulge in that channing monologue, so conducive 
to domestic serenity, termed " talking at a person,'' 
and was continually insinuating that she supposed 
he found it very dull to pass his day with her, and 
that she dared say that somebody could be lively 
enough if he were somewhere else. 

Cadurcis would turn pale, and bite his lip, and 
then leave the room ; and whole days would some- 
times pass with barely a monosyllable being ex 
changed between this parent and child. Cadurcis 
had found some opportunities of pouring forth his 
grief and mortification into the ears of Venetia, 
and they had reached her mother ; but Lady An- 
nabel, though she sympathised with this interesting 
boy, invariably counselled duty. The morning 
studies were abandoned, but a quantity of books 
were sent over from Cherbury for Plantagenet, 
and Lady Annabel seized every opportunity of 
conciliating Mrs« Cadurcis temper in favour of 
her child, by the attention which she paid the 
mother. The weather, however, prevented either 
herself or Venetia from visiting the abbey ; and, 
on the whole, the communications between the 
two establishments and their inmates had become 
very rare. 

Though now a continual inmate of the abbey, 
Cadurcis was seldom the companion of his mother. 
They met at their meals, and that was all. He 
entered the room every day with an intention of 
conciliating ; but the mutual tempers of the mo- 
ther and the son were so quick and sensitive, thai 
he always failed in his purpose, and could only 
avoid a storm by dogged silence. This enraged 
Mrs. Cadurcis more even than his impertinence ; 
she had no conduct ; she lost all command over 
herself, and did not hesitate to address to her 
child terms of reproach and abuse, which a vulgar 
mind could only conceive and a coarse tongue 
alone express. What a contrast to Cherbury, to 
the mild maternal elegance and provident kindness 
of Lady Annabel, and the sweet tones of Venetia's 
ever-sympathising voice ! Cadurcis, though so 
very young was gifted with an innate fastidious- 
ness, that made him shrink from a rude woman. 
His feelings were different in regard to men ; he 
sympathised at a very early age with the bold and 
tile energetic ; his favourites among the peasantry 
were ever those who excelled in athletic sports ; 
and, though he never expressed the opinion, he 
did not look upon the poacher with the evil eye 
of his class. But a coarse and violent woman 
jarred even his young nerves; and this woman 
was his mother, his only parent, almost his only 
relation ; for he had no near relative, except a 
cousin whom he had never even seen, the penny less 
orphan of a pennylcss brother of his father, and 
who had been sent to sea at a very early age ; so 
that, after all, his mother was the only natural 
friend he had. Tliis poor little boy would fly 
from that mother with a sullen brow, or, perhaps, 
even with a harsh and cutting repartee ; and then 
he would lock himself up in his room and weep. 
But he allowed no witnesses in this wealaiess. 
The lad was very proud. If any of the houseboU 



VENETIA. 



709 



passed by as he quitted the saloon, and stared for a 
moment at his pale and a;^itated face, he would 
coin a smile for the instant, and say even a kind 
word, for he was very courteous to his inferiors, 
and all the servants loved him ; and then take re- 
fuge in his solitary woe. 

Relieved by this indulgence of his mortified 
heart, Cadurcis looked about him for resources. 
The rain was pounng in torrents, and the plash of 
the trouliled and swollen lake might be heard even 
at the alibey. At night the rising gusts of wind, 
for the nights were always clear and stormy, echoed 
down the cloisters with a wild moan to which he 
loved to listen. In the morning he beheld with 
interest the savage spoils of the tempest ; mighty 
branches of trees strewn about, and sometimes a 
vast trunk uprooted from its ancient settlement. 
Irresistibly the conviction impressed itself upon 
his mind, that, if he were alone in his old abbey, 
with no mother to break that strange fountain of 
fancies that seemed always to bubble up in his 
solitude, he might be happy. He wanted no 
companions; he loved to be alone, to listen to 
the winds, and gaze upon the trees and waters,! 
and wander in those dim cloisters and that gloomy 
gallery. ^ | 

From the first hour of his arrival he had loved , 
the venerable hall of his fathers. Its appearance j 
harmonised with all the associations of his race. 
Power and pomp, ancestral fame, the legendary 
respect of ages, all that was great, exciting, and 
heroic, all that was marked out from the common- 
place current of human events, hovered round him. 
In the halls of Cadurcis he was the Cadurcis ; 
though a child, he was keenly sensible of his high 
race ; his whole being sympathised with their 
glory ; he was capable of dying sooner than of 
disgracing them ; and then came the memory^ of 
his mother's sharp voice and harsh vulgar words, 
and he shivered with disgust. 

Forced into solitude, forced to feed upon his 
own mind, Cadurcis found in that solitude each 
day a dearer charm, and in that mind a richer 
treasure of interest and curiosity. lie loved to 
wander about, dream of the past, and conjure up 
a future as glorious. What was he to be ] — 
What should be his career 1 — Whither should he 
wend his course ? Even at his early age, dreams 
of far lands flitted over his mind, and schemes of 
fantastic and adventurous life. But now he was 
a bo}' — a wretched boy — controlled by a vulgar 
and narrow-minded woman ! And this servitude 
must last for years ; yes ! years nuist elapse before 
he was his own master. ! if he could only 
p.ass them alone, without a human voice to disturb 
his musings, a single form to distract his vision ! 

Under the influence of such feelings, even 
Cherbury fi.rurcd to his fancy in somewhat faded 
colours. Tlierc, indeed, he was loved and che- 
rished ; there, indeed, no sound was ever heard, 
no sight ever seen, that could annoy or mortify 
the high pitch of his unconscious ideal ; but 
still, even at Cherbury, he was a child. Under 
the influence of daily intercourse, his tender heart 
h3<l balanced, perhaps even out-wei-jhed, his fiery 
imagination. That constant yet delicate afiection 
had softened all his soul : he had no time but to 
be grateful and to love. He returned home only 
to muse over their sweet society, and contrast their 
refined and gentle life with the harsh rude hearth 
that awaitol him. Whatever might be his recep- 



tion at home, he was thrown back *br solace on 
their memory, not ujton his own heart ; and he 
felt the deliglitful conviction that to-morrow would 
renew the spell whose enchantment had enabled 
him to endure the present vexation. But now the 
magic of that intercourse had ceased ; after a few 
days of restlessness and repining, he discovered 
that he must find in his desolation sterner sources 
of support than the memory of Venctia, and the 
recollections of the domestic joys of Cherbury. It 
was astonishing with what rapidity the character 
of Cadurcis developed itself in solitude ; and 
strange was the contrast between the gentle child 
who, a few weeks Ijcforc, had looked forward with 
so much interest to accompanying Venetia to a 
childish festival, and the stern and moody being 
who paced the solitary cloisters of Cadurcis, and 
then would withdraw to his lonely chamber and 
the amusement of a book. He was at this time 
deeply interested in Purchas's Pilgrimage, one of 
the few books of which the late lord had not de- 
spoiled him. Narratives of travels and voyages 
always particularly pleased him ; he had an idea 
that he was laying up information which might 
be useful to him hereafter ; the Cherburv' collection 
was rich in this class of volumes, and Lady Anna- 
bel encouraged their perusal. 

In this way many weeks elapsed at the abbey, 
during which the visits of PlanUigcnet to Cherbury 
were very few. Sometimes, if the weather cleared 
for an hour during the morning, he would mount 
his pony, and gallop without stopping to the halh 
The rapidity of the motion excited his mind ; he 
fancied himself, as he embraced Venctia, some 
chieftain who had escaped for a moment from his 
castle to visit his mistress ; his imagination con- 
jured up a war between the opposing towers of 
Cadurcis and Cherbury; and when his mother 
fell into a passion on his return, it passed with 
him only, according to its length and spirit, as a 
brisk skirmish or a general engagement. 



CHAPTER Xni. 

On'e afternoon, on his return from Cherbury, 
Plantagenet found the fire extinguished in the 
little room which he had appropriated to himself, 
and where he kept his books. As he had expres- 
sed his wish to the serv'ant that the fire should be 
kept up. he complained to him of the neglect, but 
was informed, in reply, that the fire had been 
allowed to go out by his mother's orders, and that 
she desired in future that he would always read 
in the saloon. Plantagenet had suflicient self- 
control to make no observ'ation before the servant, 
and soon after joined his mother, who looked very 
sullen, as if she were conscious that she had laid 
a train for an explosion. 

Dinner was now served, a short and silent meal. 
Lord Cadurcis did not choose to speak because he 
felt aggrieved, and his mother because she was 
husbanding her energies for the contest which she 
believed impending. At length, when the table 
Wiis cleared, and the servant departed. Lord Ca- 
durcis said in a very quiet tone, " I think I shall 
write to my guardian to-morrow about my going 
to Eton." 

" You shall do no such thing," said Mrs. Ca 

3(» 



710 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



durcis, bristling up, " I never heard such a 
ridiculous idea in my life as a boy like you writing 
letters on such subjects to a person you have never 
even seen. When I think it proper that you 
should go to Eton I shall write." 

" I wish you would think it proper now then, 
ma'am." 

" I won't be dictated to," said Mrs. Cadurcis, 
fiercely. 

" I was not dictating," replied her son, calmly. 

<' You would if you could," said his mother. 

" Time enough to find fault with me when I 
do, ma'am." 

•' There is enough to find fault about at all 
times, sir." 

" On which side, Mrs. Cadurcis 1" inquired 
Plantagenet, with a sneer. 

" Don't aggravate me, Lord Cadurcis," said his 
mother. 

" How am I aggravating you, ma'am 1" 

" I won't be answered," said the mother. 

" I prefer silence myself," said the son. 

" I won't be insulted in my own room, sir," 
said Mrs. Cadurcis. 

" I am not insulting you, Mrs. Cadurcis," said 
Plantagenet, rather fiercely ; " and as for your 
own room, I never wish to enter it. Indeed I 
should not be here at this moment, had you not 
ordered my fire to be put out, and particularly 
requested that I should sit in the saloon." 

" Oh ! you are a vastly obedient person, I dare 
say," replied Mrs. Cadurcis, very pettishly. " How 
long, 1 should like to know, have my requests re- 
ceived such particular attention ? Pooh !" 

" Well, then, I wdl order my fire to be lighted 
again," said Plantagenet. 

" You shall do no such thing," s-.id the mother ; 
" I am mistress in this house. No one shall give 
orders here but me, and you may write to your 
g^uardian and tell him that if you like." 

" 1 shall certainly not write to my guardian for 
the first time," said Lord Cadurcis, " about any 
such nonsense." 

" Nonsense, sir ! Nonsense you said, did you ? 
Your mother nonsense ! This is the way to treat 
a parent, is it 1 I am nonsense, am II I will teach 
you what nonsense is. Nonsense shall be very 
good sense ; you shall find that, sir, that you shall. 
Nonsense, indeed ! I'll write to your guardian, 
that I will ! You call your mother nonsense, do 
you 1 And where did you learn that, I should like 
to know ] Nonsense, indeed ! This comes of 
your going to Cherbury ! So your mother is non- 
sense ; a pretty lesson for Lady Annabel to teach 
you. Oh ! I'll speak my mind to her, that I will." 

" What has Lady Annabel to do with it ]" in- 
quired Lord Cadurcis in a loud tone. 

" Don't threaten me, sir," said Mrs. Cadurcis, 
with violent gesture, " I won't be menaced ; I 
won't be menaced by my son. Pretty goings on, 
indeed ! But I will put a stop to them ; will I 
not ? that is all. Nonsense, indeed ; your mother 
nonsense !" 

" Well, you do talk nonsense, and the greatest," 
said Plantagenet, doggedly ; " you are talking non 
sense now, you are always talking nonsense, and 
you never open your mouth about Lady Annabel 
without talking nonsense." 

" If I was not very ill I would give it you," 
said his mother, grinding her teeth. " O ! you 
brat ! You wicked brat you ! Is this the way to 



address me 1 I have half a mind to shako 
your viciousness out of you, that I have ! You 
are worse than your father, that you are !" — and 
here she wept with rage. 

" I dare say my father was not so bad, after all,' 
said Lord Cadurcis. 

" What should you know about your father, 
sir"!" said Mrs. Cadurcis. " How dare you speak 
about your father !" 

" Who should speak about a father but a son !" 

" Hold your impudence, sir !" 

" I am not impudent, ma'am." 

" You aggravating brat !" exclaimed the enraged 
woman, " I wish I had something to throw at you !'' 
' Did you throw things at my father !" asked 
his lordship. 

Mrs. Cadurcis went into an hysterical rage; 
then, suddenly jumping up, she rushed at her son. 
liOrd Cadurcis took up a position behind the table, 
but the sportive and mocking air which he gene- 
rally instinctively assumed on these occasions, and 
which, while it irritated his mother more, was in 
reality affected by the boy from a sort of nervous 
desire of preventing these dreadful exposures from 
assuming a too tragic tone, did not characterise 
his countenance on the present occasion ; on the 
contrary, it was pale, but composed and very 
serious. Mrs. Cadurcis, after one or two ineffec- 
tual attempts to catch him, paused and panted for 
breath. He took advantage of this momentaiy 
cessation, and spoke thus — " Mother, I am in no 
humour for frolics. I moved out of your way that 
you might not strike me, because I have made up 
my mind that, if ever you strike me again, I will 
live with you no longer. Now I have given you 
warning ; do what you please ; I shall sit down in 
this chair and not move. If you strike me, you 
know the consequences." So saying, his lordship 
resumed his chair. 

Mrs. Cadurcis simultaneously sprang forward 
and boxed his ears ; and then her son rose without 
the slightest expression of any kind, and slowly 
quitted the chamber. 

Mrs. Cadurcis remained alone in a savage sulk : 
hours passed away, and her son never made his 
appearance. Then she rang the bell, and ordered 
the servant to tell Lord Cadurcis that tea was 
ready ; but the servant returned, and reported that 
his lordship had locked himself up in his room, 
and would not reply to his inquiries. Determined 
not to give in, Mrs. Cadurcis, at length, retired for 
the night, rather regretting her violence, but still 
sullen. Having well scolded her waiting-woman, 
she, at length, fell asleep. 

The morning brought breakfast, but no Lord 
Cadurcis ; in vain were all the messages of his 
mother, her son would make no reply to them. Mrs, 
Cadurcis, al length, personally repaired to his room 
and knocked at the door, but she was as unsuccess- 
ful as the servants ; she began to think he would 
starve, and desired the servant to offer from him- 
self to bring his meal. Still silence. Indignant 
at his treatment of these overtures of conciliation, 
Mrs. Cadurcis returned to the saloon, confident 
that hunger, if no other impulse, would bring her 
wild cub out of his lair ; but, just before dinner, 
her waiting-woman came running into the room. 

" O, ma'am, ma'am, I don't know where Lord 
Cadurcis has gone ; but I have just seen John, 
and he says there was no pony in the stable thi* 
morning." 



VENETIA. 



711 



Mrs. Cadurcis sprang up, rushed to her son's 
chamber, found the door still locked, ordered it to 
he hurst open, and then it turned out that his 
lordship h;id never heen there at all, for the bed 
was unused. Mrs. Cadurcis was friirhtened out 
of her life ; the servants, to console lier, assured 
her that Plantagcnet must be at Chcrbury ; and 
while she believed their representations, which 
were probable, she became not only more com- 
posed, but resumed her jealousy and sullenness. 
Gone to Chcrbury, indeed ! No doubt of it ! Let 
him remain at Chcrbury. Execrating Lady An- 
nabel, slie flung herself into her easy cliair, and 
dined alone, preparing herself to speak her mind 
on her son's return. 

The night, however, did not bring him, and 
Mrs. Cadurcis began to recur to. her alarm. Much 
as she now disliked Lady Aimahel, she could not 
resist the conviction that her ladysliip would not 
permit Plantagenet to remain at Chcrbury. Never- 
theless, jealous, passionate, and obstinate, she 
stifled her fears, vented her spleen on her unhappy 
domestics, and, finally, exhausting herself by a 
storm of passion about some veiy unimportant 
subject, again sought refuge in sleep. 

She awoke early in a fright, and inquired imme- 
diately for her son. He had not been seen. 
She ordered the abbey bell to be sounded, sent I 
messengers throughout the demesne, and directed 
all the ollices to be searched. At first she thought 
he must have returned, and slept, perhaps, in a 
ham ; then she adopted the more probable con- 
clusion, that he had drowned himself in the lake. 
Then she went into hysterics ; called Plantagenet 
her lost darling; declared he was the best and 
most dutiful of sons, and the image of his poor 
father — then abused all the servants, and then 
abused herself. 

About noon she grew quite distracted, and 
rushed about the house with her hair dishevelled, 
and in a dressing-gown — looked in all the closets, 
behind the screens, luidcr the chairs, into her 
work-box — but, strange to say, with no success. 
Then she went off into a swoon, and her servants, 
alike frightened about master and mistress, mother 
and son, despatched a messenger immediatelj' to 
Cherbury for intelligence, advice, and assistance. 
In less than an hour's time the messenger returned, 
and informed them that Lord Cadurcis had not 
been at Cherbury since two days back, but that 
Lady Annabel was very sorry to hear that their 
mistress was so ill, and would come on to see her 
immediately. In the mean time Lady Annabel 
added, that she had sent to Dr. Masham, and had 
great hopes that Lord Cadurcis was at Marring- 
hurst. Mrs. Cadurcis, who had now come to, as 
her waiting-woman described the returning con- 
sciousness of her mistress, eagerly embraced the 
h'^pe held out of Plantagenet being at Marring- 
hurst, poured forth a thousand expressions of 
gratitude, admiration, and alVection for Lady An- 
nabel, who, she declared, w;is her best, her only 
friend, and the being in the world whom she loved 
most, next to her unhappy and injured child. 

After another hour of suspense Lady Annabel 
arrived, and her entrance was the signal for a re- 
newed burst of hysterics from Mrs. Cadurcis, so 
wild and »x;rrible. that they must have been conta- 
gion? to any female of less disciplined emotions 
than her guest 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Towards the evening. Dr. Masham arrived at 
Cadurcis. He could give no intelligence of Plan- 
tagenet, who had not called at Marringhurst ; but 
he offered, and was prepared, to undertake his 
pursuit. The good doctor had his saddle bags well 
stocked, and was now on his way to Southport, 
that being the nearest town, and where he doubted 
not to gain some tidings of the fugitive. Mrs. 
Cadurcis he found so indisposed, that he antici- 
pated the charitable intentions of Lady Annabel 
not to quit her ; and, after having bid them place 
their confidence in Providence and his humble 
exertions, he at once departed on his researches. 

In the meantime let us return to the little lord 
himself. Having secured the advantages of a long 
start, by the device of turning the key of his cham- 
ber, he repaired to the stables, and, finding no one 
to observe him, saddled his pnny and galloped 
away, without plan or pui^posc. An instinctive 
love of novelty and adventure induced him to direct 
his course by a road which he had never before 
pursued; and, after two or three miles' progress 
through a wild open country of bnishwood, he 
found that he had entered that considerable forest 
which formed the boundarj' of many of the views 
from Cadurcis. The afternoon was clear and still, 
the sun shining in the light blue sky, and the 
wind altogether hushed. On each side of the 
winding road spread the bright green turf, occa- 
sionally shaded by picturesque groups of doddered 
oaks. The calm beauty of the sylvan scene won- 
derfully touched the fsincy of the youthful fugitive ; 
it soothed and gratified him. He pulled up his 
pony ; patted its lively neck, as if in gratitude for 
its good service, and, confident that he could not 
be successfully pursued, indulged in a thousand 
dreams of Robin Hood and his merry men. As 
for his own position and prospects, he gave him- 
self no anxiety about them ; satisfied with his 
escape from a revolting thraldom, his mind seemed 
to take a bound from the difficulty of his situation 
and the wildness of the scene, and he felt himself 
a man, and one, too, whom nothing could d^unt 
or appal. 

Soon the road itself quite disappeared and 
vanished in a complete turfy track ; but the con- 
finuin? marks of cart-wheels assured him that it 
was a thoroushfare, although he was now indeed 
journeying in the heart of a forest of oaks, and 
he doubted not it would lead to some town or vil- 
lage, or at any rate to some farm-house. Towards 
sunset he determined to make use of the remain- 
ing light, and pushed on apace ; but 't soon grew 
so dark, that he found it necessary to resume his 
walking pace, from fear of the overhanging 
branches and the trunks of felled trees which oc- 
casionally crossed his way. 

Notwithstanding the very probable prospect of 
passing his night in the forest, our little adventu- 
rer did not lose heart. Cadurcis was a very in- 
trepid child, and, when in the company of those 
with whom he was not familiar, and free from 
those puerile associations to which those who had 
known and hved with him long were necessarily 
subject, he would assume a staiJ and firm de- 
meanour very unusual with one of such tender 
years. A light in the distance was now not only 
a signal that the shelter he desired was at hand. 



712 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



but reminded him that it was necessarj' by his 
assured port to prove that he was not unused to 
travel alone, and that he was perfectly competent 
and qualified to be his own master. 

As he drew nearer the lights multiplied, and 
the moon, which now rose over the forest, showed 
to him that the trees, retiring on both sides to 
some little distance, left a circular plot of ground, 
on which were not only the lights which had at 
first attracted his attention, but the red flames of a 
watch-fire, round which some dark figures had 
hitherto been clustered. The sound of horses' 
feet had disturbed them, and the fire was now 
more and more visible. As Cadurcis approached, 
he observed some low tents, and in a few minutes 
he was in the centre of an encampment of gipsies. 
He was for a moment somewhat dismayed, for he 
had been brought up with the usual terror of these 
wild people ; nevertheless, he was not unequal to 
the occasion. He was surrounded in an instant, 
but only with women and children ; for the gipsy- 
men never immediately appear. They smiled 
with their bright eyes, and the flames of the 
watch-fire thi-ew a lurid glow over their dark and 
flushing countenances ; they held out their prac- 
tised hands; they uttered unintelligible, but not 
unfriendly sounds. The heart of Cadurcis falter- 
ed, but his voice did not betray him. 

•" I am cold, good people," said the undaunted 
boy ; " will you let me warm myself by your 
fire 1" 

A beautiful girl, with significant gestures, press- 
ed her hand to her heart, then pointed in the di- 
rection of the tents, and then rushed away, soon 
re-appearing with a male. He was a short thin 
man, inclining to middle age, but of a com^iact 
and apparently powerful frame, lithe, supple and 
sinewy. His complexion was dark, but clear ; 
his eye large, liquid, and black ; but his other fea- 
tures small, though precisely moulded. He wore 
a green jacket, and a pair of black velvet breeches, 
his legs and feet being bare, with the exception of 
slippers. Round his head was twisted a red hand- 
kerchief, which, perhaps, might not have looked 
like a turban on a countenance less oriental. 

"What would the young master?" inquired the 
gipsy-man, in a voice far from disagreeable, and 
with a gesture of courtesy ; but, at the same time, 
he shot a scrutinising glance first at Plantagenet, 
and then at his pony. 

" I would remain with you," .said Lord Cadur- 
cis , " that is if you will let me. 

The gipsy-man made a sign to the women, and 
Plantagenet was lifted by them off" his pony, be- 
fore he could be aware of their purpose ; the chil- 
dren led the pony away, and the gipsy-man con- 
ducted Plantagenet to the fire, where an old wo- 
man sat, presiding over the mysteries of an enor- 
mous flesh-pot. Immediately his fellows, who had 
orisrinally been clustered around it, re-appeared ; 
fresh blocks and branches were thrown on, the 
flames crackled and rose, the men seated them- 
selves around, and Plantagenet, excited by the ad- 
venture, rubbed his hands before the fire, and de- 
tennined to fear nothing. 

A savoury steam exuded from the flesh-pot. 
" That smells well," said Plantagenet. 
" 'Tis a dimber cove," whispered one of the 
younger men to a companion.* 



'Tis a lively lad. 



" Our supper has but rough seasoning for sucl 
as you," said the man who had at first saluted him, 
and who was apparently the leader, " but the wel- 
come is hearty." 

The women and girls now came with wooden 
bowls and platters, and, after serving the men, seat- 
ed themselves in an exterior circle, the children 
playing round them. 

" Come, old mort," said the leader, in a very differ- 
ent tone to the one in which he addressed his young 
guest, " tout the cobble-colter ; are we to have dark- 
mans upon us] And, Bcruna, flick the panam."* 

Upon this, that beautiful girl, who had at first 
attracted the notice of Cadurcis, called out, in a 
sweet lively voice, "Ay! ay! Morgana!" and in a 
moment handed over the heads of the women a 
pannier of bread, which the leader took, and of- 
fered its contents to our fugitive. Cadurcis helped 
himself with a bold but gracious air. The pannier 
was then passed round, and the old woman, open- 
ing the pot, drew out with a huge iron fork a fine 
turkey, which she tossed into a large wooden plat- 
ter, and cut up with great quickness. First she 
helped Morgana, but only gained a reproof for her 
pains, who immediately yielded his portion to 
Plantagenet. Each man was provided with his 
knife, but the guest had none. Morgana imme- 
diately gave up his own. 

" Beruna I" he shouted, " gibel a cliiv for the 
gentry cove."| 

" Ay ! ay ! Morgana," said the girl, and she 
brought the knife to Plantagenet himself, saying 
at the same time, with sparkling eyes, " Yam, yam, 
gentry cove."t 

Cadurcis really thought it was the most delight- 
ful meal he had ever made in his life. The flesh- 
pot held something besides turkeys. Rough as 
was the fare it was good and plentiful. As for 
beverage, they drank humpty-dumpty, which is 
ale boiled with brandy, and which is not one of 
ilie slightest charms of a gipsy's life. When the 
men were satisfied, their platters were filled, and 
given to the women and children ; and Bcruna, 
with her portion came ana seated herself by Plan- 
tagenet, looking at him with a blended glance of 
delight and astonishment, like a beautiful young 
savage, and then turning to her female companions 
to stifle a laugh. The flesh-pot was carried away, 
the men lit their pipes, the fire was replenished, 
its red shadow mingled with the silver beams of 
the moon ; around were the glittering tents and 
the silent woods, — on all sides flashing eyes and 
picturesque forms. Cadurcis glanced at his com- 
panions, and gazed upon the scene with feelings 
of ravishing excitement ; and then, almost un- 
conscious of what he was saying, he exclaimed — 
" At length I have found the life that suits 
me!" 

" Indeed ! squire," said Morgana. " Would you 
be one of us 1" 

" From this moment," said Cadurcis, " if you 
will admit me to your band. But what can I do! 
And I have nothing to give you. You must teach 
me to earn my right to our supper." 

" We'll make a Turkey merchant§ of you yet," 
said an old gipsy, " never fear that." 

* Come old woman; look aflPf the turkey. Are we to 
wail lill n'uAt ? And, Beruna, cut the bread. 
+ Rrins a knife forihe gentleman. 
t Eat, eat, gpnlloman. 
§ I. E. We wiUleacli you to steal a turkey. 



VENETIA. 



•713 



•'Bah! Peter," said Morcrana, with an ant^ 
look, -your red rap will never lie still. And what 
was the purpose of your present travel]" he con- 
tinued to Flantagcnet. 

" None ; I was sick of silly home." 

" The gentry cove will he romboyled by his 
dam," said a third Rijisy ; " Queer Cuflin w'dl be 
the woi-d yet, if we don't tout."* 

" Well, you shall sec a little more of us before 
you decide," said Morgana thoughtfully, and turn- 
ing the conversation. " Beruna!" 

" Ay ! ay ! Morgana !" 

" Tip me the clank, like a dimker mort as you 
are ; trim a ken for the gentry cove ; he is no lan- 
spresado, or I am a kinchin. "j- 

" Ay ! ay ! Morgana," gaily exclaimed the girl, 
and she ran oil' to prcpai'e a bed for the Lord of 
Cadurcis. 



of an oracle on the bench, as it was said that ho 
could even taken a deposition without the assist- 
ance of his clerk. Although, in spite of the 
ostler's lanterns, it was very dark, it was impossi- 
ble ever to be unaware of the arrival of Squire 
Mountmeadow ; for he was one of those great men 
who take care to remind the world of their dig- 
nity by the attention which they require on everv 
occasion. 

" Coachman !" said the authorative voice of the 
squire ; " Where is the coachman 1 Oh ! you arc 
there, sir, are you ? Postilion ! Where is the 
postilion ? Oh ! you are there, sir, are you 1 
Host ! W^herc is the host 7 Oh ! you are there, 
sir, are you 1 Waiter ! Where is the waiter ? I 
say where is the waiter?" 

" Coming, please your worship !" 
" How long am I to wait ] Oh ! you arc there, 
sir, are you? Coachman !" 
" Your worship !" 
" Postilion !" 
" Yes, your worship !" 
"Host!" 

" Your worship's servant !" 
« Waiter !" 

" Your worship's honour's humble ser\'ant !" 
" I am going to alight." 

All four attendants immediately bowed, and ex- 
tended their arms to assist this vciy great man; 
but Squire Mountmeadow, scarcely deigning to 
avail himself of their proffered assistance, and 
pausing on each step, looking around him with 
his long, lean, solemn visage, finally reached terra 
firma in safety, and slowly stretched his tall, un- 
gainly figure. It was at this moment that D 
although the evening was now drawing in, the Masham's servant approached him, and informed 



CHAPTER XV. 

Dr. Masham could gain no tidings of the ob- 
ject of his pursuit at Southport: here, however, 
he ascertained that Plantagenet could not have 
fled to London, for in those days pubhc convey- 
ances were rare. There was oidy one coach that 
ran, or rather jogged, along this road, and it went 
but once a week, it being expected thatver}' night;' 
while the innkeeper was confident that, as far as 
Southport was concerned, his little lordship had 
not sought refuge in the wagon, which was more 
frequent, though somewhat slower, in its progress 
to the metropolis. Unwilling to return home. 



doctor rei^olved to proceed to a considerable town 
about twelve miles farther, which Cadurcis might 
have reached by a cross road ; so drawing his 
cloak around him, looking to his pistols, and de- 
siring his sers-ant to follow his example, the stout- 
hearted Rector of Marringhurst pursued his way. 

It was dark when the doctor entered the town, 
and he proceeded immediately to the inn where 
the coach was expected, with some faint hope that 
the fugitive might be discovered abiding within its 
walls ; but, to all his inquiries about young gen- 
tlemen and ponies, he received very unsatisfactory 
answers; so, reconciling himself as well as he 
could to the disagreeable posture of affairs, he 
settled himself in tlie parlour of the inn, with a 
good fire, and. lighting his pipe, desired his servant 
to keep a shaq) look-out. 

In due time a great uproar in the inn-yard an- 
nounced the arrival of the sta^e, — an unwieldy 
machine, carrjing six inside and dragged by as 
many horses. The doctor, opening the door of 
his apartment, — which led on to a gallery' that ran 
round the inn-yard, — leaned over the balustrade 
with his pipe in his mouth, and watched proceed- 
ings. It so happened that the stage was to dis- 
charge one of its passengers at this town, who 
had come from the north, and the doctor recognised 
in him a neighbor and brother magistrate, one 
Squire Mountmeadow, a very important personage 
in his way, the terror of poachers, and somewhat 

* His moihpr will make a hiie-^iml-cry after the genllp- 
man y»» ; jusiice of the peace will be the word, if we don't 
look sharp 

t Give me (he Ihp tankard like a preity eirl. Got a red 
ready forlhe gentleman. He is no informer, or I am an 
infant 

90 



his worship that his master was at the inn, and 
would be happy to see him. The countenance 
of the great Mountmeadow relaxed at the mention 
of a name of a brother magistrate, and in an 
audible voice he hade the groom " tell my worthy 
friend, his worship, your worthy master, that I 
shall he rejoiced to pay my respects to an esteemed 
neighbour and a brother magistrate." 

With slow and solemn steps, preceded by the 
host and followed by the waiter. Squire Mount- 
meadow ascended the staircase of the external 
gallery, pausing occasionallj', and looking around 
him with thoughtful importance, and making an 
occasional inquiry as to the state of the town and 
neighbourhood during his absence, in this fa.«h- 
ion : — " Stop, where are you, host ? Oh ! you are 
there, sir, are you ? Well, Mr. Host, and how 
have we been ? — orderly, eh ?" 

" Quite orderly, your worship." 

" Hoh ! OrdeVly ! Hem ! Well, very well ! 
Never easy, if absent only four-and-twenty hours. 
The law must be obeyed." 

" Yes. your worship." 

" Lead on. sir. And, waiter ; where are you, 
waiter ? Oh ! you are there, sir, arc you ? And 
so my brother magistrate is here !" 

" Yes, your honour's worship." 

" Hem ! What can he want ? — something in 
the wind ; wants my advice, I dare say ; shall 
have it. Soldiers ruly ; king's servants ; must he 
obeyed." 

" Yes. your worship ; quite ruly, your worship," 
said the host. 

" As obliging and obstreporous as can be," said 
the waiter. 

3o2 



714 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Well, very well," and here the squire had 
gained the gallei-y, where the doctor was ready to 
receive him. 

" It always gives me pleasure to meet a brother 
magistrate," said Squire Mountmeadow, bowing 
with cordial condescension ; " and a gentleman of 
your cloth, too. The clergy must be respected ; 
I stand or fall by the church. After you, doctor, — 
after you." So saying, the two magistrates entered 
the room. 

" An unexpected pleasure, doctor," said the 
Squire ; " and what brings your worship to town V 
" A somewhat strange business," said the doc- 
tor ; " and indeed I am not a little glad to have 
the advantage of your advice and assistance." 

" Hem ! I thought so," said the Squire ; " your 
worship is very complimentary. What is the 
case? — larceny]" 

" Nay, my good Sir, 'tis a singular affair ; and, 
if you please, we will order supper first, and discuss 
it afterwards. 'Tis for your private ear." 

" O ! ho !" said the squire, looking very myste- 
rious and important. " With your worship's per- 
mission," he added, filling a pipe. 

The host was no laggard in waiting on two 
such important guests. The brother magistrates 
despatched their rump-steak ; the foaming tankard 
was replenished ; the fire renovated. At length, 
the table and the room beiiig alike clear, Squire 
Mountmeadow drew a long puH', and said " Now 
for business, doctor." 

His companion then informed him of the exact 
object of his visit, and narrated to him as much of 
the preceding incidents as was necessary. The 
squire listened in solemn silence, elevating his 
eyebrows, nodding his head, trimming his pipe, 
v/ith profound interjections ; and finally, being 
appealed to for his opinion by the doctor, delivered 
himself of a most portentous " Hem !" 

" I question, doctor," said the squire, " whether 
we should not communicate with the Secretary of 
State. 'Tis no ordinaiy business. 'Tis a spirit- 
ing away of a peer of the realm. It smacks of 
treason." 

" Egad !" said the doctor, suppressing a smile, 
" I think we can hardly make a truant boy a cabi- 
net question." 

The squire glanced a look of pity at his compa- 
nion. " Prove the truancy, doctor ; prove it. 'Tis 
a case of disappearance ; and how do we know 
that there is not a Jesuit at the liottom of it ?" 
" There is something in that," said the doctor. 
"There is every thing in it," said the squire, 
triumphantly. " We must offer rewards ; we must 
raise the posse comitatus." 

" For the sake of the family, I would make as 
little stir as necessary," said Dr. Masham. 

" For the sake of the family !" said the squire. 
' Think of the nation, sir ! For the sake of the 
nation we must make as much stir as possible. 
'Tis a Secretary of State's business ; 'tis a case 
for a general warrant." 

" He is a well-meaning lad enough," said the 
doctor. 

" Ay, and therefore more easily played upon," 
said the squire. " Rome is at the bottom of it, 
brother Masham, and I am surprised that a good 
Protestant like yourself — one of the King's Jus- 
tices of the Peace, and a doctor of divinity to 
boo* — should doubt the fact for an instant." 



" We have not heard much of the Jesuits of 
late years," said the doctor." 

" The very reason that they are more active,' 
said the squire. 

" An only child !" said Dr. Masham. 

" A peer of the realm !" said Squire Mount- 
meadow. 

" I should think he must be in the neighbour- 
hood." 

" More likely at St.- Omer's." 

" They would scarcely take him to the planta- 
tions with this warl" 

" Let us drink 'confusion to the rebels !' " said 
the squire. " Any news V 

" Howe sails this week," said the doctor. 

" May he burn Boston !" said the squire. 

" I would rather he would reduce it, without 
such extremities," said Dr. Masham. 

" Nothing is to be done without extremities," 
said Squire Mountmeadow. 

" But this poor child 1" said the doctor, leading 
back the conversation. " What can we do 1" 

" The law of the case is clear," said the squire ; 
" we must move a habeas corpus." 

" But shall we be nearer getting him for that V 
inquired the doctor. 

" Perhaps not, sir ; but 'tis the regular way. 
We must proceed by rule." 

" I am sadly distressed," said Dr. Masham. 
" The worst is, he has gained such a start upon 
us ; and yet he can hardly have gone to London ; 
— he would have been recognised here or at South- 
port." 

" With his hair cropped, and in a Jesuit's cap?" 
inquired the squire, with a slight sneer. " Ah ! 
doctor, doctor, you know not the gentry you have 
to deal with ! 

" We must hope," said Dr. Masham. " To- 
morrow we must organise some general search." 

" I fear it will be of no use," said the squire, 
replenishing his pipe. " These Jesuits are deep 
fellows." 

"But we are not sure about the Jesuits, 
squire." 

" I am," said the squire ; " the case is clear, and 
the sooner you break it to his mother the better. 
You asked me for my advice, and I give it you." 



CHAPTER XVL 

It was on the following morning, as the doctor 
was under the operation of the' barber, that his 
groom ran into the room with a pale face and 
agitated air, and exclaimed, 

" ! master, master, what do you think ? here 
is a man in the yard with my lord's pony." 

" Stop him, Peter," exclaimed the doctor ; " No ! 
watch him — watch him — send for a constable. 
Are you certain 'tis the pony ?" 

" I could swear to it out of a thousand," said 
Peter. 

" There, never mind my beard, my good man," 
said the doctor. " There is no time for appear- 
ances. Here is a robbery, at least ; God grant no 
worse. Peter, my boots !" So saying, the doctor, 
half equipped, and followed by Peter and the bar- 
ber, went forth on the gallery. " Where is he 1" 
said the doctor. 



VENETIA. 



715 



" He is down below, talking to the ostler, and 1 
trj-ing to sell the pony," said Peter. 

•' 'I'hcre is no time to lose," said the doctor ; 
" follow nie, like true men," and the doctor ran 
down stairs in his silk nightcap, lor his wig was 
not yet prepared. 

" There he is," said Peter ; and true enough 
tlierc was a man in a smock frock, and mounted 
on the very pony which Lady Annabel had pre- 
sented to Planlagcnet. 

" Seize tiiis man in the King's name," said the 
doctor, hastily advancing to him. " Ostler, do 
your dut)' ; Peter, he firm. I charge you all ; I 
am a justice of the peace. I charge you arrest 
this man." 

The man seemed very much astonished ; but he 
was composed, and offered no resistance. He was 
dressed like a small farmer, in top boots and a 
smock frock. His hat was rather jauntily placed 
on his curly red hair. 

" Why am I seized V at length 'said the man. 

" Where did you get that pony V said the doc- 
tor. 

" I bought it," was the reply. 

"Of whom]" 

♦' A stranger at market." 

" You arc accused of robbery, and suspected of 
murder," said Dr. Masham. "Mr. Constable," 
said the doctor, turning to that functionary, who 
had now anuved, " handculV this man, and keep 
hun in strict custody until further orders." 

The report that a man was arrested for robbery, 
and suspected of murder, at the Red Dragon, 
spread like wildfire through the town ; and the 
inn-yard was soon crowded with the curious and 
excited inhabitants. 

Peter and the barber, to whom he had commu- 
nicated every thing, were well qualified to do jus- 
tice to the important information of which tiiey 
were the sole depositaries ; the tale lost nothing by 
their telling ; and a circumstantial narrative of the 
robbery and murder of no less a personage than 
liOrdC'adurcis, of Cadurcis Abbey, was soon gene- 
rally prevalent. 

'riie stranger was secured in a stable, before 
which the constable kept guard ; mine host, and 
tiie waiter, and the ostlers, acted as a sort of super- 
numerary ])olice, to repress the multitude; while 
Peter held the real pony by the bridle, whose 
identity, which he frequently attested, was consi- 
dered by all present as an incontrovertible evidence 
of the connnilment of the crime. 

In tlie mean time Dr. Masham really very agi- 
tated, roused his brother magistrate, and communi- 
cated to his worship the important discovery. The 
squire fell into a solemn flutter. " We must be 
regular, brother Masham ; we must jiroceed by 
rule ; we are a bench in ourselves. Would that 
my clerk were here ! We nuist send for Seal- 
signer forthwith. I will not decide without the 
statutes. The law must be consulted, and it must 
.10 olwycd. The fellow hath not brought my wig. 
'Tis a case of murder, no doubt. A peer of the 
realm murdered ! You must break the intelligence 
to his surviving parent, and I will connnunicate to 
the Secretary of State. Can the body be found 1 
Tliat will ])rove the nunder. Unless the body be 
found. t!ie murder will not be proved, save the 
villain confesses, which he will not do, unless he 
h:ith sudden compunctions. I have knowii sud- 
den compunctions go a ejeat way We had a 



case before our bench last month ; there was no 
evidence. It was not a case of murder; it was of 
wood-cuttitig ; there was no evidence; but the 
defendant had compunctions. ! here is my 
wig. We must send for Signsealer. He is clerk 
to our bench, and he nnist bring the statutes. 'Tis 
not simple murder this ; it involves petty trea- 
son." 

By this time his worship had completed his 
toilet, and he and his colleague took their way to 
the parlour tlicy had^ndiabited the preceding even- 
ing. Mr. Signsealer was in attendance, much to 
the real, though concealed, satisfaction of Squire 
Mountmeadow. Their worshij)s were seated like 
two consuls before the table, which Mr. Signsealer 
had duly arranged with writing materials and va- 
rious piles of calf-bound volumes. Squire Mount- 
meadow then, arranging his countenance, an- 
nounced that the bench was prepared, and mine 
host was instructed forthwith to sunnnon the con- 
stable and his charge, together with Peter and 
the ostler as witnesses. There was a rush among 
some of the crowd who were nighest the scene to 
follow the prisoner into the room ; and, sooth to 
say, the great Mountmeadow was much too ena- 
moured of his own self-im])ortance to be by any 
means a patron of close courts and private hear- 
ings; but then, though he loved his power to be 
witnessed, he was equally desirous that his persMi 
should be reverenced. It was his boast that he 
could keep a court of quarter sessions as quiet as 
a church ; and now, when the crowd rushed in 
with all those sounds of tumult incidental to such 
a movement, it required only Mountmeadow slowly 
to rise, and, drawing himself up to the full height 
of his gaunt figure, to knit his severe brow, and 
throw one of his peculiar looks around the cham- 
ber, to insure a most awful silence. Instantly 
every thing was so hushed, that you might have 
heard Signsealer knib his pen. 

The witnesses were sworn ; Peter proved that 
the pony belonged to Lord Cadurcis, and that his 
lordship had been missing from home for several 
days, and was believed to have quitted the abbey 
on this identical pony. Dr. Masham was ready, 
if necessary, to confirm this evidence. The ac- 
cused adhered to his first account, that he had 
purchased the animal the day before at a neigh- 
bouring fair, and doggedly declined to answer any 
cross-examination. Squire Mountmeadow looked 
alike pompous and puzzled ; whispered to the 
doctor ; and then shook his head at Mr. Sign- 
sealer. 

" I doubt whether there be satisfactory evidence 
of the murder, brother Masham," said the squire ; 
" what shall be our next step ?" 

" There is enough evidence to keep this fellow 
in custody." said the doctor. " We must remand 
him, and make inquiries at the market town. I 
shall proceed there innnediately. He is a strange- 
looking fellow," added the doctor, " were it not 
for his carroty locks, I should scarcely take him 
for a native." 

" Hem !" said the squire, " I have my suspi- 
cions. Fellow," continued his worship, in an 
awful tone, " you say that you are a stranger, and 
that your name is Morgan ; verj' suspicious all 
this ; you have no one to speak of your character 
or station, and you are found in possession of 
stolen goods. The bench will remand you for 
the present, and will at any rate commit you for 



716 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS, 



trial for the robbery. But here is a peer of the 
realm missing, fellow, and you are most grievously 
suspected of being concerned in his spiriting away, 
or even murder. You are upon tender ground, 
j)risoner ; 'tis a case verging on petty treason, if 
not petty treason itself. Eh ! Mr. Signsealer 1 
Thus runs the law, as I take it? Prisoner, it 
would be well for you to consider your situation. 
Have you no compunctions 1 Compunctions 
jnight save you if not a principal offender. It is 
your duty to assist the bench in executing justice. 
The Crown is merciful ; you may be king's evi- 
dence." 

Mr. Signsealer whispered the bench ; he pro- 
posed that the prisoner's hat should be examined, 
as the name of its maker might afford a clue to 
his residence. 

" True, true, Mr. Clerk," said Squire Mount- 
meadow, " I am coming to that. 'Tis a sound 
practice ; I have known such a circumstance lead 
to great disclosures. But we must proceed in order. 
Order is every thing. Constable, take the pri- 
soner's hat off." 

The constable took the hat off somewhat rudely ; 
so rudely, indeed, that the carroty locks came off 
in company with it, and revealed a profusion of 
long plaited hair which had been adroitly twisted 
under the wig, more in character with the coun- 
tenance than its previous covering. 

" A Jesuit, after all !" exclaimed the squire. 

" A gipsy, as it seems to me," whispered the 
doctor. 

" Still worse," said the squire, 

" Silence in the Court !" exclaimed the awful 
voice of Squire Mountmeadow, for the excitement 
of the audience was considerable. The disguise 
Was generally esteemed as incontestable evidence 
of the murder. " Silence, or I will order the 
Court to be cleared. Constable, proclaim silence. 
This is an awful business," added the squire, with 
a very long face. " Brother Masham, we must do 
our duty ; but this is an awful business. At any 
rate we must try to discover the body. A peer of 
the realm must not be suffered to lie murdered in 
a ditch. He must have Christian burial, if possi- 
ble, in the vaults of his ancestors." 

When Morgana, for it was indeed he, observed 
the course affairs were taking, and ascertained that 
his detention under present circumstances was in- 
evitable, he relaxed from his doggedness, and ex- 
pressed a willingness to make a communication to 
the bench. Squire Mountmeadow lifted up his 
eyes to Heaven, as if entreating the intei-position 
of Providence to guide him in his course ; then 
turned to his brother magistrate, and then nodded 
to the clerk. 

" He has compunctions, brother Masham," said 
his worship : " I told you so ; he has compunc- 
tions. Trust me to deal with these fellows. He 
knew not his perilous situation ; the hint of potty 
treason staggered him. Mr. Clerk, take down the 
prisoner's confession ; the court must be cleared ; 
constalile, clear the Court. Let a stout man stand 
on each side of the prisoner, to protect the bench. 
The magistracy of England will never shrink from 
doing their duty, but they must be protected. 
Now, prisoner, the bench is ready to hear your 
confession. Conceal nothing, and if you were not 



a principal in the murder, or an accessary before 
the fact ; eh ? Mr. Clerk, thus runs the law, as I 
take it? there may be mercy ; at any rate, if you 
be hanged, you will have the satisfaction of having 
cheerfully made the only atonement to society jn 
your power." 

" Hanging be damned !" said Morgana. 

Squire Mountmeadow started from his seat, his 
cheeks distended with rage, his dull eyes for once 
flashing fire ; " Did you ever witness such atrocity, 
brother Masham 1" exclaimed his worship. "Did 
you hear the villain 1 I'll teach him to respect the 
bench. I'll fine him before he is executed, that I 
will !" 

" The young gentleman to whom this pony be- 
longs," continued the gipsy, " may or may not be 
a lord. I never asked him his name, and he never 
told it me ; but he sought hospitaUty of me and 
my people, and we gave it him, and he lives with 
us of his own ffee choice. The pony is of no use 
to him now, and so I came to sell it for our com- 
mon good." 

" A peer of the realm turned gipsy !" exclaimed 
the squire. " A very likely tale ! I'll teach you 
to come here and tell your cock-and-bull stories to 
two of his majesty's justices of the peace. 'Tis a 
flat case of robbery and murder, and I venture to 
say something else. You shall go to gaol 
directly, and the Lord have mercy on your soul !" 

" Nay," said the gipsy appealing to Dr. Masham, 
" you, sir, appear to be the friend of this youth. 
You will not regain him by sending me to gaol. 
Load me, if you will, with irons, surround me 
with armed men, but at least give me the opjior- 
tunity of proving the truth of what I say. I <jffer 
in two hours to produce to you the youth, and you 
shall find he is living with my people in content 
and peace." 

' Content and fiddlestick !" said the squire in a 
rage. 

" Brother Mountmeadow,'' said the doctor, in a 
low tone, to his colleague, "I have private duties 
to perform to this family. Pardon me if, with 
all deference to your sounder judgment and 
greater experience, I myself accept the prisoner's 
offer." 

"Brother Masham, you are one of his majesty's 
justices of the peace, you are a brother magistrate, 
and you are a Doctor of Divinity ; you owe a duty 
to your countiy, and you owe a duty to your- 
self Is it wise, is it decorous, that one of the 
Quorum should go a-gipsying ? Is it possible that 
you can credit this preposterous tale ? Brother 
Masham, there will be a rescue, or my name is 
not Mountmeadow." 

In spite, however, of all these solemn warnings, 
the good doctor, who vi-as not altogether unaware 
of the character of his pupil, and could compre- 
hend that it was very possible the statement of the 
gipsy mie;ht be genuine, continued without very 
much offending his colleague, who looked upon 
bis conduct indeed rather with pity than resent- 
ment, to accept the offer of Morgana ; and conse- 
quently, well-secured and guarded, and preceding 
the doctor, who rode behind the cart with his ser- 
vant, the gipsy soon sallied forth from the inn-yard, 
and requested the driver to guide his course in the 
direction of the forest. 



VENETIA, 



717 



CHAPTER XVII. 

It was tlie afternoon of the third day after the 
arrival of Cadurcis at the gipsy encampment, and 
nothing had yet occnrreJ to make him repent his 
flight from the abbey, and the choice of life he 
had made. He had experienced notliing but 
kindness and hospitahty, wliilc the beautiful Bcruna 
seemed quite content to pass her life in studying 
his amusement. The weather, too, had been ex- 
tremely favourable to his new mode of existence ; 
and, stretched at his length upon the turf, with his 
head oii Beruna's lap, and his eyes fixed upon the 
rich forest foliage glowing in the autumnal sunset, 
Plantagcnet only wondered that he could have en- 
dured, for so many years, the shackles of his 
common-])lacc home. 

His companions were awaiting the return of 
their leader, .Morgana, who had been absent since 
the preceding day, and who had departed on Plan- 
tagcnet's pony. Most of them were lounging or 
strolling in the vicinity of their tents ; the children 
were playing ; the old woman was cooking at the 
fire ; and altogether, save that the hour was not 
so late, the scene presented much the same aspect 
as when Cadurcis had first beheld it. As for his pre- 
sent occupation, Bcruna was giving him a lesson 
in the gipsy language, which he was acquiring 
with a rapid facility, which quite exceeded all his 
previous efforts in such acquisitions. 

Suddenly a scout sang out that a party was in 
sight. The men instantly disappeared ; the wo- 
men were all on the alert; antf one ran forward as 
a spy, en the pretence of telling fortunes. This 
bright-eyed professor of palmistry soon, however, 
returned, running, and out of breath, yet chatting 
all the time with inconceivable rapidity, and ac- 
companying the startling communication she was 
evidently making with the most animated gestures. 
Beruna started up, and, leaving the astonished Ca- 
durcis, joined them. She seemed alarmed. Cadurcis 
was soon convinced there was consternation in 
the camp. 

Suddenly a horseman galloped up, and was 
immediately followed by a companion. They 
called out, as if encouraging followers, and one of 
them immediately galloped away again, as if to 
detail the results of their reconnoisance. Before 
Cadurcis could well rise and make inquiries as to 
what was going on. a light cart, containing several 
men, drove up, and in it, a prisoner, he detected 
Morgana. The branches of the trees concealed 
f>r a moment two other horsemen who followed 
the cart ; but Cadurcis, to his infinite alarm and 
mortification, soon recognised Dr. Masham and 
Peter. 

When the gipsies fi)und their leader was cap- 
tive, they no longer attempted to conceal them- 
selves; they all came forward, and would have 
clustered round the cart, had not the riders, as 
well as those who more immediately guarded the 
prisoner, prevented them. Morgana spoke some 
words in a loud voice to the gipsies, and they im- 
mediately appeared less agitated, then turning to 
Dr. Masham, he said in English, "Behold your 
child !•' 

Instantly two gipsy men seized Cadurcis, and 
led him to the doctor. 

" How, now, my lordl" said the worthy rector, 



in a stem voice, " is this your duty to your mother 
and your friends 1" 

Cadurcis looked down, but rather dogged than 
ashamed. 

" You have brought an iimoccnt man into great 
peril," continued the doctor. " This person, no 
longer a prisoner, has been arrested on suspicion 
of robbery, and even murder, through your freak. 
Morgana, or whatever your name may be, here is 
some reward for your treatment of this child, and 
some compensation for your detention. Mount 
your pony Lord Cadurcis, and return to your home 
with me." 

" Tliis is my home, sir," said Plantagcnet. 

"Lord Cadurcis, this childish nonsense must 
cease : it has already endangered the life of your 
mother, nor can I answer for her safety, if you 
lose a moment in returning." 

" Child, you must return," said Morgana. 

" Child!" said Plantagcnet, and he walked some 
steps away, and leant against a tree. " You pro- 
mised that I should remain," ?aid he, addressing 
himself reproachfully to Morgana. 

" You are not your own master," said the gipsy ; 
" your remaining here will only endanger and dis- 
turb us. Fortunately wc have nothing to fear 
froni laws we have never outraged ; but had there 
been a judge less wise and gentle than the master 
here, our peaceful family might have been all 
harassed and hunted to the very death." 

He waved his hand, and addressed some words 
to his tribe, whereupon two brawny fellows seized 
Cadurcis, and placed him again, in spite of his 
struggling, upon his pony, with the same irresisti- 
ble facility with which they had a few nights be- 
fore dismounted him. The little lord looked very 
sulky, but his position was beginning to get ludi- 
crous. Morgana, pocketing his five guineas, leaped 
over the side of tlie cart, and offered to guide the 
doctor and his attendants through the forest. They 
moved on accordingly. It was the work of an 
instant, and Cadurcis suddenly found himself 
returning home between the rector and Peter. 
Not a word, however, escaped his lips ; once, only, 
he moved ; the light branch of a tree, aimed with 
delicate precision, touched his back; he looked 
round; it was Bcruna.. She kissed her hand to 
him, and a tear stole down his pale, sullen check, 
as, taking from his breast his handkerchief, he 
threw it behind him, unperceivcd, that she might 
pick it up nnd keep it for his sake. 

After proceeding two or three miles, under the 
guidance of Morgana, the equestrians gained the 
road, though it still rim through the forest. Here 
the doctor dismissed the gipsyman, with whom he 
had occasionally conversed during their progress ; 
but not a sound ever escaped from the mouth of 
Cadurcis, or rather, the aiptive who was now sub- 
stituted in Morgana's stead. The doctor now 
addressing himself to Plantagcnet, informed him 
that it was of importance that they should make 
the best of their way, and so he put spurs to his 
marc, and Cadurcis sullenly complied with the 
intimation. At this rate, in the course of Uttle 
more than another hour, they arrived in sight of 
the demesne of Cadurcis, where they pulled up 
their steeds. 

They entered the park — they approached the 
portal of the abbey — at length they dismounted. 
Their coming was announced by a senant, wno 



718 



D 'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



nad recognised his lord at a distance, and had ran I let him find a mother in you." She never spoke 



on before with the tidings. When they entered 
the abbey, they were met by Lady Annabel in the 
cloisters ; lier countenance was veiy serious. She 
shook hands with Doctor Masham, but did not 
speak, and immediately led him aside. Cadurcis 
remained standing in the very spot where Doctor 
Masham left him, as if he were quite a stranger in 
the place, ;ind was no longer master of his own 
conduct. Suddenly Doctor Masham — who was 
at the end of the cloister, while Lady Annabel was 
mounting the staircase — looked round with a very 
pale face, and said in an agitated voice, " Lord 
Cadurcis, Lady Annabel wishes to speak to you in 
the saloon. 

Cadurcis immediately, but slowly, repaired to 
the saloon. Lady Annabel was walking up and 
down it. She seemed gi'eatly disturbed. When 
she saw him, she put her arm round his neck vciy 
atfectionately, and said in a low voice, " My 
dearest Plantagcnet, it has devolved upon me to 
communicate to you some very distressing intelli- 
gence." Her voice faultered, and the tears stole 
down her cheek. 

" My mother, then, is dangerously ill 1" he in- 
quired in a calm but softened tone. 

" It is even sadder news than that, dear child." 
Cadurcis looked about him wildly, and then with 
an inquiring glance at Lady Annabel — 

" There can be but one thing worse than that," 
he at length said. 

" What if it have happened V said Lady Anna- 
bel. 

He threw himself into a chair, and covered his 
face with his hands. After a few minutes he 
looked up and said, in a low but distinct voice — 
" it is too terrible to think of ; it is too terrible 
to mention ; but, if it have happened, let me be 
alone." 

Lady Annabel approached him with a light 
step ; she eml)raccd him, and, whispering that she 
should be found in the next room, she quitted the 
apartment. 

Cadurcis remained seated for more than half an 
hour without changing in the slightest degree his 
position. The twilight died away ; it grew quite 
dark ; he looked up with a slight shiver, and then 
quitted the apartment. 

In the adjoining room, Lady Annabel was 
seated with Doctor Masham, and giving him the 
details of the fatal event. It had occurred that 
morning. Mrs. Cadurcis, who had never slept a 
wink since her knowledge of her son's undoubted 
departure, and scarcely for an hour been free from 
the most violent epileptic fits, had fallen early in 
the morning into a doze, which lasted about half 
an hour, and from which her medical attendant, 
who with Pauncefort had set up with her during 
ihe night, augured the most unfavourable conse- 
•juences. About half-past six o'clock she woke, 
and inquired whether Plantagenet had returned. 
They answered her that Dr. Masham had not yet 
arrived, but would probably be at the abbey in the 
course of the morning. She said it would be too 
late. They endeavoured to encourage her, but 
she asked to see I^ady Annabel, who was immedi- 
ately called, and lost no time in repairing to her. 
When Mrs. Cadurcis recognised her, she held out 
her hand, and said in a dying tone — " It was my 
fciult ; it was ever my fault ; it is too late now : 



again, and in the course of an hour expired. 

While Lady Annabel and the doctor were 
dwelling on these sad circumstances, and debating 
whether he should venture to approach Plantage- 
net, and attempt to console him — for the evening 
was now far advanced, and nearly three hours had 
elapsed since the fatal communication had been 
made to him — it happened that Mistress Paunce- 
fort chanced to pass Mrs. Cadurcis' room, and as 
she did so she heard some one violently sobbing. 
She listened, and hearing the sounds frequently 
repeated, she entered the room, which, but for her 
candle, would have been quite dark, and there she 
found Lord Cadurcis kneeling and weeping by his 
mother's bed-side. He seemed annoyed at being 
seen and disturbed, but his spirit was too broken 
to murmur. " La ! my lord," said Mistress Paunce- 
fort, " you must not take on so ; you must not, 
indeed. I am sure this dark room is enough to 
put any one in low spirits. Now do go down 
stairs, and sit with my lady and the doctor, and 
try to be cheerful ; that is a dear good young gen- 
tleman. I wish Miss Venetia were here, and then 
she would amuse you. But you must not take on, 
because there is no use in it. You must exert 
yourself, for what is done cannot be undone ; and, 
as the doctor told us last Sunday, we must all die ; 
and well for those who die with a good conscience ; 
and I am sure the poor deal' lady that is gone, 
must have had a good conscience, because she had 
a good heart, and I never heard any one say the 
contrary. Now do* exert yourself, my dear lord, 
and try to be cheerful, do ; for there is nothing like 
a little exertion in these cases, for God's will must 
be done, and it is not for us to say yea or nay, and 
taking on is a murmuring against God's provi- 
dence." And so Mistress Pauncefort would have 
continued urging the usual topics of coarse and 
common-place consolation ; but Cadurcis only 
answered with a sigh that came from the bottom 
of his heart, and said with streaming eyes, " Ah ! 
Mrs. Pauncefort, God had only given me one 
friend in this world, and there she lies !" 



CHAPTEE XVIIL 

The first conviction that there is death in the 
house is perhaps the most awful moment of youth. 
When we are young, we think that not only our- 
selves, but that all about us, are immortal. Until 
the arrow has struck a victim round our ovnx 
hearth, death is merely an unmeaning word ; until 
then, its casual mention has stamped no idea upon 
our l)rain. There are few, even among those least 
suscc]>tib!c of thought and emotion, in whose hearts 
and minds the first death in the family does not 
act as a very powerful revelation of the mysteries 
of life, and of their own being ; there are few who, 
after such a catastrophe, do not look upon the 
world and the world's ways, at least for a time, 
with changed and tempered feelings. It recalls 
the past, it makes us ponder over the future ; and 
youth, gay and light-hearted youth, is taught, for 
the first time, to regret and to fear. 

On liord Cadurcis, a child of pensive tempera- 
ment, and in whose strange and yet undeveloped 
character there was, amid lighter elements, a con 



VENETIA. 



719 



•stitutional principle of melancholy, the sudden i 
decease of his mother produced a \cry profound ' 
fllect. All was forgotten of his parent, except the 
intimate and natural tie, and her warm and genu- 
ine aflcction. He was now alone in the world ; 
for reflection impressed upon him at this moment, 
what the course of existence too generally teaches 
to us all, that mournful truth, that, alter all, we 
have no friends that we can depend upon in this 
life but our parents. All other intimacies, how- 
ever ardent, arc liable to cool ; all other confidence, 
however unlimited, to be violated. In the phan- 
tasmagoria of life, the friend with whom we have 
cultivated mutual trust for years is often suddenly 
or gradually estranged from us, or becomes, from 
painful, yet irresistible, circumstances, even our 
deadliest foe. As for women, as for the m.isti'esses 
of oui" hearts, who has not learnt that the links of 
passion are fragile as they are glittering; and that 
the bosom on which we have reposed with idolatry 
all out secret sorrows and sanguine hopes, even- 
tually becomes the very heart that exults in our 
miser}' and baflles our welfare ] Where is the 
enamoured face that smiled upon our early love, ' 
and was to shed tears over our gravel Where 
are the choice companions of our vouth, with 
whom wv were to brea.st the difficulties and share 
tlie triumphs of existence T Even in this incon- 
stant world, what changes like the heart 1 Love 
is a dream, and friendship a delusion. No wonder 
we grow callous ; for how few have the opportu- 
nity of returning to the hearth which they quitted 
in levily or thoughtless weariness, yet which alone 
is faithful to them ; whose sweet affections require 
not the stimulous of prosperity or fame, the lure 
of accomplishments, or the tribute of flattery ; but 
which are constant to us in distress, and console 
us even in disgrace '^ 

Before she retired for the night. Lady Annabel 
■was anxious to see Plantagenet. Mistress Paunce- 
fort had informed her of his visit to his mother's 
room. Lady Annabel found Cadurcis in the gal- 
lery, now partially lighted by the moon, which 
had recently risen. She entered with her light, as 
if she were on her way to her own room, and not 
6eeking him. 

" Dear Plantagenet,'* she said, " will you not 
go to bed?" 

" I do not intend to go to bed night," he re- 
plied. 

She approached him .md took him by the 
hand, which he did not withdraw firom her, and 
they walked together once or twice up and down 
tlie gallerv'. 

" I think, dear child," said Lady Annabel, " you 
had better come and sit with us." 

" I like to be alone," was his answer ; but not 
in a sullen voice, low and faltering. 

" But in sorrow we should be with our friends," 
said Lady Annabel. 

" I have no friends," he answered. " I only 
had one." 

" I am your friend, dear child ; I am your mo- 
ther now, and you shall find me one if you like. 
And Vcnetia, have you f ircroften your sister 1 Is 
flhe not your friend ? And Dr. Masham, surely 
you cannot doubt his friendship 1" 

Cadurcis tried to stifle a sob. " Ay, Lady An- 
nabel," he said, " vou arc mv friend now, and so 
are you all ; and you know I love you very much. 



But you were not my friends two years ago ; and 
things will change again ; they will indeed. A 
mother is your friend as long as she hves ; she 
cannot help being your friend." 

" You shall come to Cherbury, and live with 
us," said Lady Annabel. " You know you love 
Cherbury, and you shall find it a home, a real 
home." 

He pressed her hand to his lips ; the hand was 
covered with tears. 

" We will go to Cherbury to-morrow, dear 
Plantagenet ; remaining here will only make you 
sad." 

" I will never leave Cadurcis again while my 
mother is in this house," he said, in a firm and 
serious voice. And then, after a moment's pause, 
he added. " I wish to know when the burial is to 
take place." 

" We will ask Dr. Masham," replied Lady An- 
nabel. " Come, let us go to liim ; come, my ovm 
child." 

He permitted himself to be led away. They 
descended to the small apartment where Lady 
Annabel had been previously sitting. They found 
the doctor there ; he rose and pressed Plantagenet's 
hand with great emotion. They made room for 
him at the fire between them ; he sat in silence 
with his gaze intensely fixed upon the decaying 
embers, yet did not quit his hold of Lady Anna- 
bel's hand. He found it a consolation to him ; it 
linked him to a being who seemed to love him. As 
long as he held her hand he did not seem quite 
alone in the world. 

Now nobody spoke; for Lady Annabel felt that 
Cadurcis was in some degree solaced; and she 
thought it unwise to interrupt the more composed 
train of his thoughts. It was, indeed, Plantagenet 
himself who first broke silence. 

" I do not think I can go to bed. Lady Anna- 
bel," he said. " The thought of this night is ter- 
rible to mo. I do not think it ever can end. I 
would much sooner sit up in this room." 

" Nay ! my child, sleep is a great consoler ; try 
to go to bed, love." 

" I should like to sleep in my mother's room," 
was his strange reply. " It seems to me that I 
could sleep there. And if I woke in the night I 
should like to see her." 

Lady Annabel and the doctor exchanged looks. 

" I think," said the doctor, " you had better 
sleep in my room, and then, if you wake in the 
night, vou will have some one to speak to. You 
will find that a comfort." 

" Yes, that you will," said Lady Annabel. " I 
will go and have the sofa bed made up in the doc- 
tor's room for you. Indeed that will be the very 
best plan." 

So at last, but not without a struggle, they per- 
suaded Cadurcis to retire. Lady Annabel em- 
braced him tenderly when she bade him good 
night ; and, indeed, he felt consoled by her affec- 
tion. 

As nothing could persuade Plantagenet to leave 
the abbev until his mother was buried. Lady An- 
nabel resolved to take up her abode there, and she 
sent the next morning for ^'enetia. There were a 
great many arrangements to make about the burial 
and the mourning ; and Lady Annabel and Dr. 
Masham were obliged, in consequence, to go the 
next morning to Southport ; but they delayed tbei. 



730 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



departure until the arrival of Venetia, that Cadur- 
cis might not be left alone. 

The meeting between himself and Venetia was 
a very sad one, and yet her companionship was a 
great solace. Venetia urged every topic that she 
fancied could re-assure his spirits, and upon the 
happy home he would find at Cherbury. 

" Ah !" said Cadurcis, " they will not leave me 
here ; I am sure of that. I think our happy days 
are over, Venetia." 

What mourner has not felt the magic of time 1 
Before the funeral could take place, Cadurcis had 
recovered somewhat of his usual cheerfulness, and 
would indulge with Venetia in plans of their future 
life. And living, as they all were, under the same 
roof, sharing the same sorrows, participating in 
the same cares, and all about to wear the same 
mournful emblems of their domestic calamity, it 
was difficult for him to believe that he was indeed 
that desolate being he had at first correctly esti- 
mated himself. Here were true friends, if such 
could exist ; here were fine sympathies, pure af- 
fections, innocent and disinterested hearts ! Every 
domestic tie yet remained perfect, except the 
spell-bound tie of blood. That wanting, all was a 
bright and happy vision, that might vanish in an 
instant, and for ever ; that perfect, even the least 
graceful, the most repulsive home, had its irresisti- 
ble charms ; and its loss, when once experienced 
might be mourned forever, and could never be re- 
stored. 



CHAPTER XIX. 



After the funeral of Mrs. Cadurcis, the family 
returned to Cherbury with Plantagenet, who was 
hereafter to consider it is home. All that the most 
tender solicitude could devise to reconcile him to 
the change in liis life was fulfilled by Lady Anna- 
bel and her daughter, and under their benignant 
influence, he soon regained his usual demeanour. 
His days were now spent as in the earlier period 
of their acquaintance, with the exception of those 
painful returns to home, which had once been a 
source to him of so much gloom and unhappincss. 
He pursued his studies as of old, and shared the 
amusements of Venetia. His allotted room was 
ornamented by her drawings, and in the evenings 
they read aloud by turns to Lady Annabel the 
volume which she selected. The abbey he never 
visited again after his mother's funeral. 

Some weeks had passed in this quiet and con- 
tented manner, when one day Doctor Masham, 
who, since the death of his mother, had been in 
correspondence with his guardian, received a letter 
from that nobleman, to announce that he had made 
arrangements for sending his ward to Eton, and 
to request that he would accordingly instantly 
proceed to the metropolis. This announcement 
occasioned both Cadurcis and Venetia poignant 
affliction. The idea of separation was to both of 
them most painful; and although Lady Annabel 
herself was in some degree prepared for an ar- 
rangement, which sooner or later she considered 
inevitable, she was herself scarcely less distressed. 
The good doctor, in some degree to break the bit- 
terness o*" parting, proposed accompanying Plan- 
tagenet to London, and himself personally deliver- 
ingr the charge, in whose welfare they were so 



much interested, to his guardian. Nevertheless, i{ 
was a very sad affair, and the week which was ti» 
intervene before his departure foimd both himself 
and Venetia often in tears. They no longer took 
any delight in their mutual studies, but passed 
the day walking about and visiting old haunts, and 
endeavouring to console each otiiCT for what thej 
both deemed a great calamity, and which was, in- 
deed, the only serious misfortune Venetia had her 
self experienced in the whole course of her seren» 
career. 

" But if I were really your brother," said Plan 
tagenet, " I must have quitted you the same 
Venetia. Boys always go to school ; and then w< 
shall be so happy when I return !" 

" O ! but we are so happy now, Plantagenet. 
I cannot believe that we aje going to part. And 
are you sure that you will return 1 Perhaps your 
guaidian will not let you, and will wish you ta 
spend your holidays at his house. His house will 
be your home now." 

It was impossible for a moment to forget the 
sorrow that was impending over them. There 
were so many preparations to be made for his de- 
parture, that every instant something occurred to 
remind them of their sorrow. Venetia sat with 
tears in her eyes marking his new pocket hand- 
kerchiefs, which they had all gone to Southport to 
purchase, for Plantagenet asked, as a particular 
favour, that no one should mark them but Venetia. 
Then Lady Annabel gave Plantagenet a writing- 
case, and Venetia filled it with pens and paper, 
that he might never want means to communicate 
with them; and her evenings were passed in 
working him a purse, which Lady Annabel took 
care should be well stocked. All day long there 
seemed something going on to remind them of 
what was about to happen ; and as for Paunce- 
fort, she flounced in and out the room fifty times 
a-day, with " what is to be done about my lord's 
shirts, my lady 1 I think his lordship had better 
have another dozen, your la'ship. Better too 
much than too little, I always say ;" or " ! my 
lady, your la'ship cannot form an idea of what a 
state my lord's stockings are in, my lady. I think 
I had better go over to Southport with John, my 
lady, and buy him some ;" or " Please, my lady, 
did I understand your la'ship spoke to the tailor 
on Thursday about my lord's things ? I suppose 
your la'ship knows my lord has got no great- 
coat 1" 

Every one of these inquiries made Venetia's 
heart tremble. Then there was the sad habit of 
dating every coming day by its distance from the 
fatal one. There was the last day hut four, and 
the last day but three, and the last day but two. 
The last day but one at length arrived ; and at 
length, too, it seemed incredible, the last day 
itself. 

Plantagenet and Venetia both rose very early, 
that they might make it as long as possible. They 
sighed involuntarily when they met, and then they 
went about to pay last visits to every creature and 
object of which they had been so long fond. 
Plantagenet went to bid farewell to the horses, 
and adieu to the cows, and then walked down to 
the woodman's cottage, and then to shake hands 
with the keeper. He would not say " Good b'ye " 
to the household until the very last moment ; and 
as for Marmion, the blood-hound, he accompanied 
both of them so faithfully in this melancholy 



V E N E T I A . 



721 



-amble, and kept so close to both, that it was 
uselctis to break the sad intelligence to him yet. 

" I tliink. now, Venetia, we have been to sec 
everything," said Plantagenct, "I shall see the 
peacocks at brciUcfast time. I wish Eton was near 
Cherbury, and then I could come home on Sunday. 
I caiuiot bear going to Cadurcis again, but I should 
like you to go once a week, and try to keep u)) 
our garden, and look after every thing, though 
there is not much that will not take care of itself, 
except the garden. We made that together, and I 
could not bear its being neglected." 

Venetia could not assure him that no wish of 
his should be neglected because she was weeping. 

" I am glad the doctor,'" he continued, " is going 
to take me to town. I should be very wretched 
by myself. But he will put me in mind of Cher- 
bury, and we can talk together of Lady Annabel 
and you. Hark ! the bell rings ; we must go to 
breakfast, the last breakfast but one." 

Lady Annabel endeavoured, by unusual good 
spirits, to cheer up her little friends. She spoke 
of Plantagenet's speedy return so much as a mat- 
ter of course, and the pleasant things they were to 
do when he came back, that she really succeeded 
in exciting a smile in Venetia's April face, for she 
was smiling amid tears. 

Although it was the last day, time hung heavily 
on their hands. After breakfast they went over 
the house together ; and Cadurcis, half with ge- 
nuine feeling and half in a spirit of mockery of 
their sorrow, made a speech to the inanimate walls, 
as if they were aware of his intended departure. 
At length, in their progress, they passed the door 
of the closed apartments, and here, holding Ve- 
netia's hand, he stopped, and, with an expression 
of irresistible humour, making a very low bow to 
them, he said, very gravely, " And goodb'ye rooms 
that I have never entered ; perhaps, before I come 
back, Venetia will find out what is locked up in 
youl" 

Doctor Masham arrived for dinner, and in a 
post-chaise. The unusual conveyance reminded 
them of the morrow very keenly. Venetia could 
not bear to see the doctor's portmanteau taken out 
and carried into the hall. She had hopes, until 
then, that something would happen and prevent 
all this misery. Cadurcis whispered her, " I say, 
Venetia, do not you wish this was winter ]" 

"Why, Plantagenet ?" 

" Because then we might have a good snowstorm, 
and be blocked up again for a week." 

Venetia looked at the sky, but not a cloud was 
to be seen. 

The doctor was glad to wann himself at the 
hall-fire, for it was a fresh autumnal afternoon. 

" Are you cold, sir 1" said Venetia approaching 
him. 

" I am, mv little maiden," said the doctor. 

" Do you think there is any chance of its snow- 
ing. Doctor Masham 1" 

"Snowing! my Uttle maiden ; what can you be 
thinking of !" 

The dinner was rather gayer than might have 
been cxpwcted. The doctor was jocular. Lady 
Annabel veiy lively, and Plantagenet excited by 
an extraordinary glass of wine. Venetia alone re- 
mained dispirited. The doctor made mock speeches 
and proposed toasts, and told Phmtagenet that he 
must learn to make speeches too, or what would 
he do when he was in the House of Lords 1 And 
91 



then Plantagenet tned to make a speech, and pro- 
posed Venetia's health ; and then Venetia, who 
could not bear to hear herself praised by hira on 
such a day — the last day — burst into tears. Her 
mother called her to her side and consoled her, 
and Plantagenet jumped up and wiped her eyes 
with one of those very pocket handkerchiefs on 
which she had embroidered his cipher and coronet 
with her own beautiful hair. 

Towards evening, Plantagenet began to expe- 
rience the reaction of his artificial spirits. The 
doctor had fallen into a gentle slumber. Lady An- 
nabel had quitted the room, Venetia sat, with her 
hand in Plantagenet's, on a stool by the fire-side. 
Both were very sad and silent. At last Venetia 
said, " 0, Plantagenet, I wish I were your real 
sister ! Perhaps, when I see you again, you will 
forget this," and she turned the jewel that was 
suspended round her neck, and showed him the 
inscription. 

" I am sure when I see you again, Venetia," he 
replied, " the only diflcrence will be that I shall 
love you more than ever." 

" I hope so," said Venetia. 

" I am sure of it. Now remember what we 
are talking about. When we meet again, we 
shall see which of us two will love each other 
most." 

" Plantagenet, I hope they will be kind to you 
at Eton." 

" I will make them." 

" And, whenever you are the least unhappy, 
you will write to us 1" 

" I shall never be unhappy about any thing bnt 
being away from you. As for the rest, I will make 
people respect me ; I know what I am. 

" Because, if they do not behave well to you, 
mamma could ask Doctor Masham to come and 
see you, and they will attend to him ; and I would 
ask him too." 

" I wonder," she continued, after a moment's 
pause, " if you have ever)' thing you want. I am 
quite sure, the instant you are gone, we shall re- 
member something you ought to have ; and then 
I shall be quite broken-hearted." 

" I have got every thing." 

" You said you wanted a large knife." 

" Yes ! but I am going to buy one in London. 
Doctor Masham says he will take me to a place 
where the finest knives in the world are to be 
bought. It is a great thing to go to London with 
Doctor Masham." 

"I have never written your name in your 
Bible and Prayer Book. I will do it this even- 
ing." 

" Lady Annabel is to write it in the Bible, and 
you are to write it in the Prayer Book." 

" You are to write to us from London by Doctor 
Ma-sham, if only a line." 

" I shall not fail." 

"Never mind about your hand-writing; but 
mind you write." 

At this moment Lady Annabel's step was 
heard, nnd PlanUigenet said, "Give me a kiss, 
A'enetia, for I do not mean to bid good b'yc to- 
night." 

" But you will not go to-morrow before we are 
up." ^ 

" "i es, wc shall." 

" Now, Plantagenet, I shall be np to bid yot 
good b'yc ; mind that." 

3P 



732 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Laily Annabel entered, the doctor woke, lights 
followed, the servant made up the fire, and the 
room looked cheerful again. After tea, the names 
were duly written in the Bible and Prayer Book ; 
the last arrangements were made, all the baggage 
was brought down into the hall, all ransacked 
their memory and fancy to see if it were possible 
that any thing that Plantagenet could require was 
either ibrgotten or had been omitted. The clock 
struck ten; Lady Annabel rose. The travellers 
were to part at an early hour : she shook hands 
with Doctor Masham, but Cadurcis was to bid 
her farewell in her dressing-room, and then, with 
heavy hearts and glistening eyes, they all separated. 
And thus ended the last day ! 



CHAPTER XX. 

Vexetia passed a restless night. She was so 
lesolved to be awake in time for Plantagenet's de- 
parture, that she could not sleep ; and at length, 
towards morning, fell, from exhaustion, into a 
slight slumber, from which she sprang up convul- 
sively, roused by the sound of the wheels of the 
post-chaise. She looked out her window, and 
saw the servant strapping on the portmanteaus. 
Shortly after this she heard Plantagenet's step in 
the vestibule ; he passed her room, and proceeded 
to her mother's dressing-room, at the door of 
which she heard him knock, and then there was 
silence. 

" You are in good time," said Lady Annabel, 
who was seated in an easy chair when Plantage- 
net entered her room. " Is the doctor up 1 " 

" He is breakfasting." 

" And have you breakfasted 1" 

" I have no appetite." 

" You should take something, my child, before 
you go. Now, come hither, my dear Plantagenet," 
.she said, extending her hand ; " listen to me, one 
word. When you arrive in London, you will go 
to your guardian's. He is a great man, and I be- 
lieve a very good one, a'nd the law and your 
father's will have placed fiim in the position of a 
parent to you. You must therefore love, honour, 
and obey him ; and I doubt not he will deserve 
all your affection, respect, and duty. Whatever 
he desires or counsels you will perform and follow. 
As long as you act according to his wishes, you 
cannot be wrong. But, my dear Plantagenet, if 
by any chance it ever happens, for strange things 
sometimes happen in this world, that you are in 
trouble and require a friend, remember that Cher- 
l)ury is also your home; the home of your heart, 
if not of the law ; and that not merely from my 
own love for you, but, because I promised your 
poor moth-cr on her death-bed, I esteem myself 
morally, although not legally, in the light of 
a parent to you. You will find Eton a great 
change ; you will experience many trials and temp- 
tations ; but you will trium{)h over and withstand 
them all, if you wili attend to these few directions. 
Fear God; momin); »."d night, let nothing induce 
you ever to omit your prayers to him ; you will 
find that praying will make you happy. Obey your 
superiors, always treat your masters with respect. 



Ever speak the truth. As long as you adhere to 
this rule, you never can be involved in any serious 
misfoilune. A deviation from truth is, in general, 
the foundation of all misery. Be kind to your 
companions, but be firm. Do not be laughed ijito 
doing that which you know to be wrong. Be 
modest and humble, but ever respect yourself. 
Remember who you are, and also that it is your 
duty to excel. Providence has given you a great 
lot. Think ever that you are born to perform great 
duties. 

" God bless you, Plantagenet !" continued her 
ladyship, after a slight pause, with a faltering 
voice — " God bless you, my sweet child. And 
God will bless you, if you remember him. Try 
also to remember us," she added, as she embraced 
him, and placed in his hand Venetia's well-Uned 
purse. " Do not-^orget Cherbury and all it con- 
tains ; hearts that love you dearly, and will pray 
ever for your welfare." 

Plantagenet leaned upon her bosom. He had 
entered the room resolved to be composed, with an 
air even of cheerfulness, but his tender heart yield- 
ed to the first appeal to his affections. He could 
only murmur out some broken syllables of devo- 
tion, and almost unconsciously found that he had 
quitted the chamber. 

With streaming eyes and hesitating steps he 
was proceeding along the vestibule, when he heard 
his name called by a low sweet voice. He looked 
round ; it was Venetia. Never had he beheld 
such a beautiful vision. She was nuiffled up in 
her dressing-gown, her small white feet only 
guarded from the cold by her slippers. Her golden 
hair seemed to reach her waist, her cheek was 
flushed, her large blue eyes glittered with tears. 

" Plantagenet," said she — 

Neither of them could speak. They embraced, 
they mingled their tears together, and every instant 
they wept more plenteously. At length a footstep 
was heard ; Venetia murmured a blessing, and 
vanished. 

Cadurcis lingered on the stairs a moment to 
compose himself. He wiped his eyes ; he tried to 
look undisturbed. All the servants were in the 
hall ; from Mistress Pauncefort to the scullion 
there was not a dry eye. All loved the httle lord, 
he was so gracious and so gentle. Every one asked 
leave to touch his hand before he went. He tried 
to smile and say something kind to all. He recog- 
nised the gamekeeper, and told him to do what he 
liked at Cadurcis ; said something to the coach- 
man about his pony ; and begged Mistress Paunce- 
fort, quite aloud, to take great care of her young 
mistress. As he was speaking, he felt something 
rubbing against his hand ; it was Marmion, the 
old blood-hound. He also came to bid his adieus. 
Cadurcis patted him with great affection, and 
said " Ah ! my old fellaw, we shall yet meet 
again." 

1'he doctor appeared, smiling as usual, made 
his inquiries whether all were right, nodded to 
the weeping household, called Plantagenet his 
brave boy, and ])atted him on the back, and bade 
him jump into the chaise. Another moment, ana 
Doctor Masham had also entered ; the door was 
closed, the fatal " All right" sung out, and Lord 
Cadurcis was whirling away from that Cherbury 
where he was so loved ! 



VENETIA. 



723 



BOOK II. 
CHAPTER I. 

Life is not dated merely by years. Events are 
sometimes the best calendars. There are epochs 
in our existence which cannot be ascertained by 
a formal appeal to the re<jistry. The arrival of the 
Cadurcis family at their old abbey, their conse- 
quent intimacy at Cherbury, tlie death of the mo- 
ther, and the departure of the son — these were 
events which had been crowded into a space of 
less than two years ; but those two years were not 
only the most eventful in the life of Venetia Her- 
bert, but in their influence upon the developement 
of her mind, and the foimation of her character, 
far exceeded the efl'ects of all her previous exist- 
ence. 

Venetia once more found herself with no com- 
panion but her mother, but in vain she attempted 
to recall the feelings she had before experienced 
under such circumstances, and to revert to the re- 
sources she had before commanded. No longer 
could she wander in imaginary kingdoms, or trans- 
form the limited world of her experience into a 
boundless region of enchanted amusement. Her 
play-pleasure hours were fled for ever. She sighed 
for her faithful and sympathising companion. The 
empire of fancy yielded without a struggle to the 
conquering s\vay of memory. 

For the first few weeks Venetia was restless and 
dispirited, and when she was alone she often wept. 
A mysterious instinct prompted her, bowever, not 
to exhibit such emotion before her mother. Yet 
she loved to hear Lady Annabel talk of Plantago- 
net, and a visit to the abbey was ever her favourite 
walk. Sometimes, too, a letter arrived from Lord 
Cadurcis, and this was great joy, but such com- 
munications were rare. Nothing is more diliicult 
than for a junior boy at a public school to msun- 
tain a correspondence ; yet his letters were most 
affectionate, and always dwelt upon the prospect 
of his return. The period for this hoped-for return 
at length arrived, but it brought no Flantagenet. 
His guardian wished that the hohdays should be 
spent under his roof. Still at intervals Cadurcis 
wrote to Cherbury, to which, as time flew on, it 
eeemed destined he never was to return. Vacation 
followed vacation, alike passed with his guardian, 
either in London or at a country seat still more 
remote from Cherbury, until at length it became 
so much a matter of course that his guardian's 
house should be esteemed his home, that Plantage- 
net cea.sed to allude even to the prospect of return. 
In time his letters became rarer and rarer, until, at 
length, they altogether ceased. Meanwhile Vene- 
tia had overcome the original pang of separation ; 
if not as gav as in old days, she was serene and 
very studious : delighting less in her flowers and 
birds, but much more in her books, and pursuing 
her studies with an earnestness and assiduity 
which her mother was rather fain to che<:k than 
to encourage. Venetia Herbert, indeed, promised 
to become a most accximplished woman. She had 
a fine ear for music, a ready tongue for languages ; 
already she emulated her mother's skill in the art-s; 
while the library of Cherbury aflbrded welcome 
and inexhaustible resources to a girl whose genius 
deserved the richest and most sedulous cultivation, 
and whose pccaUar situation, independent of her 



studious predisposition, rendered reading a pastime 
to her rather than a task. Lady Annabel watched 
the progress of her daughter with the most lively 
interest, and spared no eiforts to assist the forma- 
tion of her principles and her taste. That deep 
religious feeling which was the characteristic of 
the mother had been carefully and early cherished 
in the heart of the child, and in time the unrivalled 
writings of the great divines of our church became 
a principal portion of her reading. Order, method, 
severe study, strict reUgious exercise, with no 
amusement or relaxation but of the most simple 
and natural character, and with a complete seclu- 
sion from society, altogether formed a system, 
W'hich, acting upon a singularly susceptible and 
gifted nature, secured the promise in Venetia Her- 
bert, at fourteen years of age, of a very extraordi- 
nary woman ; a system, however, against which 
her lively and somewhat restless mind might pro- 
bably have rebelled, had not that system been so 
thoroughly imbued with all the melting spell of 
maternal aflfection. It was the inspirations of this 
sacred love that hovered like a guardian angel over 
the life of Venetia. It roused her from her morn- 
ing slumbers with an embrace, it sanctified her 
evening pillow with a blessing ; it anticipated the 
diniculty of the student's page, and guided the 
faltering hand of the hesitating artist; it refreshed 
her memory, it modulated her voice ; it accompa- 
nied her in the cottage, and knelt by her at the 
altar. Marvellous and beautiful is a mother's love ! 
And when Venetia, with her strong feelings and 
enthusiastic spirit, would look around and mark 
that a graceful form and a bright eye were for 
ever watching over her wants and wishes, instruct- 
ing with sweetness, and soft even w ith advice, her 
whole soul rose to her mother, all thoughts and 
feelings were concentrated in that sole existence, 
and she desired no happier destiny than to pass 
through life living in the light of her mother's 
smiles, and clinging with passionate trust to that 
beneficent and guardian form. 

But with all her quick and profound feelings 
Venetia was thoughtful, and even shrewd, and 
when she was alone her veiT love for her mother, 
and her gratitude for suc4i an ineflable treasure as 
parental affection, would force her mind to a sub- 
ject which had haunted her even from her earliest 
childhood. Why had she only one parent 1 What 
mystery was this that enveloped that great tie ? 
For that there was a mystery \'enetia felt as assured 
as that she was a daughter. By a process which 
she could not analyse, her father had become a 
forbidden subject. True, Lady Annabel had 
placed no formal prohibition upon its mention ; 
nor at her present age was Venetia one who would 
be influenced in her conduct by the by-gone and 
arbitrary intimations of a menial ; nevertheless, 
that the mention of her father would afford pain 
to the being she loved best in the world was a 
conviction which had grown with her years and 
strengthened with her strength. Pardonable, 
natural, even laudable as was the anxiety of the 
daughter upon such a subject, an instinct with 
which she could not struggle closed the lips of 
Venetia for ever upon this topic. His name was 
never mentioned, his past existence was never 
alluded to. Who was he T That he was of noble 
familv, and great position, her name betokened, 
and the state in which they lived. He must hav» 
died very early ; perhaps even before her mothet 



724 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS, 



gave her birth. A dreadful lot indeed ; and yet 
was the grief that even such a dispensation might 
occasion, so keen, so overwhelming, that after 
fourteen long years his name might not be permit- 
ted, even for an instant, to pass the pale lips of his 
bereaved wife 1 Was his child to be deprived of 
the only solace for his loss, the consolation of che- 
rishing his memory 1 Sti-ange, passing strange 
indeed, and very bitter ! At Cherbury the family 
of Herbert were honoured only from tradition. 
Until the arrival of Lady Annabel, as we have 
before mentioned, they had not resided at the hall 
for more than half a century. There were no old 
retainers there from whom Venetia might glean, 
without suspicion, the information for which she 
panted. Slight too, as was Venetia's experience 
of society, there were times when she could not 
resist the impression that her mother was not hap- 
py ; that there was some secret soitow that weighed 
upon her spirit, some grief that gnawed at her 
heart. Could it be still the recollection of her lost 
sire 1 Could one so religious, so resigned, so as- 
sured of meeting the lost-one in a better world, 
brood with a repining soul over the will of her 
Creator? Such conduct was entirely at variance 
with all the tenets of Lady Annabel. It was not 
thus she consoled the bereaved, that she comforted 
the widow, and solaced the orphan. Venetia, too, 
observed every thing and forgot nothing. Not an 
incident of her earliest childhood that was not as 
fresh in her memory as if it had occurred yester- 
day. Her memory was naturally keen; living in 
solitude, with nothing to distract it, its impressions 
never faded away. She had never forgotten her 
mother's tears the day that she and Plantagcnet 
had visited Marringhurst. Somehow or other Dr. 
Masham seemed connected with this sorrow. 
Whenever Lady Annabel was most dispirited it 
was after an interview with that gentleman ; yet 
the pi-esence of the doctor always gave her plea- 
sure, and he was the most kind-hearted and cheer- 
ful of men. Perhaps, after all, it was only her 
illusion ; perhaps, after all, it was the memory of 
her father to which her mother was devoted, and 
which occasionally overcame her ; perhaps she 
ventured to speak of him to Dr. Masham, though 
not to her daughter, and this might account for 
that occasional agitation which Venetia had ob- 
served at his visits. And yet, and yet, and yet — 
in vain she reasoned. There is a strange sympa- 
thy which whispers convictions that no evidence 
can authorise, and no arguments dispel. Venetia 
Herbert, particularly as she grew older, could not 
refrain at times from yielding to the irresistible 
belief that her existence was enveloped in some 
mystery. Mystery too often presupposes the idea 
of guilt. Guilt ! who was guilty 1 Venetia shud- 
dered at the current of her own thoughts. She 
started from the garden seat in which she had 
fallen into this dangerous and painful reverie ; 
flew to her mother, who received her with smiles ; 
and buried her face in the bosom of Lady Anna- 
bel. 



CHAPTER n. 

Wk nave indicated in a few pages the progress 
ot three years. How diiferently passed to the two 
Mreceding ones, when the Cadurcis family were 



settled at the abbey ! For during this latter period 
it seemed that not a single incident had occurred- 
They had glided away in one unbroken course of 
study, religion, and domestic love, the enjoyment 
of nature, and the pursuits of charity ; like a long 
summer sabbath-day, sweet and serene and still, 
undisturbed by a single passion, hallowed and hal- 
lowing. 

If the Cadurcis family were now not absolutely 
forgotten at Cherbury, they were at least only oc- 
casionally remembered. These last three years so 
completely harmonised with the life of Venetia be- 
fore their arrival, that, taking a general view of 
her existence, their residence at the abbey figured 
only as an episode in her career; active indeed and 
stiiTing, and one that had left some impressions 
not easily discarded ; but, on the whole, mellowed 
by the magic of time, Venetia looked back to her 
3'outhful friendship as an event that was only an 
exception in her lot, and she viewed herself as a 
being born and bred up in a seclusion which she 
was never to quit, with no aspirations beyond the 
little world in which she moved, and where she 
was to die in peace, as she had lived in purity. 

One Sunday, the conversation after dinner fell 
upon Lord Cadurcis. Doctor Masham had recent- 
ly met a young Etonian, and had made some in- 
quiries about their friend of old days. The infor- 
mation he had obtained was not very satisfactory. 
It seemed that Cadurcis was a more popular boy 
with his companions than his tutors ; he had been 
rather unruly, and had only escaped expulsion ty 
the influence of his guardian, who was not only a 
great noble, but a powerful minister. 

This conversation recalled old times. They 
talked over the arrival of Mrs. Cadurcis at the ab- 
bey, her strange character, her untimely end. Lady 
Annabel expressed her conviction of the natural 
excellence of Plantagenet's disposition, and her 
regret of the many disadvantages under which he 
laboured ; it gratified Venetia to listen to his 
praise. 

" He has quite forgotten us, mamma," said Ve- 
netia. 

" My love, he was very young when he quitted 
us," replied Lady Annabel ; " and you must re- 
member the influence of a change of life at so ten- 
der an age. He lives now in a busy world." 

" I wish that he had not forgotten to write to us 
sometimes," said Venetia. 

" Writing a letter is a great achievement for a 
schoolboy," said the Doctor ; " it is a duty which 
even grown-up persons too often forget to fulfil, 
and, when postponed, it is generally deferred for 
ever. However, I agree with Lady Annabel, Ca- 
durcis was a fine fellow, and, had he been properly 
brought up, I cannot help thinking might have 
turned out something." 

" Poor Plantagenet !" said Venetia, " how I pity 
him. His was a terrible lot — to lose both his pa- 
rents ! Whatever were the errors of Mrs. Cadur- 
cis, she was his mother, and, in spite of every mor- 
tification, he clung to her. Ah ! I shall never for- 
get when Pauncefort met him coming out of her 
room, the night before the burial, when he said, 
with streaming eyes, ' I only had one friend in the 
world, and now she is gone.' I could not love 
Mrs. Cadurcis, and yet, when I heard of these 
words, I cried as much as he." 

' Poor fellow !" said the Doctor, filling hia 



VE N FTI A. 



?25 



" If there be any person in the world wlioni I 
#ity," said V'crietia, " 'tis an orimaii, (J ! whiit 
«hould I be without mamma ? And rianlagcnet, 
poor Plantagenet, he has no mother, no I'aliier." 
Veiietia added, with a faltering voice : " 1 can sym- 
pathise with him in some degree, I, I, I know, I 
leei the misfortune, the misery, — " her iiice be- 
came crimson, yet she could not restrain the irre- 
sistible words, — " the misery of never having 
known a father," she added. 

Tiiore was a dead pause, a most solemn silence. 
In vain Venetia struggled to look calm and un- 
concerned ; every instant she felt the blood man- 
tling in her check with a more lively and spreading 
agitation. She dared not look uj) ; it was not pos- 
sible to utter a word to turn tiic conversation. She 
felt utterly confounded, and absolutely mute. At 
length Lady Annabel spoke. Her tone was se- 
vere and choking, very diti'erent to her usual sil- 
very voice. 

" I am sorry that my daughter should feel so 
keenly the want of a parent's love," said her lady- 
ship. 

What would not Venetia have given for the 
power of speech 1 but it seemed to have deserted 
her for ever. There she sat mute and motionless, 
with her eyes fixed on the table, and with a burn- 
ing cheek, as if she were conscious of having com- 
mitted some act of shame, as if she had been de- 
tected in some base and degrading deed. Yet, 
what had she done 1 A daughter had delicately 
alluded to her grief at the loss of a parent, and ex- 
pressed her keen sense at the deprivation. 

It was an autumnal afternoon : Dr. Masham 
looked at the sky, and, after a long pause, made 
an observation about the weather, and then re- 
quested permission to order his horses, as the eve- 
ning came on apace, and he had some distance to 
ride. Lady Annabel rose ; the Doctor, with a 
countenance unusually serious, ofl'ered her his 
arm ; and Venetia followed them like a criminal. 
In a fc\^ minutes the horses appeared ; Lady An- 
nabel bid adieu to her friend in her usual kind 
tone, and with her usual sweet smile ; and then, 
without noticing Venetia, instantly retired to her 
own chamber. 

And this was her mother — her mother, who ne- 
ver before quitted her for an instant, without some 
sign and symbol of afliiction, some playful word 
of love, a winning smile, a passing embrace, that 
seemed to acknowledge that the pang of even mo- 
mentary separation could only be alleviated by 
this graceful homage to the heart. What had she 
done 1 Venetia was about to follow Lady Anna- 
bel, but she checked herself. Atrony at having 
offended her mother, and for the first time, was 
blended with a strange curiosity as to the cause, 
and some hesitating indignation at her treatment. 
Venetia remained anxiously awaiting the return 
of Lady Annabel, but her ladyship did not re-ap- 
. pear. Every instant the astonishment and grief 
of Venetia increased. It was the first domestic 
difference that had occurred between them. It 
shocked her very much. She thought of Planta- 
genet and Mrs. Cadurcis. There was a mortify- 
ing resemblance, however slight, between the re- 
spective situations of the two families. Venetia, 
too, had quarrelled with her mother ; that mother 
who. for fourteen years, had only looked upon her 
with fondness and joy ; who had been ever kind, 
without being ever weak, and had rendered her 



child happy by making her good ; that mother 
whose beneficent wisdom had transfonncd duty 
into delight ; that superior yet gentle being, «o in- 
dulgent yet so just, so gitted yet so condescending, 
who dedicated all her knowledge, and time, and 
care, and intellect, to her daughter. 

Venetia tlircw herself upon a couch and wept. 
They were the lirst tears of unmixed pain that she 
had ever shed. It was said by the household of 
Venetia when a child, that she had never cried ; 
not a single tear had ever sullied tiiat sunny face. 
Surrounded by scenes of innocence, and images 
of happiness and content, Venetia smiled on a 
world that smiled on her, the radiant heroine of a 
golden age. She had, indeed, wept over the sor- 
rows and the departure of Cadurcis ; but those 
were soft showers of sympathy and affection sent 
from a warm heart, like drops from a summer sky. 
But now this grief was agony : her brow throbbed, 
her hand was clenched, her heart beat with tumul- 
tuous palpitation ; the streaming torrent came 
scalding down her check hke fire rather than 
tears, and, instead of assuaging her emotion, seem- 
ed, on the contrary, to increase its fierce and fer- 
vid power. 

'i'he sun had set, the red autumnal twilight had 
died away, the shadov/s of night were brooding 
over the halis of Chcrbury. The moan of the 
rising wind might be distinctly heard, and ever 
and anon the branches of -neighbouring trees 
swung with a suddeji yet melancholy sound agamst 
the windows of the apartment, of which the cur- 
tains had remained undrawn. Venetia looked up ; 
the room would have been in perfect darkness but 
for a glinmicr which just indicated the site of the 
expiring fire, and an uncertiiin light, or rather 
modified darkness, that seemed the &ky. Alone 
and desolate ! Alone and desolate and unhappy ! 
Alone and desolate and unhappy, and for the first 
time ! Was it a sigh, or a groim, t'lat issued from 
the stifling heart of Venetia Kerberi ? That child 
of innocence, that bright emanation of love and 
beauty, that airy creature of grace and gentleness, 
who had never said an unkind word or done an 
unkind thing in her ^^ hole career, but had glanced 
and glided through existence, scattering haj)piness 
and joy, and receiving the pleasure which she her- 
self imparted, how ovci-whehning was her first 
struggle with that dark str;uiger — Sonow ! 

Some one entered the room ; it was Mistress 
Pauncefort. She held a taper in her hand, and 
came tripping gingerly in, with a new cap stream- 
ing with ribands, and scarcely, as it were, conde- 
scending to execute the mission with which she 
i was trusted, which was no greater than fetching 
her lady's reticule. She glanced at the table, but 
it was not there ; and she turned up her nose at 
a chair or two, which she even condescended to 
pro[x;! a little with a saucy foot, as if the reticule 
might be hid under the hanging drapery, and then, 
unable to find the object of her search. Mistress 
Pauncefort settled herself before the glass, elevat- 
ing the taper above her head, that she might olv 
serve what indeed she had been examining the 
whole day, the cllVct of her new cap. \\'ith a 
complacent simper. Mistress Pauncefort then turn- 
ed from pleasure to business, and approaching the 
couch, gave a faint shriek, half genuine, half af- 
fected, as she recognised the recumbent fonn of 
her young mistress. " Well, to be sure," exclaim- 
ed Mistress Pauncefort, " was the like ever seen 1 

3p 2 



736 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Miss Venetia, as I live ! La ! Miss Venetia, what 
can be the matter 1 I declare I am all in a palpi- 
tation.'' 

Venetia, affecting composure, said she was rather 
unwell ; that she had a headache, and rising, mur- 
mured that she would go to bed. " A headache !" 
exclaimed Mistress Pauncefort, " I hope no worse, 
for there is my lady, and she is as out of sorts as 
possible. She has a headache too, and when I 
shut the door just now, I am sure as quiet as a 
Iamb, she told me not to make so much noise when 
I left the room. 'Noise!' says I; ' why really, 
my lad}^ I don't pretend to be a spirit ; but if it 
comes to noise — ' ' Never answer me, Pauncefort,' 
said my lady. 'No, my lady,' says I, 'I never do, 
and, I am sure, when I have a headache myself, I 
don't like to be answered.' But, to be sure, if you 
have a headache, and my lady has a headache too, 
I only hope we have not got the epidemy. I vow, 
Miss Venetia, that your eyes are as red as if you 
had been running against the wind. Well, to be 
sure, if you have not been crying ! I must go and 
tell my lady immediately." 

" Light me to my room," said Venetia ; " I will 
not disturb my mother, as she is unwell." 

Venetia rose, and Mistress Pauncefort followed 
her to her chamber, and lit her candles. Venetia 
desired her not to remain ; and when she had 
quitted the chamber, Venetia threw herself in her 
chair and sighed. 

To sleep — it was impossible ; it seemed to Ve- 
netia that she could never rest agair 8he wept 
no more, but her distress was very great. She 
felt it impossible to exist through the night without 
being reconciled to her mother; but she refrained 
from going to her room, from the fear of again 
meeting her troublesome attendant. She resolved, 
therefore, to wait until she heard Mistress Paunce- 
fort retire for the night, and she listened with rest- 
less anxiety for the sign of her departure in the 
sound of her footsteps along the vestibule, on 
which the dours of Lady Annabel's and her daugh- 
ter's apartnicnts opened. 

An hour elapsed, at length the sound was heard. 
Convinced that Pauncefort had now quitted her 
mother for the night, Venetia ventured forth ; and, 
stopping before the door of her mother's room, she 
knocked gently. There was no reply, and in a 
few minutes Venetia knocked again, and rather 
louder. Still no answer. " Mamma," said Vene- 
tia in a faltering tone, but no sound replied. Ve- 
netia then tried the door, and found it fastened. 
Then she gave up the effort in despair, and, re- 
treating to her own chamber, she threw herself on 
her bed, and wept bitterly. 

Some time elapsed before she looked up again ; 
the candles were flaring in their sockets. It was 
a wild windy night ; Venetia rose, and withdrew 
the curtain of her window. The black clouds 
were scudding along the sky, revealing, in their 
occasional but transient rifts, some glimpses of the 
moon, that seemed unusually bright ; or of a star 
that trembled with supernatural brilliancy. She 
stood a while gazing on the outward scene, that 
harmonised with her own internal agitation : her 
grief was like the storm, her love like the light of 
that bright moon and star. 'I'herc came over her 
a desire to see her mother, which she felt irresisti- 
ble ; she was resolved that no difficulty, no iihpe- 
diment, should prevent her instantly from throwing 
kerself on her bosom. It seemed to her tliat her 



brain would bum, that this awful night could never 
end without such an interview. She opened hei 
door, went forth again into the vestibule, and ap- 
proached with a nenous but desperate step hei 
mother's chamber. To her astonishment, the door 
was ajar, but there was a light within. With 
trembling step and downcast eyes, Venetia entered 
the chamber, scarcely daring to advance, or to 
look up. 

" Mother," she said, but no one answered ; she 
heard the tick of the clock ; it was the only sound. 
" Mother," she repeated, and she dared to look up, 
but the bed was empty. There was no mother. 
Lady Annabel was not in the room. Following 
an irresistible impulse, Venetia knelt by the side 
of her mother's bed and prayed. She addressed, 
in audible and agitated tones, that Almighty and 
Beniticent Being of whom she was so faithful and 
pure a follower. With sanctified simplicity, she 
communicated to her Creator and her Saviour all 
her distress, all her sorrow, all the agony of her 
perplexed and wounded spirit. If she had sinned, 
she prayed for forgiveness, and declared in solitude, 
to one whom she could not deceive, how uninten- 
tional was the trespass ; if she were only misap- 
prehended, she supplicated for comfort and conso- 
lation ; for support under the heaviest visitation 
she had yet experienced, the displeasure of that 
earthly parent whom she revered only second to 
her heavenly Father. 

" For thou art my Father," said Venetia, " I 
have no otlier father but thee, God ! Forgive 
me, then, my heavenly parent, if in my wilfulness, 
if in my thoughtless and sinful blindness, I have 
sighed for a father on earth, as well as in heaven ! 
Great have thy mercies been to me, O God ! in a 
mother's love. Turn, then, again to me the heart 
of that mother whom I have offended ! Let her 
look upon her child as before ; let her continue to 
me a double parent, and let me pay to her the duty 
and the devotion that might otherwise have been 
divided !" 

" Amen !" said a sweet and solemn voice, and 
Venetia was clasped in her mother's arms. 



CHAPTER III. 

If the love of Lady Annabel for her child were 
capable of increase, it might have been believed 
that it absolutely became more profound and ardent 
after that short-lived but painful estrangement, 
which we have related in the last chapter. With 
all Lady Annabel's fascinating qualities and noble 
virtues, a fine obsen'er of human nature, enjoying 
opportunities of intimately studying her character, 
might have suspected that an occasion only were 
wanted to display or develope in that lady's con- 
duct no trifling evidence of a haughty, proud, and 
even inexorable, spirit. Circumstanced as she. 
was at Cherbury, with no one capable or desirous 
of disputing her will, the more gracious and ex- 
alted qualities of her nature were alone apparent. 
Entertaining a severe, even a sublime sense of the 
paramount claims of duty in all conditions and 
circumstances of life, her own conduct afforded an 
invariable and consistent example of her tenet ; 
from those around her she required little, and that 
was cheerfully granted ; while on the other hand, 
her more eminent situation alike multiphed her 



V E N E T I A. 



727 



own oblitjations, and enabled her to fulfil them ; 
she appeiired, therefore, to pass her life in confer- 
ring; happiness and in receiving gratitude. Strictly 
religious, of iininaculatc reputation, rigidly just, 
systematically charitahle. dignitied in her manners, 
yet more than courteous to her inferiors, and gifted 
at the same time with great self-control and great 
decision, she was looked up to by all within her 
sphere with a sentiment of atfectionate veneration. 
Perhaps there was only one person within her 
little world who, both by disposition and relative 
Bituation, was qualified in any way to question her 
undoubted sway, or to cross by independence of 
opinion the tenor of the discipline she had esta- 
blished, and this was her child. Venetia, with 
one of the most atfectionate and benevolent natures 
in the world, was gitted with a shrewd inquiring 
mind, an<l a restless imagination. She was capa- 
ble of forming her own opinions, and had both 
reason and feeling at command to gauge their 
worth. But to gain an influence over this child 
had been the sole object of Lady Annabel's life, 
and she had hitherto met that success which 
usually awaits in this world the strong purpose of 
a determined spirit. Lady Annabel herself was 
far too acute a person not to have detected early 
in life the talents of her child, and she was proud 
of them. She had cultivated them with exemplary 
devotion, and with admirable profit. But Lady 
Annabel had not less discovered that, in the ardent 
and susceptible temperament of Venetia, means 
were offered by which the heart might be trained 
not only to cope with but overpower the intellect. 
With great powers of pleasing, beauty, accom- 
plishments, a sweet voice, a soft manner, a sym- 
pathetic heart. Lady Annabel was qualified to 
charm the world ; she had contrived to fascinate 
her daughter. She had inspired Venetia with the 
most romantic attachment for her : such as rather 
subsists between two female friends of the same 
age and hearts, than between individuals in the 
relative situations which they bore to each other. 
Yet while Venetia thus loved her mother, she 
could not but also respect and revere the superior 
being whose knowledge was her guide on all sub- 
jects, and whose various accomplishments deprived 
her secluded education of all its disadvantages ; 
and when she felt that one so gifted had devoted 
her life to the benefit of her child, and that this 
beautiful and peerless lady had no other ambition 
but to be her guardian and attendant spirit ; grati- 
tude, fervent and profound, mingled with admiring 
reverence and passionate atVection, and together 
formed a spell that encircled the mind of Venetia 
with talismanic sway. 

Under the despotic influence of these enchanted 
feelings, Venetia was fixst growing into woman- 
hood, without a single cloud having ever disturbed 
or sullied the pure and splendid heaven of her 
domestic life. Suddenly the horizon had become 
clouded, a storm had gathered and burst, and an 
eclipse could scarcely have occasioned more terror 
to the untutored roamer of the wilderness, than 
this unexpected catastrophe to one so inexperienced 
in the power of the passions as our heroine. Her 
heaven was again serene ; but, such w;is the effect 
of this ebullition on her character, so keen was 
her dread of again encountering the agony of 
another misunderstanding with her mother, that 
she recoiled with trembling from that subject which 
bad .so often and so deeply engaged her secret 



thoughts ; and the idea of her father, associated as 
it now was with pain, mortification, and misery, 
never rose to her imagination but instantly to be 
shunned as some unhallowed imago, of which the 
bitter contemplation was fraught with not less dis- 
astrous consequences than the denounced idolatry 
of the holy people. 

Whatever, therefore, might be the secret reasons 
which impelled Lady Annabel to shroud the me- 
mory of the lost parent of her child in such in- 
violate gloom, it is certain that the hitherto 
restless though concealed curiosity of Venetia 
upon the subject, the rash demonstration to which 
it led, and the consequence of her boldness, instead 
of threatening to destroy in an instant the deep 
and matured system of her mother, had, on the 
whole, greatly contributed to the fulfilment of the 
very purpose for which Lady Annabel had so long 
laboured. TLdt lady spared no pains in following 
up the advantage which her acutencss and know- 
ledge of her daughter's character assured her that 
she had secured. She hovered round her child 
more like an enamoured lover than a fond mother; 
she hung upon her looks, she read her thoughts, 
she anticipated every want and wish ; her dulcet 
tones seemed even sweeter than before ; her soft 
and elegant manners even more tender and refined. 
Though even in her childhood Lady Annabel had 
rather guided than conunanded Venetia; now she 
rather consulted tlian guided her. She seized ad- 
vantage of the advanced character and mature ap- 
pearance of Venetia to treat her as a woman rather 
than a child, and as a friend rather than a daughter. 
Venetia yielded herself up to this flattering and 
fascinating condescension. Her love for her mo- 
ther amounted to passion ; she had no pther earthly 
object or desire but to pass her entire life in he 
sole and sweet society ; she could conceive no 
sympathy deeper or niore delightful ; the only un- 
happiness she had ever known, had been occasioned 
by a moment trenching upon its exclusive privi 
lege ; Venetia could not picture to herself that 
such a pure and entrancing existence could ever 
experience a change. 

And this mother, this devoted yet mysterious 
mother, jealous of her child's regret for a father 
that she had lost, and whom she had never known ! 
shall we ever penetrate the secret of her heart 1 



CHAPTEP :V. 

It was in the enjoyment of these exquisite 
feelings that a year, and m«re than another year, 
elapsed at our lone hall of Cherbury. Hajipiness 
and content seemed at least the blessed destiny of 
the Herl>erts. Venetia grew in years, and grace, 
and loveliness; each day. apparently more her 
mother's joy, and each day bound to that mother 
by, if possible, more ardent love. She had never 
again experienced those uneasy thoughts which 
at times had haunted her from her infancy ; sepa- 
rated from her mother, indeed, scarcely for an hour 
tocrether, she had no time to muse. Her studies, 
each day becoming more various and interesting, 
and pursued with so gifted and charming a com- 
panion, entirely engrossed her ; even the exercise 
that was her relaxation was participated by Lady 
Annabel; and the mother and daughter, bounding 
together on their steeds, were fanned by the eame 



728 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Iireeze, and freshened by the same graceful andi 
healthy exertion. 

One day the post, that seldom an-ived at Cher- 
bury, brought a letter to Lady Annabel, the perusal 
of which evidently greatly agitated her. Her 
countenance changed as her eye glanced over the 
pages; her hand trembled as she held it. But 
she made no remark ; and succeeded in subduing 
her emotion so quickly, that Venetia, although she 
watchcil her mother with anxiety, did not feel 
justified in interfering with inquiring sympathy. 
But while Lady Annabel resumed her usual calm 
demeanour, she relapsed into unaccustomed silence, 
and, soon rising from the breakfast table, moved 
to the window, and continued apparently gazing 
on the garden, with her face averted from Venetia 
for some time. At length she turned to her, and 
said, " I think, Venetia, of calling on the doctor 
to-day ; there is business on which I wish to 
consult him, but I will not trouble you, dearest, to 
accompany me. I must take the carriage, and it 
is a long and tiring drive." 

There was a tone of decision even in the slight- 
est observations of Lady Annabel, which, however 
sweet might be the voice in which they were ut- 
tered, scarcely encouraged their propriety to be 
canvassed. Now, Venetia was far from desirous 
of being separated from her mother this morning. 
It was not a vain and idle curiosity, prompted by 
the receipt of the letter and its consequent effects, 
both in the emotion of her mother and the visit 
which it had rendered necessary, that swayed her 
breast. The native dignity of a well-disciplined 
mind exempted Venetia from such feminine weak- 
ness. But some consideration might be due to 
the quick sympathy of an affectionate spirit that 
had witnessed with corresponding feeling, the 
disturbance of the being to whom she was devoted. 
V/hy this occasional and painful mystery that ever 
and anon clouded thu heaven of their love, and 
flung a frigid shadow over the path of a sunshiny 
life 1 Why was not Venetia to share the sorrow 
or the care of her only friend, as well as participate 
in her joy and her content 1 There were other 
claims, too, to this confidence, besides those of the 
heart. Lady Annabel was not merely her only 
friend, she was her parent, her only parent, almost, 
for aught she had ever heard or learnt, her only 
relative. For her mother's family, though she 
was aware of their existence by the freedom with 
which Lady Annabel ever mentioned them, and 
though Venetia was conscious that an occasional 
correspondence was maintained between them and 
Cherbury, occupied no station in Venetia's heart, 
scarcely in her memory. That noble family were 
nulhtes to her ; far distant, apparently estranged 
from her heart, except in form, she had never seen 
them ; they were associated in her recollection 
with none of the sweet ties of kindred. Her 
grandfather was dead without her ever having re- 
ceived his blessing; his successor, her uncle, was 
an ambassador, long absent from his country ; her 
only aunt married to a soldier, and established at 
a foreign station. Venetia envied Dr. Masham 
the confidence which was extended to him ; it 
seemed to her, even leaving out of sight the inti- 
mate feelings that subsisted between her and her 
mother, that the claims of blood to this confidence, 
were at least as strong as those of friendship. 
But Venetia stifled her emotions ; she parted from 



her mother with a kind, yet somewhat mournful 
expression. Lady Annabel might have read a 
slight sentiment of affectionate reproach in the 
demeanour of her daughter when she bade her 
farewell. Whatever might be the consciousness 
of the mother, she was successful in concealing 
her impression. Very kind, but calm and inscrut- 
able. Lady Annabel, having given directions for 
postponing the dinner-hour, embraced her child 
and entered the chariot. 

Venetia, fi'om the ten-ace, watched her mother's 
progress through the park. After gazing for some 
minutes, a tear stole down her cheek. She started, 
as if surprised at her own emotion. And now the 
carriage was out of sight, and Venetia would have 
recurred to some of those resources which were 
ever at hand for the employment or amusement 
of her secluded life. But the favourite volume 
ceased to interest this morning, and almost fell 
from her hand. She tried her spinet, but her ear 
seemed to have lost its music ; she looked af her 
easel, but the cunning had fled from her touch. 

Restless and disquieted, she knew not why, 
Venetia went forth again into the garden. All 
nature smiled around her ; the flitting birds were 
thi-owing their soft shadows over the sunny lawns, 
and rustling amid the blossoms of the variegated 
groves. The golden wreaths of the laburnum and 
the silver knots of thfe chestnut streamed and 
glittered around; the bees were as busy as the 
birds, and the whole scene was sufiused and pene- 
trated with brilhancy and odour. It still was 
spring, and yet the gorgeous approach of summer, 
like the advancing procession of some triumphant 
king, might almost be detected amid the lingering 
freshness of the year; a lively and yet magnificent 
period, blending, as it were, Attic grace with Ro- 
man splendour ; a time when hope and fruition 
for once meet, when existence is most full of de- 
light, alike delicate and voluptuous, and when the 
human frame is most sensible to the gayety and 
grandeur of nature. 

And why was not the spirit of the beautiful and 
innocent Venetia as bright as the surrounding 
scene 1 There are moods of mind that baffle 
analysis, that arise from a mysterious sympathy 
we cannot penetrate. At this moment the idea of 
her lather irresistibly recurred to the imagination 
of Venetia. She could not withstand the convic- 
tion that the receipt of the mysterious letter and 
her mother's agitation were by some inexplicable 
connexion linked with that forbidden subject. 
Sti-ange incidents flitted across her memory : her 
mother weeping on the day they visited Marring- 
hurst, the mysterious chambers — the nocturnal 
visit of Lady Annabel that Cadurcis had witnessed 
— her unexpected absence from her apartment, 
when Venetia in her despair had visited her, some 
months ago. What was the secret that enveloped 
her existence? Alone, which was unusual, — dis- 
spirited, she knew not why, — and brooding over 
thoughts which haunted her like evil spirits, Ve- 
netia at length yielded to a degree of nervous 
excitement which amazed her. She looked up to 
the uninhabited wing of the mansion with an 
almost fierce desire to penetrate its mysteries. It 
seemed to her that a strange voice came whispering 
on the breeze urging her to the fulfilment of a 
mystical mission. With a vague, yet wild pur- 
pose, she entered the house, and took her way to 



VENETIA. 



72!) 



ner mother's chamlier. Misti-css Paunccfort was 
there. Venetia endeavoured to assume her accus- 
tomed serenity. The waiting-woman hustled ahout, 
arranging the toilot-tahle, which had been for a 
moment discomposed, putting away a cap, folding 
up a shawl, and indulging in a multitude of inane 
observations which little harmonised with the high 
strung tension of Venetia's mind. Mistress 
Pauncefort opened a casket with a spring lock, in 
which she placed some trinkets of her mistress. 
Venetia stood by her in silence ; her eye, vacant 
and wandering, beheld the interior of the casket. 
There must have been something in it, the sight 
of which greatly agitated her, for Venetia turned 
pale, and in a moment left the chamber and retired 
to her owTi room. 

She locked her door, threw herself in a chair al- 
most gasping for breath, she covered her face with 
her hands. It was some minutes before she reco- 
vered comparative composure ; she rose and looked 
in the mirror ; her face was quite white, but her 
eyes glittering with excitement. She walked up 
and down her room with a troubled step, and a 
scarlet flush alternately returned to and retired 
from her changing cheek. Then she leaned 
against a cabinet in thought. She was disturbed 
from her musings by the sound of Pauncefort's 
step along the vestibule, as she quitted her mother's 
chamber. In a few minutes Venetia herself step 
ped forth into the vestibule, and listened. All was 
silent. The golden morning had summoned the 
whole household to its enjoyment. Not a voice, 
not a domestic sound, broke the complete stillness. 
Venetia again repaired to the apartment of Lady 
Annabel. Her step was light, but agitated ; it 
seemed that she scarcely dared to breathe. Shi 
opened the door, rushed into the cabinet, pressed 
the spring lock, caught at something that it con^ 
tained, and hurried again to her own chamber. 

And what is this prize that the trembling Vene^ 
tia holds almost convulsively in her grasp, appa- 
rently without daring even to examine iti I 
this the serene and light-liearted girl, whose face 
was like the cloudless splendour of a sunny day ? 
Why is she so pallid and perturbed 1 What strong 
impulse tills her frame 1 She clutches in her hand 
a key ! 

On that tempestuous night of passionate sorrow 
which succeeded the first misunderstanding be 
tween Venetia and her mother, when the voice of 
Lady Annabel had suddenly blended with that of 
her kneeling child, and had ratified with her devo- 
tional concurrence her wailing supplications; even 
at the moment when Venetia, in a rapture of love 
and duty, felt herself pressed to her mother's rc' 
conciled heart, it had not escaped her that Lady 
Annabel held in her hand a key ; and, thoush the 
feelings wliifh that night had so forcibly developed, 
and which the subsequent conduct of Lady Anna- 
bel had so larefully and skilfully cherished, had 
impelled Venetia to banish and erase from her 
thought and memory all the associations which 
that spectacle however slight was calculated 
to awaken, still, in her present mood, the unex- 
pected vision of the same instnmient, identical she 
could not doubt, had triumphed in an instant over 
all the long discipline of h-^r mind and conduct, in 
an instant had baffled and dispersed her self-con- 
trol, and been hailed as the providential means by 
which she might at length penetrate that mystery 

ich she now felt no longer supportable. 
92 



The clock of the belfiy of Gherbury at this mo- 
ment struck, and Venetia instantly sprang from 
her seat. It reminded her of the preciousness of 
the present morning. Her mother was mdeed ab- 
sent, but her mother would rctum. Before that 
event a great fulfilment was to occur. Venetia, 
still gi-asping the key, as if it were the talisman of 
her existence, looked up to heaven, as if she re- 
quired for her allotted task an immediate and spe- 
cial protection ; her lips seemed to move, and then 
she again quitted her apartment. As she passed 
through an oriel in her waj' towards the gallery, 
she observed Pauncefort in the avenue of the park, 
moving in the direction of the keeper's lodge. 
This emboldened her. With a humed step she 
advanced along the galler}', and at length stood be- 
fore the long-sealed door that had so often excited 
her strange curiosity. Once she looked around ; 
but no one was near, not a sound was heard. 
With a faltering hand she touched the lock with 
the key ; but her powers deserted her : for a mi- 
nute she believed that the key, after all, would not 
solve the mystery. And yet the difliculty arose 
only from her own agitation. She rallied her 
courage ; once more she made the trial ; the key 
fitted with completeness, and the lock opened with 
ease, and Venetia found herself in a small and 
scantily-furnished antechamber. Withdrawing 
then the key from the lock, and closing the door 
with noiseless care, Venetia stood trembling in the 
mysterious chamber, where apparently there was 
nothing to excite wonder. The door of the cham- 
ber into which the anteroom opened was still 
closed, and it was some minutes before the adven- 
turous daughter of Ladj' Annabel could summon 
couracre for the enterprise which awaited her. 

Her hand is upon the lock ; it yields without an 
effort. Venetia steps into a spacious and lofty 
chamber. For a moment she paused almost upon 
the threshold, and looked around her with a vague 
and misty vision. Anon she distinguished some- 
thing of the character of the apartment. In the 
recess of a large oriel window, that looked upon 
the park, and of which the blinds were nuAfly 
drawn, was an old-fashioned yet sumptuous t li'.et- 
table of considerable size, arranged as if foi use. 
Opposite this window, in a corresponding 7 ;cess, 
was what might he deemed a hridal-bed, its fur,iiture 
being of white satin, richly embroidered ; th<; cur- 
tains half closed ; and suspended from a cjnopy 
was a wreath of roses, that had once emulaied, or 
rather excelled, the lustrous purity of the hangings, 
but now were wan and withered. The centre of 
the inlaid and polished floor of the apartment was 
covered with a Tournay carpet, of brilliant yet 
tasteful decoration. An old cabinet of fanciful 
workmanship, some chairs of ebony, and some gi- 
randoles of silver, completed the furniture of the 
room, save that at its extreme end, exactly oppo- 
site to the door by which Venetia entered, covered 
with a curtain of green silk, was what she con- 
cluded must be a picture. 

An awful stillness pervaded the apartment: 
Venetia herself, with a face paler even than the 
hangings of the mysterious bed, stood motionless, 
with suppressed breath, gazing on the distant cur- 
tain, with a painful glance of agitated fascinatioiu 
At length, summoning her energies as if for the 
achievement of some terrible yet inevitable enter- 
prise, she crossed the room, and nvertinr: her face, 
and closing her eyes in a laroxysm of ners'ous ex 



730 



D'ISRA.ELrS NOVELS. 



citement, she stretched forth her arm, and with a 
rapid motion withdrew the curtain. The harsli 
sound of the brass rings drawn quickly over the 
rod, the only noise that had yet met her ear in this 
mystical chamber, made her start and ti'cmble. 
She looked up — she beheld, in a very broad and 
massy frame, the full-length portrait of a man. 

A man in the very spring of sunny youth, and 
of radiant beauty. Above the middle height, and 
very slender, yet with a form that displayed exqui- 
site grace, he was habited in a green tunic that 
developed his figure to advantage, and became the 
scene in which he was placed — a park, with a cas- 
tle in the distance 5 while a groom at hand held a 
noble steed, that seemed impatient for the chase. 
The countenance of its intended rider met fully 
the gaze of the spectatoi'. It was a countenance of 
singular loveliness and power. The lips and the 
moulding of the chin resembled the eager and im- 
passioned tenderness of the shape of Antinous ; 
but, instead of the effeminate sullenness of the 
eye, and the narrow smoothness of the forehead, 
shone an expression of profound and piercing 
thought. On each side of the clear and open 
brow descended, even to the shoulders, the cluster- 
ing locks of golden hair ; while the eyes large, and 
yet deep, beamed with a spiritual energy, -and 
shone like two wells of crystaline water that reflect 
the all-beholding heavens. 

Now when Venetia Herbert beheld this coun- 
tenance a change came over her. It seemed that, 
when her ejes met the eyes of the portrait, some 
mutual interchange of sympathy occurred between 
them. She fr(;ed herself in an instant from the 
apprehension and timidity that before oppressed 
her. Whatever might ensue, a vague conviction 
of having achieved a great object pervaded, as it 
were, her being. *ome great end, vast, though 
indefinite, had been fulfilled. Abstract and fear- 
less, she gazed upon the dazzling visage with a 
prophetic heart. Her soul vpas in a tumult, op- 
pressed with thick-coming fancies too big for 
words, panting for expression. There was a word 
which must be spoken : it trembled on her convul- 
sive lip, and would not sound. She looked around 
her with an eye ghttering with unnatural fire, as 
if to supplicate some invisible and hovering spirit 
to her rescue, or that some floating and angelic 
chorus might warble the thrilling word, whose ex- 
pression seemed absolutely necessary to her exist- 
ence. Her cheek is flushed, her eye wild and 
tremulous, the broad blue veins of her immaculate 
brow quivering and distended ; her waving hair 
falls back over her forehead, and rustles like a 
wood before the storm. She seems a priestess in 
the convulsive throes of inspiration, and about to 
breathe the oracle. 

The picture, as we have mentioned, was hung 
in a broad and massy frame. In the centre of its 
base was worked an escutcheon, and beneath the 
shield this inscription, — 

Mahmiox Herbert, jet. XX. 

Yet there needed not these letters to guide the 
agitated spirit of Venetia, for, before lier eye had 
reached them, the word was spoken ; and, falling 
on her knees before the portrait, the daughter of 
liady Annabel had exclaimed " My father !" 



CHAPTER V. 

The daughter still kneels before the form of the 
father, of whom she had heard for the first time 
in her life. He is at length discovered. It was, 
then, an irresistible destiny, that, after the wild 
musings and baflied aspirations of so many years, 
had guided her to this chamber. She is the child 
of Marmion Herbert; she beholds her lost parent. 
That being of supernatural beauty, 011 whom she 
gazes with a look of blended reverence and love, is 
her father. What a revelation ! Its reality ex- 
ceeded the wildest dreams of her romance ; her 
brightest visions of grace and loveliness and genius, 
seemed personified in this form ; the form of one 
to whom she was bound by the strongest of all 
earthly ties — of one on whose heart she had a 
claim second only to that of the being by whose 
lips his name was never mentioned. Was he, 
then, no more 1 Ah ! could she doubt that bitter- 
est calamity 1 Ah ! was it, was it any longer a 
inarv'el, that one who had lived in the light of those 
seraphic eyes, and had watched them until their 
terrestrial splendour had been forever extinguished, 
should shrink from the converse that could remind 
her of the catastrophe of all her earthly hopes ! 
Tlris chamber, then, was the temple of her mother's 
wo — the tomb of her baffled affections and bleed- 
ing heart. No wonder that Lady Annabel, the 
desolate Lady Annabel, that almost the same 
spring must have witnessed the most favoured and 
the most disconsolate of women, should have fled 
from the world, that had awarded her at the same 
time a lot so dazzling and so full of despair. Ve- 
netia felt that the existence of her mother's child, 
her own frasrile being, could have be«n that mo- 
ther's sole link to life. The heart of the young 
widow of Marmion Herbert must have broken but 
for Venetia ; and the consciousness of that remain- 
ing tie, and the duties that it involved, could have 
alone sustained the victim under a lot of such un- 
paralleled bitterness. The tears streamed down 
her cheek as she thought of her mother's misery, 
and her mother's gentle love ; the misery that she 
had been so cautious her child should never share ; 
the vigilant affection that, with all her own hopes 
blighted, had still laboured to compensate to her 
child for a deprivation, the fulness of which Vene- 
tia could only now comprehend. 

When, where, why — did he die 1 O ! that she 
might talk of him to her mother for ever ! It 
seemed that life might pass away in Hstening to 
his praises. Marmion Herbert ! — and who was 
Marmion Herbert 1 Young as he was, command 
and genius, the pride of noble passions, all the 
glory of a creative mind, seemed stamped upon his 
brow. With all his marvellous beauty, he seemed 
a being born for greatness. Dead — in the veiy 
burst of his spring, a spring so sweet and splendid 
— could he be dead 1 Why, then, was he ever 
born 1 It seemed to her that he could not be 
dead ; there was an animated look about the form, 
that seemed as if it could not die without leaving 
mankind a prodigal legacy of fame. 

Venetia turned and looked upon her parents' 
bridal bed. Now that she had discovered her 
father's portrait, every article in the room interested 
her, for her imagination connected every thing 
with him. She touched the wreath of withered 



VENETIA. 



731 



rtjsscs, and one instantly broke away from the cir- 
cle, and fell ; she knelt down and gathered up the 
scattered leaves, and placed them in her bosom. 
She approached the table in the oriel ; in its centre 
was a volume, on which reposed a dagger of curi- 
ous workmanship ; the volume bound in velvet, 
and the word " Ax]>rABEL" embroidered upon it in 
gold. Venetia unclasped it. The volume was 
MS. ; in a fly-leaf were written these words — 

"to tue lady of mt lote, from her mahmion 

HEUBERT." 

With a fluttering heart, yet sparkling eye, Ve- 
netia sank into a chair, which was placed before 
the table, with all her soul concentrated in the 
contents of this volume. Leaning on her right 
hand, which shaded her agitated brow, she turned 
a page of the volume with a trembling hand. It 
contained a sonnet, delineating the feelings of a 
lover at the first sight of his beloved, — a being to 
him yet unknown. Venetia perused with breath- 
less interest the graceful and passionate picture of 
her mother's beauty. A series of similar compo- 
sitions detailed tlie history of the poet's heart, and 
all the thrilling adventures of his enchanted life. 
Not an incident, not a word, not a glance, in that 
spell-bound prime of existence, that was not com- 
memorated by his lyre in strains as sweet and as 
witching! Now he poured forth his passion; now 
his doubts ; now his hopes ; now came the glow- 
ing hour when he was first assured of his felicity ; 
the next page celebrated her visit to the castle of 
his fathers and another led her to the altar. 

With a flushed cheek and an excited eye Vene- 
tia had rapidly pored over these ardent annals of 
the heart from whose blood she had sprung. She 
turns the page — she starts — the colour deserts her 
countenance — a mist glides over her vision — she 
clasps her hands with convulsive energy — she 
sinks back in her chair. In a few moments she 
extends one hand, as if fearful again to touch the 
book that had excited so muclr emotion — raises 
herself in her seat — looks around her with a vacant 
and perplexed gaze — apparently succeeds in col- 
lecting herself — and then seizes, with an eager 
grasp, the volume, and throwing herself on her 
knees before the chair — her long locks hanging on 
each side over a cheek crimson as the sunset — 
loses her whole soul in the lines which the next 
page reveals. 

ON THE NIGHT OUR DAUGHTER WAS BORN. 



Within onrhf>aven nf love, the new-horn star 

We long devoutly waicheil, like shepherd kings, 

Steals into ligltt, and, floating from aldir, 

Melhinks some bright transcendant seraph sings, 

Waving with flashing light her radiant wings, 

Immortal welcome to the stranger fair ! 

To us a child is born. Witli transport clings 

The mother to the liabe she sighed to bear ; 

Of all our treasured loves, the long-expected heir! 



My dausV.ter! can it be a dauehter now 
SnaU greet my being with her infant smile 1 
Arid shall I press that fair and taintless brow 
With iny fond lips, and tempt, with many a wile 
Of playful love, those features to beguile 
A parent with their mirth 1 In the wild sea 
Of this dark life, behold a little isle 
Rises amid the waters, bright and free, 
A haven for my hopes of fond security ! 



And thou shalt bear a name my line has loved, 

And their fair daughters owned for many an age, 

Since first our fiery Ijlood a wanderer roved, 

And made in sunnier lands his pilgrimage. 

Where proud defiance with the waters wage 

The sea-born city's walls; the graceful towers 

Loved by the bard and honoured by the sage ! 

IVIy own Venetia, now shall gild our bowers. 

And with her spell enchain our life's enchanted hours ( 



O! if the blessing of a father's heart 

Hath aught of sacred in its deep breath'd prayer, 

Skilled to thy gentle being to imparl, 

As thy bright form itself, a fate as f;iir ; 

On thee I breathe that blessing! Let me share, 

O God ! her joys ; and if the dark behest 

Of wo resistless, and avoidless care, 

Hath not gone forth, oh ! spare this gentle guest, 

And wreak tliy needful wrath on my resigned breast! 

An hour elapsed, and Venetia did not move. 
Over and over again she conned the only address 
from the lips of her father that had ever reached 
her ear. A strange inspiration seconded the exer- 
tion of an exercised memory. The duty was ful- 
filled — the task completed. Then a sound was 
heard without. The thought that her mother had 
returned occurred to her; she looked up, the big 
tears streaming down her face ; she listened, like 
a young hind just roused by the still-distant hunts- 
man, quivering and wild ; — she listened, and she 
sprang up — replaced the volume— arranged the 
chair — cast one long, lingering, feverish glance at 
the portrait — skimmed tlirough the room — hesitated 
one moment in the antechamber — opened, as all 
was silent, the' no longer mysterious door — turned 
the noiseless lock — tripped lightly along the vesti- 
bule — glided into her mother's empty apartment — 
reposited the key that had opened so many won- 
ders in the casket, — and then, having hurried to 
her own chamber, threw herself on her bed in a 
paroxysm of contending emotions, that left her no 
power of pondering over the strange discovery that 
had already given a new colour to her existence. 



CHAPTER VI. 

Her mother had not returned ; it was a false 
alarm ; but Venetia could not quit her bed. There 
she remained, repeating to herself her father's 
verses. Then one thought alone filled her being. 
Was he dead 1 Was this fond father, who had 
breathed this fervent blessmg over her birth, and 
invoked on his own head all the wo and misfor- 
tunes of her destiny, was he, indeed, no more 1 
How swiftly must the arrow have sped after he 
received the announcement that a child was given 
to him — 

" Of all his treasured loves the long-expected heir !" 

He could scarcely have embraced her ere the 
great Being, to whom he had oflTered his prayer, 
summoned him to his presence ! Of "hat father 
she had not the slightest recollection , she had ascer- 
tained that she had reached Cherbury a child, 
even in arms, and she knew that her father had 
never lived under the roof. What an awful be- 
reavement ! Was it wonderful that her mother 
was inconsolable? Was it wonderful that she 
could not endure even his name to be mentioned 



732 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



in her presence — that not the shghtost alUision tor wonder. Lady Annabel sat hy the bedside, still 
his existence could be tolerated by a wife, who had ' holding her daughter's hand in hers, ^¥atching her 
been united to such a peerless being, only to be- with a glance of great anxiety. 



hold him torn away from her embraces 1 O ! 
could he, indeed be dead ! That inspired counte- 
nance that seemed immortal, had it in a moment 
been dimmed ; and all the symmetry of that match- 
less form, had it indeed been long mouldering in 
the dust ? Why should she doubt it 1 Ah ! why, 
indeed ? How could she doubt it ? Why, ever 
and anon, amid the tumult of her excited mind, 
came there an unearthly whisper to her ear, mock- 
ing her with the belief that he still lived 1 But 
he was dead ; he must be dead ; and why did she 
live 1 Could she survive what she had seen and 
learnt this day ? Did she wish to survive it 1 
But her mother, her mother, with all her sealed-up 
sorrows, had survived him. Why 1 For her 
sake ; for her child, for " his own Venetia !" His 
own ! 

She clenched her feverish hand — her temples 
beat with violent palpitations — her brow was burn- 
ing hot. Time flew on, and every minute Vene- 
tia was more sensible of the impossibility of rising 
to welcome her mother. That mother at length 
returned ; Venetia could not again mistake the 
wheels of the returning carriage. Some minutes 
passed, and there was a knock at her door. With 
a choking voice Venetia bade them enter. It was 
Pauncefort. 

" Well, Miss," she exclaimed, " if yon a'n't 
here, after all ! I told my lady, ' My lady,' says 
I, ' I am sure Miss Venetia must be in the park, 
for I saw her go out myself, and I have never seen 
her come home.' And, after all, you are here. My 
lady has come home, you know. Miss, and has 
been inquiring for you several times." 

" Tell mamma that I am not very well," said 
Venetia, in a low voice, " and that I have been 
obliged to lie down." 

" Not well. Miss !" exclaimed Pauncefort ; " and 
what can be the matter with you 1 I am afraid 
you have walked too much ; overdone it, I dare 
say ; or, mayhap, you have caught cold ; it is an 
easterly wind ; for I was saying to John this 
morning, ' John,' says I, ' if Miss Venetia will 
walk about with only a handkerchief tied round 
her head, why — what can be expected V " 

" I have only a headache, a very bad headache, 
Pauncefort ; I wish to be quiet," said Venetia. 

Pauncefort left the room accordingly, and 
straightway proceeded to Lady Annabel, when 
she communicated the information that Miss Ve- 
netia was in the house, after all, though she had 
never seen her return, and that she was lying 
down because she had a very bad headache. Lady 
Annabel, of course, did not lose a moment in visit- 
ing her dai'ling. She entered the room very softly, 
so softly that she was not heard ; Venetia was ly- 
ing on her bed, with her back to the door. Lady 
Annabel stood by her bedside for soiiie moments 
unnoticed At length Venetia heaved a deep sigh. 
Her mother then said, in a very soft voice, " Are 
you in pain, darling 1" 

" Is that mamma !" said Venetia, turning with 
quickness. 

" You are ill, dear," said Lady Annaocl, talcing 
her hand. " Your hand is hot ; you are feverish. 
How long has my Venetia felt ill 1" 

Venetia could not answer ; she did nothing but 
sigh. Her strange manner excited her mother's 



' Answer me, my love," she repeated in a voice 
of tenderness. "What do you feel?" 

" My head, my head," murmured Venetia. 

Her mother pressed her own hand to her daugh- 
ter's brow ; it was very hot. " Does that pain 
you V inquired Lady Annabel ; but Venetia did 
not reply ; her look was wild and abstracted. 
Her mother gently withdrew her hand, and then 
summoned Pauncefort, with whom she communi- 
cated without permitting her to enter the room. 

" Miss Herbert is very ill," said Lady Annabel, 
pale, but in a firm tone. " I am alarmed about her. 
She appears to me to have a fever ; send instantly 
to Southport for Mr. Hawkins ; and let the mes- 
senger use and urge all possible expedition. Be 
in attendance in the vestibule, Pauncefort ; I shall 
not quit her room, but she must be kept perfectly 
quiet," 

Lady Annabel then drew her chair to the bed- 
side of her daughter, and bathed her temples at 
intervals with rose-water ; but none of these atten- 
tions apparently attracted the notice of the sufferer 
She was, it would seem, utterly unconscious of all 
that was occurring. She now la\' with her face 
turned towards her mother, but did not exchange 
even looks with her. She was restless, and occa- 
sionally she sighed veiy deeply. 

Once, by way of experiment, Lady Annabel 
again addressed her, but Venetia gave no answer 
Then the mother concluded what, indeed, had be- 
fore attracted her suspicion, that Venetia's head 
was affected. But, then, what was this strange, 
this sudden, attack, which appeared to have pros- 
trated her daughter's faculties in an instant 1 A 
few hours back, and Lady Annabel had parted 
from Venetia in all the glow of health and beauty 
The season was most genial ; her exercise had 
doubtless been moderate ; as for her general healthy 
so complete was her constitution, and so calm the 
tenor of her life, that Venetia had scarcely expe- 
rienced in her whole career a single hour of indis- 
position. It was an anxious period of suspense 
until the medical attendant arrived from Southport. 
Fortunately he was one in whom, for reputation, 
Lady Annabel was disposed to place great trust; 
and his matured years, his thoughtful manner, and 
acute inquiries, confirmed her favorable opinion of 
him. All that Mr. Hawkins could say, however, 
was, that Miss Herbert had a great deal of fever, 
hut the cause was concealed, and the suddenness 
of the attack pei-plexed liim. He administered 
one of the usual remedies ; and after an hour had 
elapsed, and no favourable change occurring, he 
blooded her. He quitted Cherbury, with the pro- 
mise of returning late in the evening, having seve- 
ral i^atients whom he was obliged to visit. 

The night drew on ; the chamber was now 
quite closed, but Lady Annabel never quitted it. 
She sat reading, removed from her daughter, that 
her presence might not disturb her, for Venetia 
seemed inclined to sleep. Suddenly Venetia spoke ; 
but said only one word — " Father?" 

Lady Annabel started — her book nearly fell 
from her hand — she grew veiy pale. Quite breath- 
less, she listened, and again Venetia spoke, and 
again called upon her father. Now, with a great 
effort. Lady Annabel stole on tiptoe to the bedside 
of her daughter. Venetia was lying on her back. 



VENETIA. 



733 



fier eyes wete closed, her lips still, as it were, qui- 
vering with the strange word they had dared to 
pronounce. Again her voice sounded ; she chant- 
ed, in an unearthly voice, verses. The perspira- 
tion stood in large drops on the pallid forehead of 
her mother as she listened. Still Vcnetia proceed- 
ed ; and Lady Annabel, throwing herself on her 
knees, held iip her hands to heaven in an agony 
of astonishment, terror, and devotion. 

Now there was again silence ; but her mother 
remained apparently buried in prayer. Again Ve- 
netia spoke ; again she repeated the mysterious 
stanzas. With convulsive agony her mother lis- 
tened to every fatal line that she unconsciously 
l)ronounced. 

The secret was then discovered. Yes ! Venetia 
must have penetrated the long-closed chamber ; all 
the labours of long years had in a moment been 
subverted ; Vcnetia had discovered her parent, and 
the effects of the discovery might, perhaps, be her 
death. Then it was that Lady Annabel, in the 
torture of her mind, poured forth her supplications 
that the life or the heart of her child might never 
be lost to her. " Grant, merciful God !" she 
exclaimed, " that this sole hope of my being may 
be spared to me. Grant, if she be spared, that she 
may never desert her mother I And for him, of 
whom she has heard this day for the first time, let 
him be to her as if he were no more ! May she 
never learn that he lives! May she never com- 
prehend the secret agony of her mother's life ! 
Save her, God ! save her from his fatal, K(s irre- 
sistible influence ! May she remain pure and vir- 
tuous as she has yet lived ! May she remain true 
to thee, and true to thy servant, who now bows 
before thee .' Look down upon me at this moment 
with gracious mercy ; turn to me my daughter's 
heart ; and, if it be my dark doom to be in this 
world a widow, though a wife, add not to this bit- 
terness that I shall prove a mother without a 
child !" 

At this moment the sm-geon returned. It was 
absolutely necessary that Lady Annabel should 
compose herself. She exerted all that strength of 
character for which she was remarkable. From 
this moment she resolved, if her life were the for- 
feit, not to quit for an instant the bedside of Vc- 
netia until she was declared out of danger ; and 
feeling conscious that, if she once indulged her own 
feelings, she might herself soon be in a situation 
scarcely less hazardous than her daughter's, she 
controlled herself with a mighty effort. Calm as 
a statue, she received the medical attendant, who 
took the hand of the unconscious Vcnetia with 
apprehensions too visibly impressed upon his grave 
countenance. As he took her hand, Venetia 
opened her eyes, stared at her mother and her at- 
tendant, and then immediately closed them. 

" She has slept ?" inquired Lady Annabel. 

" No," said the surgeon, " no : this is not sleep ; 
it is a feverish trance, that Vmngs her no refresh- 
ment." He took out his watch, and marked her 
pulse with great attention ; then he placed his 
hand on her brow, and shook his head. " These 
beautiful cu'ls must come of," he said. Lady An- 
nabel glided to the table, and instantly brought 
the scissors, ai if the delay of an instant might be 
fital. The surgeon cut off those long golden locks. 
\ cnetia raised her hand to her head, and said, in 
a low voice, " 'J'hey are for my father." Laily 



Annabel leaned upon the surgeon's arm, and 
shook. 

Now he led the mother lo the window, and 
spoke in a verj' hushed tone. 

" Is it possible that there is any thing on your 
daughter's mind. Lady Annabel V he inquired. 

The agitated mother looked at the inquirer, and 
then at her daughter ; and then for a moment she 
raised her hand to her eyes ; then she replied, in a 
low but firm voice, " Yes." 

" Your ladyship must judge whether you wish 
me to be acquainted with it," said Mr. Hawldns, 
very calmly. 

" My daughter has suddenly become acquaint- 
ed. Sir, with some family incidents of a very pain- 
ful nature, and the knowledge of which I have 
hitherto spared her. They axe events long past, 
and their consequences are now beyond ail con- 
trol." 

" She knows, then, the worst." 

" Without her mind, I cannot answer that 
question," said Lady Annabel. 

" It is my duty to tell you that Miss Herbert is 
in imminent danger ; she has every appearance of 
a fever of the most malignant character. I cannot 
answer for her hfc." 

" God !" exclaimed Lady Annabel. 

" Yet you must compose yourself, my dear lady. 
Her chance of recovery greatly depends upon the 
vigilance of her attendants. I shall Meed her again, 
and place leeches on her temples. There is inflam- 
mation on the brain. There are other remedies 
also not less powerful. We must not despair : we 
have no cause to despair until %vo find these fail. 
I shall not leave her again ; and, for your satisfac- 
tion, not for my own, I shall call in additional ad- 
vice, — the aid of a physician." 

A messenger accordingly was instantly des- 
patched for the physician, who resided at a town 
more distant than Southport ; the very town, by- 
the-by, where Morgana, the gipsy, was arrested. 
They contrived, with the aid of Pauncefort, to 
undress Venetia, and place her in her bed, for 
hitherto they had refrained from this exertion. At 
this moment the withered leaves of a white rose 
fell from Vcnctia's dress. A sofa-bed, was then 
made for Lady Annabel, of which, however, she 
did not avail herself. The whole night she sat 
by her daughter's side, watching every movement 
of Venetia, refreshing her hot brow and her 
parched lips, or arranging, at every opportunity, 
her disordered pillows. About an hour past mid- 
night the surgeon retired to rest, for a few hours, 
in the apartment prepared for him, and Paunce- 
fort, bv the desire of her mistress, also withdrew : 
Lady Annabel was alone with her rliild, and with 
those agitated thoughts which the strange occur- 
rences of tlie day were well calculated to excite. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Eaut.t in the morning the physician arrived at 
Cherbury. It remained for him only to approve 
of the remedies which had been pursued. No 
material change, however, had occun-ed in the 
state of Venetia : she had not slept, and still she 
seemed unconscious of what was occurring. The 
gracious interposition of Nature seemed the onlv 

3 Q 



734 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



hope. When the medical men had withdrawn to 
consult in the terrace-room. Lady Annabel beck- 
oned to Pauncefort, and led her to the window 
of Venetia's apartment, which she would not 
quit. 

" Pauncefort," said Lady Annabel, " Venetia 
has been in her father's room." 

" O ! impossible, my lady," burst forth Mistress 
Pauncefort ; but Lady Annabel placed her finger 
on her lip, and checked her. " There is no doubt 
of it, there can be no doubt of it, Pauncefort ; she 
entered it yesterday ; she must have passed the 
morning there, when you believed she was in the 
park." 

"But, my lady," said Pauncefort, "how could 
it be 1 For I scarcely left your la' ship's room 
a second, and Miss Venetia, I am sure, never was 
near it. And the key, my lady, the key is in the 
casket. I saw it half an hour ago with my own 
eyes." 

" There is no use arguing about it, Pauncefort," 
said Lady Annabel with decision. " It is as I say. 
I fear great misfortunes are about to commence at 
Cherbury." 

" ! my lady, don't think of such things," said 
Pauncefort, herself not a little alarmed. " What 
can happen 1" 

" I fear more than I know," said Lady Annabel," 
" but I do fear much. At present I can only think 
of her." 

" Well ! my lady," said poor Mistress Paunce- 
fort, looking very bewildered, " only to think of 
such a thing ! and after all the pains I have taken ! 
I am sure I have not opened my lips on the subject 
these fifteen years ; and the many questions I have 
been asked too ! I am sure there is not a servant 
in the house — " 

" Hush ! hush !" said Lady Annabel, " I do 
not blame you, and therefore )'ou need not defend 
yourself. Go, Pauncefort, I must be alone." 
Pauncefort withdrew, and Lady Annabel resumed 
her seat by her daughter's side. 

On the fourth day of her attack, the medical 
attendants observed a favourable change in their 
patient, and were not, of course, slow in commu- 
nicating this joyful intelligence to her mother. 
The crisis had occurred, and was past: Venetia 
had at length sunk into slumber. How different 
was her countenance from the still, yet settled 
features, they had before watched with such anx- 
iety ! She breathed lightly, the tension of the 
eyelids had disappeared, her mouth was slightly 
open. The physician and his colleague declared 
that immediate danger was past, and they coun- 
selled Lady Annabel to take repose. On condition 
that one of them should remain by the side of her 
daughter, the devoted yet miserable mother quitted, 
for the first time, her child's apartment Paunce- 
fort followed her to her room. 

" () ! my lady," said Pauncefort, " I am so glad 
your la'ship is going to lie down a bit." 

" I am not going to lie down, Pauncefort, give 
iiie the key." 

And Lady Annabel proceeded alone to the for- 
bidden chamber, — that chamber which, after what 
has occurred, we may now enter with her, and 
where, with so much labour, she had created a 
loom exactly imitative of their bridal apartments 
at her husband's castle. Willi a slow but resolved 
step she entered the apartment, and proceeded im- 
mediately to the table, took up the book ; it opened 



at the stanzas to Venetia. The pages had recent, 
ly been bedewed with tears. Lady Annabel theiv 
looked at the bridal bed, and marked the missing 
rose in the garland ; it was as she expected. She 
seated herself then in the chair opposite the por- 
trait, on which she gazed with a glance rather 
stern than fond. 

"Marmion!" she exclaimed, " for fifteen years, 
a solitary votary, I have mourned over, in this 
temple of baffled affections, the inevitable past 
The daughter of our love has found her way, per- 
haps by an irresistible destiny, to a spot sacred to 
ni}' long-concealed sorrows. At length she knows 
her father. May she never know more ! May 
she never learn that the being, whose pictured 
form has commanded her adoration, is unworthy 
of those glorious gifts that a gracious Creator has 
bestowed upon him ! Marmion, you seem to 
smile upon me ; you seem to exult in your triumph 
over the heart of your child. But there is a power 
in a mother's love that yet shall baffle you. Hi- 
therto I have come here to deplore the past ; hitherto 
I have come here to dwell upon the form that, in 
spite of all that has happened, I still was, perhaps, 
weak enough to love. Those feelings are past for 
ever. Yes ! you would rob me of my child, you 
would tear from my heart the only consolation you 
have left me. But Venetia shall still be mine; 
and I, I am no longer yours. Our love, our still 
lingering love, has vanished. You have been my 
enemy ; now I am yours. I gaze upon your por- 
trait for the last time ; and thus I prevent the 
magical fascination of that face again appealing to 
the sympathies of my child. Thus, and thus!" — 
She seized the ancient dagger, that we have men- 
tioned as lying on the volume, and, springing on 
the chair, she plunged it into the canvas ; then, 
tearing with unflinching resolution the severed 
parts, she scattered the fragments over the chamber, 
shook into a thousand leaves the melancholy gar- 
land, tore up the volume of his enamoured Muse, 
and then quitting the chamber, and locking and 
double locking the door, she descended the stair- 
case, and, proceeding to the great well of Cherbury, 
hurled into it the fatal key. 

" O ! my lady," said Mistress Pauncefort, as she 
met Lady Annabel returning in the vestibule, 
" Doctor Masham is here." 

" Is hel" said Lady Annabel, as calm as usual. 
" I will see him before I lie down. Do not go 
into Venetia's room. She sleeps, and Mr. Haw- 
kins has promised me to let me know when she 
wakes." 



CHAPTER VIIL 

As Lady Annabel entered the terrace-room, Doc- 
tor Masham came forward and grasped her hand. 

" You have heard of our sorrow !" said her lady- 
ship in a faint voice. 

" But this instant," replied the doctor, in a tone 
of great anxiety. " Immediate danger — " 

" Is past. She sleeps," replied Lady Annabel. 

" A most sudden and unaccountable attack," 
said the doctor. 

It is difficult to describe the contending emotiont 
of the mother as her companion maile this obser 
vation. At length she replied, " Sudden, cer- 
tainly sudden; but not unaccountable. O! mv 



VENETIA. 



735 



friend," she added, after a moment's pause, " they 
will not be content until they have torn my 
daughter from me." 

" They tear your daughter from you !" exclaimed 
Doctor Mashara. " Who ?" 

"Ho, he," muttered Lady Annabel; her speech 
was incoherent, her manner very disturbed. 

" My dear lady," said the doctor, gazing on her 
with extreme anxiety, "you are yourself unwell." 

Lady Annabel heaved a deep sigh ; the doctor 
^ bore her to a seat " Shall I send for any one, 
any thing ?" 

" No one, no one," quickly answered Lady An- 
nabel. " With you, at least, there is no conceal- 
ment necessary." 

She leaned back in her chair, the doctor holding 
her hand, and standing by her side. 

Slill Lady Annabel continued sighing deeply : 
at length she looked up and said, " Does she love 
me 1 Do you think, after all, she loves me 1" 

" Venetial" inquired the doctor, in a low and 
doubtful voice, for he was greatly perplexed. 

" She has seen lum ; she loves him ; she has 
forgotten her mother." 

'• My dear lady, you require rest," said Doctor 
Masham. " You are overcome with strange fan- 
cies. Who has your daughter seen?" 

" Marmion." 

" Impossible : you forget he is — " 

" Here also." 

" He has spoken to her : she loves him : she 
will recover : she will fly to him — sooner let us 
both die !" 

" Shall I send for Pauncefort 1" 

"No, let me be alone with you, with you. You 
know all, Pauncefort knows all ; and she, she 
knows every thing. Fate has baflled me ; we 
cannot struggle with fate. She is his child ; she 
is like him ; she is not like her mother. O ! she 
hates me ; I know she hates me." 

" Hush ! hush ! hush !" said the doctor, himself 
very much agitated. " Venetia loves you, only 
you.i' Why should she love any one else 1" 

" Who can help it 1 I loved him. I saw him : 
I loved him. His voice was music. He has 
spoken to her, and she yielded — she yielded in a 
moment. I stood by her bed-side. She would 
not speak to me ; she would not know me ; she 
shrank from me. Her heart is with her father — 
only with him." 

" Where did she see him ? How V 

" His room — his picture. She knows all. I 
was away with you, and she entered his chamber." 

"Ah!" 

" O ! doctor, you have influence with her. 
Speak to her. Make her love me ! Tell her she 
has no father ; tell her he is dead." 

" We will do that which is well and wise," re- 
plieil Doctor Masham : " at present lot us be calm ; 
if you give way, her life may be the forfeit. Now 
is the moment for a mother's love." 

" You are right. I would not have left her for 
an instant I would not have her wake, and find 
her mother not watching over her. But I was 
tempted. She slept ; I left her for a moment ; I 
went to destroy the spell. She cannot see him 
again. No one shall see him again. It was my 
weakness, the weakness of long years; and now I 
am its victim." 



" Nay, nay, my sweet lad}', all will be quite well 
Be but calm ; Venetia will recover." 

" But will she love me ] O ! no, no, no. She 
will think only of him. She will not love her 
mother. She will yearn for her father now. She 
has seen him, and she will not rest until she is In 
his arms. She will desert me, I know it." 

" And I know the contrary," said the doctor, 
attempting to reassure her ; " I will ans^ver for 
Venetia's devotion to you. Indeed she has no 
thought but your happiness, and can love only 
you. When there is a fitting time, I will speak 
to her; but now — now is the time for repose. 
And you must rest, you must indeed." 

"Rest! I cainiot. I slumliered in the chair last 
night by her bedside, and a voice roused me. It 
was her own. She was speaking to her father. 
She told him how she loved him ; how long, how 
much she thought of him ; that she would join 
him when she was well, for she knew he was not 
dead ; and, if he were dead, she would die also. 
She never mentioned me." 

" Nay ! the light meaning of a delirious brain." 

" Truth — truth — bitter, inevitable truth. ! 
doctor, I could bear all but this ; but my child — 
my beautiful fond child, tliat made up for all my 
sorrows. My joy — my hope — my life ; I knew it 
would be so ; I knew he would have her heart. 
He said she never could be alienated from him; 
he said she never could be taught to hate him. I 
did not teach her to hate him. I said nothing. I 
deemed, fond foolish mother, that the devotion of 
my life might bind her to me. But what is a mo- 
ther's love ] I cannot contend with him. He 
gained the mother; he will gain the daughter 
too." 

" God will guard over you," said Masham, with 
streaming eyes : " God will not desert a pious and 
virtuous woman." 

" I must go," said Lady Annabel, attempting to 
rise, but the doctor gently controlled her ; " per- 
haps she is awake, and I am not at her side. She 
will not ask for me, she will ask for him ; but I 
will be there ; she will desert me, but she shall 
not say I ever deserted her." 

"She will never desert you," said the doctor; 
" my life on her pure heart. She has been a child 
of unltroken love and duty ; still she will remain 
so. Her mind is for a moment overpowered by a 
marvellous discovery. She will recover, and be 
to you as she was before." 

" We'll tell her he is dead," said Lady Annabel, 
eagerly. " You must tell her. She will believe 
you. I cannot speak to her of him ; no, not to 
secure her heart ; never — never — never can I speak 
to Venetia of her father." 

" I will speak," replied the doctor, " at the just 
time. Now let us think of her recoverv'. She is 
no loncer in danger. We should be grateful, we 
should be glad." 

" Let us pray to God 1" Let us humble our- 
selves," said Lady Annabel. "I<et us beseech 
him not to desert this house. We have been faith- 
ful to him — we have struggled to be faithful to 
him. Let us supplicate Mm to favour and support 
us!" 

"He will favour and support you," said the 
doctor, in a solemn tone. " He has u])held jon 
in many trials ; he will uphold you still." 



736 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" All ! why did I love him ! Why did I con- 
tinue to love him ! How weak, how foolish, how 
mad I have been ! I have alone been the cause 
of all this misery. Yes, I have destroyed my 
child." 

" She lives — she will live. Nay, nay, you must 
reassure yourself. Come, let me send for your 
servant, and for a moment repose. Nay ! take 
my arm. All depends upon you. We have 
gi'eat cares now; let us not conjure up fantastic 
fears." 

" I must go to my daughter's room. Perhaps, 
by her side, I might rest. No where else. You 
will attend me to the door, my friend. Yes ! it is 
sometliing in tliis life to have a friend." 

Lady Annabel took the arm of the good Masham. 
They stopped at her daughter's door. 

" Rest here a moment," she said, as she entered 
the room without a sound. In a moment she re- 
turned. " She still sleeps," said the mother ; " I 
shall remain with her, and you ]" 

" I will not leave you," said the doctor, " but 
think not of me — Nay ! I will not leave you. I 
will remain under this roof. I have shared its se- 
renity and joy ; let me not avoid it in this time of 
trouble and tribulation." 



CHAPTER JX. 

Venetia still slept : her mother alone in the 
chamber watched by her side. Some hours had 
elapsed since her interview with Dr. Masham ; 
the medical attendant had departed for a few 
hours. 

Suddenly Venetia moved, opened her eyes, and 
said in a faint voice, " Mamma!" 

The blood rushed to Lady Annabel's heart. 
That single word afibrded her the most exquisite 
happiness. 

" I am here, dearest," she replied. 

" Mannna, what is all this!" inquired Venetia. 

" You have not been well, my own, but now 
you are much better." 

" I thought I had been dreaming," replied Vene- 
tia, " and that all was not right ; somebody I 
thought struck me on my head. But all is right 
HOW, because you are here, my dear mamma." 

But Lady Annabel could not speak for weep- 
ing. 

" Are you sure, mamma, that nothing has been 
done to my headl" continued Venetia. " Why, 
what is thisT' and she touched a hght bandage on 
her brow. 

" My dai-ling, you have been ill, and you have 
lost blood ; bat now you are getting quite well. I 
have been tery unhappy about you ; but now I 
am quite happy, my sweet, sweet child." 

" How long have I been ill 1" 

" You have been very ill indeed, for four or five 
days ; you have had a fever, Venetia ; but now the 
fever is gone, and you are only a little weak, and 
you will soon be well." 

" A fever I and how did I get the fever 1" 

" Perhaps you caught cold, my child ; but we 
must not talk too much." 

" A fever ! I never had a fever before. A fever 
IS like a dream." 

" Hush ! sweet love. Indeed you must not 
speak." 



" Give me your hand, mamma ; I will not speak 
if you wall let me hold your hand. I thought in 
the fever that we were parted." 

" I'have never left your side, my child, day or 
night," said Lady Annabel, not without agita- 
tion. 

" All this time ! — all these days and nights ! No 
one would do that but you, mamma. You think 
only of me." 

" You repay me by your love, A'enetia," said 
Lady Annabel, feeling that her daughter ought not 
to speak, yet irresistibly impelled to lead out her 
thoughts. 

" How can I help lovmg you, my dear mam- 
ma?" 

" You do love me, you do love me very much ; 
do you not, sweet child V 

" Better than all the world," replied Venetia to 
her enraptured parent. " And yet in the lever I 
seemed to love some one else : but fevers arc like 
dreams ; they are not true." 

Lady Annabel pressed her lips gently to hei 
daughter's and whispered her that she must speak 
no more. 

When Mr. Hawkins returned he gave a very 
favourable report of Venetia. He said that all 
danger was now past, and that all that was required 
for her recovery were time, care, and repose. He 
repeated to Lady Annabel alone that the attack 
was solely to be ascribed to some great mental 
shock which her daughter had received, and which 
suddenly had affected her circulation ; leaving it, 
after this formal intimation, entirely to the mother 
to take those steps in reference to the cause, what- 
ever it might be, which she should deem expe- 
dient. 

In the evening Lady Annabel stole down for a 
few moments to Dr. Masham, laden with joyful 
intelligence ; assured of the safety of her child, 
and, what was still more precious, of her heart, 
and even voluntarily promising her friend that she 
should herself sleep this night in her daughter's 
chamber, on the sofa-bed. The doctor therefore 
now bade her adieu, and said that he should ride 
over from Man-inghurst, every day, to hear how 
their patient was proceeding. 

From this time the recovery of Venetia, though 
slow, vs'as gradual. She experienced no relapse, 
and in a few weeks quitted her 1 ed. She was 
rather surprised at her altered appearance when it 
first met her glance in the mirror, but scarcely 
made any observation on the loss of her locks. 
During this interval the mind of Venetia had been 
quite dormant ; the rage of the fever, and the vio- 
lent remedies to which it had been necessary to 
have recourse, had so exhausted her, that she had 
not energy enough to think. All that she felt 
was a strange indefinite conviction that some oc- 
currence had taken place with which her memory 
could not grapple. But, as her sti-ength returned, 
and as she gradually resumed her usual health, by 
proportionate though almost invisible dcgiees her 
memory returned to her, and her intelligence. She 
clearly recollected and comprehended what had 
taken place. She recalled the past, compared in- 
cidents, weighed circumstances, sifted and balanced 
the impressions that now crowded upon her con- 
sciousness. It is difficult to describe each link in 
the metaphysical chain which at Icngt'.i connected 
the mind of Venetia Herbert with her actual expe- 
rience and orecise situation. It was however at 



V E N E T I A. 



737 



lengtli perfect, and gradually formed as she sat in 
an invalid chair, apparently listless, not yet ven- 
turing on any occupation, or occasionally amused 
for a moment by her mother reading to her. But 
when her mind had thus resumed its natural tone, 
and in time its accustomed vigour, the past de- 
manded all her solicitude. At length the mystery 
of her birth was revealed to her. She was the 
daughter of Marmion Herbert — and who was Mar- 
mion Herbert 1 The portrait rose before her. How 
distinct was the form — how definite the counte- 
nance ! No common personage was Marmion 
Herbert, even had he not won his wife, and cele- 
brated his daughter in such witching strains. Ge- 
nius was stamped on his lofty brow, and spoke in 
his brilliant eye ; nobility was in all his form. This 
chivalric poet was her father. She had read, she 
had dreamed of such beings, she had never seen 
them. If she quitted the solitude in which she 
lived, would she see men like her father 1 No 
other could ever satisfy her imagination ; all be- 
neath that standard would rank but as imperfect 
creations m her fancy. And this father, he was 
dead. No doubt. Ah ! was there indeed no 
doubt 1 Eager as was her curiosity on this all- 
absorbing subject, Venetia could never summon 
courage to speak upon it to her mother. Her first 
disobedience, or rather her first deception of her 
mother, in reference to tliis very subject, had 
Drought, and brought so swiftly on its retributive 
wings, such disastrous consequences, that any al- 
lusion to Lady Annabel was restrained by a species 
of superstitious fear, against which Venetia could 
not contend. Then her father was either dead or 
living. That was certain. If dead, it was clear 
that his memory, however cherished by his relict, 
was associated with feelings too keenly to admit of 
any other but solitary indulgence. If living, there 
was a mystery connected with her parents, a mys- 
tery evidently of a painful character, and one 
which it was a prime object with her mother to 
conceal and to suppress. Could Venetia, then, in 
defiance of that mother, that fond devoted mother, 
that mother who had watched through long days 
and long nights over her sick bed, and who now, 
without a murmur, was a prisoner to this very 
room, only to comfort and console her child — could 
Venetia take any step which might occasion this 
matchless parent even a transient pang 1 No ; 
it was impossible. To her mother she could never 
speak. And yet, to remain enveloped in the pre- 
sent mystery, she was sensible, was equally insuf- 
ferable. All she asked, all she wanted to know, — 
was he alive? If he were alive, then, although 
she could not see him, though she might never 
see him, she could exist upon his idea ; she could 
conjure up romances of future existence with him ; 
she could live upon the fond hope of some day 
calling him father, and receiving from his hands 
the fervid blessing he had already breathed to her 
in song. 

In the mean time, her remaining parent com- 
manded all her affections. Even if he were no 
more, blessed was her lot with such a mother ! 
Lady Annabel seemed only to exist to attend upon 
her daughter. No lover ever watched with such 
devotion the wants, or even the caprices, of his 
mistress. A thousand times every day Venetia 
found herself expressing her fondness and her 
gratitude. It seemed that the late dreadful con- 
tingency of losing her daughter had developed in 
93 



Lady Annabel's heart even additional powers of 
maternal devotion ; and Venetia, the fond and 
grateful Venetia, ignorant of the strange past, 
which she believed she so perfectly comprehended, 
returned thanks to heaven that her mother was at 
least spared the mortification of knowing that her 
daughter, in her absence, had surreptitiously irt- 
vaded the sanctuary of her secret sorrow. 



CHAPTER X. 

When Venetia had so fiir recovered that, lean- 
ing on her mother's arm, she could resume her 
walks upon the terrace, Doctor Masham persuaded 
his friends, as a slight and not unpleasant change 
of scene, to pay him a visit at Marringhurst. Since 
the chamber scene, indeed. Lady Annabel's tie to 
Cherbury was much weakened. There were cer- 
tain feelings of pain, and fear, and mortification, 
now associated with that place, which she could 
not bear to dwell upon, and which greatly balanced 
those sentiments of refuge and repose, of peace 
and love, with which the old hall, in her mind, 
was heretofore connected. Venetia ever adopted 
the slightest intimations of a wish on the part of 
her mother, and so she very readily agreed to fall 
into the arrangement. 

It was rather a long and rough journey to Mar- 
ringhurst, for they were obliged to use the old 
chariot; but Venetia forgot her fatigues in the 
cordial welcome of their host, whose sparkling 
countenance well expressed the extreme gratifica- 
tion their arrival occasioned him. All that the 
tenderest solicitude could devise for the agreeable 
accommodation of the invalid had been zealously 
concerted ; and the constant influence of Doctor 
Masham's cheerful mind, was as beneficial to Lady 
Annabel as to her daughter. The season was very 
gay, the place was very pleasant ; and although 
they were only a few miles from home, in a house 
with which they were so familiar, and their com- 
panion one whom they had known intimately all 
their lives, and of late almost daily seen, yet such 
is the magic of a change in our habits, however 
slight, and of the usual theatre of their custom, 
that this visit to Marringhurst assumed quite the 
air of an adventure, and seemed at first almost in- 
vested with the charm and novelty of travel. 
. The suiTounding country, which, though ver- 
dant, was very flat, was well adapted to the limited 
exertions and still feeble footsteps of an invalid, 
and Venetia began to study botany with the doc- 
tor, who indeed was not very profound in his at- 
tainments in this respect, but knew quite enough 
to amuse his scholar. By degrees, also, as her 
strength daily increased, they extended their walks ; 
and at length she even mounted her pony, and 
was fast recovering her elasticity both of body and 
mind. There were also many pleasant books with 
which she was unacquainted ; a cabinet of classic 
coins, prints, and pictures. She became, too, in- 
terested in the doctor's rural pursuits ; would 
watch him with his angle, and already meditated a 
revolution in his garden. So time, on the whole, 
flew cheerfully on, certainly without any weari- 
ness, and the day seldom passed that they did not 
allcongratulate themselves on the pleasant and pro- 
fitable change. 

In the mean time Venetia, when alone, still r& 

3 a3 



738 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



curred to that idea that was now so firmly rooted 
in her mind that it was quite out of the power of 
any social discipline to divert her attention from it. 
Hhe was often the sole companion of the doctor, 
and she had long resolved to seize a favorable op- 
portunity to appeal to him on the subject of her fa- 
ther. It so happened that she was walking alone 
with him one morning in the neighborhood of Mar- 
ringhurst, having gone to visit the remains of a 
Roman encampment in the immediate vicinity. 
When they had arrived at the spot, and the doctor 
had delivered his usual lecture on the locality, they 
sat down together on a mound, that Venetia 
might rest herself. 

" Were you ever in Italy, Doctor Masham !" 
said Venetia. 

" I never was out of my native country," said 
the doctor. " I once, indeed, was about making 
the grand tour with a pupil of mine at Oxford, but 
circumstances interfered which changed his plans, 
and so I remain a regular John Bull." 

" Was my father at Oxford 1" said Venetia, very 
quietly. 

" He was," replied the doctor, looking very con- 
fused. 

" I should like to see Oxford very much," said 
V^enetia. 

" It is a most interesting scat of learning," said 
the doctor, quite delighted to change the subject. 
" Whether we consider its antiquity, its learning, 
the influence it has exercised upon the history of 
the country, its magnificent endowments, its splen- 
did buildings, its gi-eat colleges, libraries, and mu- 
seums, or that it is one of the principal head-quarters 
of all the hope of England — our youth — it is not 
too much to affirm that there is scarcely a spot on 
the face of the globe of equal interest and import- 
ance." 

" It is not for its colleges, or libraries, or mu- 
seums, or all its splendid buildings," observed Vene- 
tia, " that I should wish to see it. I wish to sec it 
because my father was once there. I should like 
to see a place where I was quite certain my father 
had been." 

" Still harping of her father," thought the doctor 
to himself, and growing very uneasy ; yet, from his 
very great anjiety to turn the subject, quite inca- 
pable of saying an appropriate word. 

" Do you remember my father at Oxford, Doctor 
Masham ?" said Veijetia. 

" Yes ! no, yes !" said the doctor, rather colour- 
ing ; that is, he must have been there in my time, 
I rather think." 

" But you do not recollect liiml" said Venetia, 
pressing the question. 

" Why," rejoined the doctor, a little more col- 
lected, " when you remember that there are be- 
tween two and three thousand young men at the 
university, you must not consider it very surprising 
that I might not recollect your father." 

" No." said Venetia, " perhaps not : and yet I 
cannot help thinking that he must always have 
been a person who, if once seen, would not easily 
havf; been forgotten." 

'• Here is an Erica vagans,*^ said the doctor, 
picking a flower ; " it is rather uncommon about 
here," and handing it at the same time to Vene- 
tia. 

" My father must have been very young when 
ne diedl" said Venetia, scarcely looking at the 
flower. 



"Yes, your father was very young," he re- 
plied. 

" Where did he die 1" 

" I cannot answer that question." 

" Where was he buried !" 

" You know, my dear young lady, that the sub- 
ject is too tender for any one to converse with 
your poor mother upon it. It is not in my power 
to give you the information you desire. Be satisfied, 
my dear Miss Herbert, that a gracious Providence 
has spared to you one parent, and one so inestim- 
able." 

" I trust I know how to appreciate so great a 
blessing," replied Venetia ; " but I should be sorry 
if the natural interest which all children must take 
in those who have given them birth should be 
looked upon as idle and unjustifiable curiosity." 

" My dear young lady, you misapprehend me." 

" No, Doctor Masham, indeed I do not," replied 
Venetia, with firmness. " I can easily conceive 
that the mention of my father may for various rea- 
sons be insupportable to my mother ; it is enough 
for me that I am convinced such is the case: my 
lips are sealed to her for ever upon the subject; but I 
cannot recognise the necessity of this constraint to 
others. For a long time I was kept in ignorance 
whether I had a father or not. I have discovered, 
no matter how, who he was. I believe, pardon me, 
my dearest friend, I cannot help believing, that 
you were acquainted, or, at least, that you know 
something of him ; and I entreat you ! yes," re- 
peated Venetia, with great emphasis, laying hei 
hand upon his arm, and looking with earnestness 
in his face, " I entreat you, by all your kind feel- 
ings to my mother and myself, — by all that friend- 
ship we so prize, — by the urgent solicitation of a 
daughter who is influenced in her curiosity by no 
light or unworthy feeling, — yes ! by all the claims 
of a child to information which ought not to be 
withheld from her, — tell me, tell me all, tell me 
something ! Speak, Doctor Masham, do speak !'' 

" My dear young lady," said the doctor, with a 
glistening eye, " it is better that we should both 
be silent." 

" No, indeed," replied Venetia, " it is not better, 
it is not well that we should be silent. Candour 
is a great virtue. There is a charm, a healthy 
charm, in frankness. Why this mystery 1 Why 
these secrets 1 Have they worked good 1 Have 
they benefited us ] ! my friend, I would not 
say so to my mother, I would not be tempted by 
any sufferings to pain for an instant her pure and 
affectionate heart ; but indeed. Dr. Masham, in- 
deed, indeed, what I tell you is true, all my lata 
illness, my present state, all, all are attributable 
but to one cause, this mystery about my father !" 

"What can I tell youl" said the unhappy 
Masham. 

" Tell me only one fact. I ask no more. Yes ? 
I promise you, solemnly I promise you, I will ask 
no more. Tell me, does he hve!" 

" He does !" said the doctor. Venetia sank upon 
his shoulder. 

" My dear young lady, my darling young lady!" 
said the doctor ; — " she has fainted. What can I 
do 1" The unfortunate doctor placed Venetia in 
a reclining posture, and hurried to a brook that 
was nigh, and brought water in his hand to 
sprinkle on her. She revived ; she made a strug- 
gle to restore herself. 

" It is nothing," she said, " I am resolved to b« 



VENETIA. 



739 



well. I am well. I am myself again. He lives ;| 
my father lives ! I was confident of it ; I will ask no 
more. I am trae to my word. ! Doctor Ma- 
sham, you have always been my kind friend, but 
you have never yet conferred on me a favour Uke 
the one you have just bestowed." 

" But it is well," said the doctor, " as you know 
60 much, that you should know more." 

" Yes ! yes!" 

" As we walk along," he contined, " we will 
converse, or at another time ; there is no lack of 
Opportunity." 

" No, now, now !" eagerly exclaimed Venetia, 
" I am quite well. It was not pain or illness that 
overcame me. Now let us walk, now let us talk 
of these things. He lives 1" 

" I have little to add," said Dr. Masham, after a 
moment's thought ; " but this, however painful, it 
is necessary for you to know, that your father is 
unworthy of your mother, utterly ; they are sepa- 
rated ; they never can be re-united." 

"Never !" said Venetia. 

" Never," replied Doctor Masham ; " and I now 
warn you ; if, indeed, as I cannot doubt, you love 
your mother ; if her peace of mind and happiness 
are, as I hesitate not to believe, the principal ob- 
jects of your life ; upon this subject with her be 
for ever silent. Seek to penetrate no mysteries, 
spare all allusions, banish, if possible, the idea of 
your father from your memory. Enough, you 
know he lives. We know no more. Your mo- 
ther labours to forget him ; her only consolation 
for sorrows such as few women ever experienced, 
is her child, yourself, your love. Now be no nig- 
gard with it. Cling to this unrivalled parent, who 
has dedicated her life to you. Soothe her suffer- 
ings, endeavour to make her share your happiness ; 
but of tills be certain, that if you raise up the 
name and memory of your father between your 
mother and yourself, her hfe will be the forfeit!" 

" His name shall never pass my lips," ssud Ve- 
netia ; " solemnly I swear it. That his image 
shall be banished from my heart is too much to 
ask, and more than it is in my power to grant. 
But I am my mother's child. I will exist only 
for her ; and, if my love can console her, she shall 
never be without solace. I thank you, doctor, for 
all your kindness. We will never talk again upon 
the subject ; yet, believe me, you have acted wisely, 
you have done good." 



CHAPTER XVn. 

Venetia observed her promise to Doctor Ma- 
idiam with strictness. She never alluded to her 
father, and his name never escaped her mother's 
lips. Whether Doctor Masham apprised Lady 
Annabel of the conversation that had taken place 
between himself and her daughter, it is not in our 
power to mention. The visit to Marringhurst was 
not a short one. It was a relief both to Lady An- 
nabel and Venetia, after all that had occurred, to 
enjoy the constant society of their friend ; and 
this change of life, though apparently so slight, 
proved highly beneficial to Venetia. She daily 
recovered her health, and a degree of mental com- 
posure, which she had not for some time enjoyed. 
On the whole she was greatly satisfied with the 
discoveries which she had made. She had ascer- 



tained the name and the existence of her father ; 
his very form and appearance were now no longer 
matter for conjecture ; and in a degree she had even 
communicated with him. Time, she still believed, 
would develope even further wonders. She clung 
to an in'esistible conviction that she should yet see 
him ; that he might even again be united to her 
mother. She indulged in dreams as to liis present 
pursuits and position : she repeated to herself his 
verses, and remembered his genius with pride and 
consolation. 

They returned to Cherbury, they resumed the 
accustomed tenor of their lives, as if nothing had 
occurred to disturb it. The fondness between the 
mother and her daughter was unbroken and im- 
diminished. They shared again the same studies 
and the same amusements. Lady Annabel perhaps 
indulged the conviction that Venetia had imbibed 
the belief that her father was no more, and 3"et in 
truth that father was the sole idea on which her 
child ever brooded. Venetia had her secret now ; 
and often as she looked up at the windows of the 
uninhabited portion of the building, she remem- 
bered with concealed, but not less keen exultation, 
that she had penetrated their mystery. She could 
muse for hours over all that chamber had revealed 
to her, and indulge in a thousand visions, of which 
her father was the centre. She was his " own 
Venetia." Thus he had hailed her at her birth, 
and thus he might again yet acknowledge her. If she 
could only ascertain where he existed ! What if 
slie could, and she were to communicate with him 1 
He must love her. Her heart assured her he 
must love her. She could not believe, if they 
were to meet, that his breast could resist the silent 
appeal which the sight merely of his only child 
would suffice to make. ! why had her parents 
parted ! What could have been his fault 1 He 
was so young! But a few, a few years older 
than herself when her mother must have seen him 
for the last time. Yes ! for the last time beheld 
that beautiful form, and that countenance which 
seemed breathing only with genius and love. He 
might have been imprudent, rash, violent; but she 
would not credit for an instant that a stain could 
attach to the honour or the spirit of Marmion Her- 
bert. 

The summer wore away. One mornmg, as 
Lady Annabel and Venetia were sitting together. 
Mistress Pauncefort bustled into the room with a 
countenance radiant with smiles and wonderment. 
Her ostensible business was to place upon the table 
a vase of flowers, but it was very evident that her 
presence was occasioned by affairs of far greater 
urgency. The vase was safely deposited ; Mistress 
Pauncefort gave the last touch to the arrangement 
of the flowers ; she lingered about Lady Annabel. 
At length she said, " I suppose you have heard 
the news, my lady?" 

" Indeed, Pauncefort, T have not," replied Lady 
Annabel, very quietly. " What news?" 

" My lord is coming to the abbey." 

"Indeed!" 

" O yes, my lady," said Mistress Pauncefort ; 
" I am not at all surprised your ladyship should be 
so astonished. Never to vsrrite, too ! Well, I 
must say he might have given us a line. But he is 
coming, I am certain sure of that, my lady. My 
lord's gentleman has been down these two days ; 
and all his dogs and guns too, my lady. And the 
keeper is ordered to be quite ready, my lady, for 



740 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS, 



the first. I wonder if there is going to be a party. 
I should not be at all surprised." 

" Plantagenet returned!" said Lady Annabel. 
" Well, I shall be very glad to see him again." 

" So shall 1, my lady," said Mistress Pauncefort; 
" but I dare say we sliall hardly know him again, 
he must be so grown. Trimmer has been over to 
the abbey, my lady, and saw my lord's valet. Quite 
the fine gentleman, Trimmer says. I was thmk- 
ing of walking over myself, this afternoon, to see 
poor Mrs. Quin, my lady ; I dare say we might be 
of use, and neighbours should be handy, as they 
say. She is a very respectable woman, poor Mrs. 
Quin, and I am sure for ray part, if your ladyship 
has no objection, I should be very glad to be of 
service to lier." 

"I have of course no objection, Pauncefort, to 
j'our being of service to the house-keeper, but lias 
she required your assistance V 

'* Why no, my lady ; but poor Mrs. Quin would 
hardly like to ask for any thing, my lady ; but I 
am sure we might be of very great use, for my 
lords gentleman seems very dissatisfied at his 
reception, Trimmer says. He has his hot break- 
fast every morning, my lady, and poor Mrs. Quin 
says — " 

" Well, Pauncefort, that will do," said Lady 
Annabel, and the functionary disappeared. 

" We have almost forgotten Plantagenet, Vene- 
tia," added Lady Annabel, addressing herself to 
her daughter. 

" He has forgotten us, I tliink, mamma," said 
Veneiia. 



BOOK m. 
CHAPTER L 

Five years had elapsed since Lord Cadurcis had 
quitted the seat of his fathers, nor did the fair in- 
habitants of Cherbuiy hear of his return without 
emotion. Although the intercourse between them 
during this interval had from the first been too 
slightly maintained, and of late years, had entirely 
died off, his return was, nevertheless, an event 
which recalled old times and revived old associa- 
tions. His visit to the hall was looked forward 
to with interest. His lordship did not long keep 
his former friends in suspense ; for, although he 
was not uninfluenced by some degree of embar- 
rassment from the consciousness of neglect on his 
side, rendered more keen now that he again found 
himself in the scene endeared by the remembrance 
of their kindness, he was, nevertheless, both too 
well-bred and too warm-hearted to procrastinate 
the performance of a duty which the regulations 
of society and natural impulse alike assured him 
was indispensable. On the very morning, there- 
fore, after his arrival, having sauntered awhile 
over the old abbey, and strolled over the park, mused 
over his mother's tomb with emotion, not the less 
deep because there was no outward and visible sign 
of its influence, he ordered his horses, and directed 
his way througli the accustomed woods to Cherbury. 

Five years had not passed away without their 
efTects at least upon the exterior being of Cadurcis. 
Although still a youth, his appearance was manly. 
A thoughtful air had become habitual to a counte- 



nance melancholy even in his childhood. Nof 
was its early promise of beauty unfulfilled; al 
though its expression was pecuhar, and less plea» 
ing than impressive. His long dark locks shaded 
a pale and lofty brow, that well became a cast of 
features dehcately moulded, yet reserved and 
haughty, and perhaps even somewhat scornful. 
His figure, always slender, had set into a form of 
remarkable slightness and elegance, and distin- 
guished for its symmetry. Altogether his general 
mien was calculated to attract attention and ex- 
cite interest. 

His vacations while at Eton had been spent by 
Lord Cadurcis in the family of his noble guardian, 
one of the king's ministers. Here he had been gra- 
dually initiated in the habits and manners of luxuri- 
ous and refined society. Since he had quitted Eton 
he had passed a season, previous to his impending 
residence at Cambridge, in the same sphere. The 
opportunities thus offered had not been lost upon 
a disposition which, with all its native reserve, was 
singularly susceptible. Cadurcis had quickly im- 
bibed the tone and adopted the usages of the circle 
in which lie moved. Naturally impatient of con- 
trol, he endeavored, by his precocious manhood, to 
secure the respect and independence which would 
scarcely have been paid or permitted to his years. 
From an early period he never permitted himself 
to be treated as a boy ; and his guardian, a man 
whose whole soul was concentred in the world, hu- 
moured a bent which he approved, and from which 
he augured the most complete success. Attracted, 
indeed, by the promising talents and the premature 
character of his ward, he had spared more time to 
assist in the development of his mind and the forma- 
tion of his manners than might have been expect- 
ed from a minister of state. His hopes, indeed, 
rested with confidence on his youthful relative, 
and he looked forward with no common emotion 
to the moment when he should have the honour 
of introducing to public life one calculated to con- 
fer so much credit on his tutor, and shed so much 
lustre on his party. The reader will, therefore, 
not he surprised if, at this then unrivalled period 
of political excitement, when the existence of our 
colonial empire was at stake, Cadurcis, with his 
impetuous feelings, had imbibed to their very ful- 
lest extent all the plans, prejudices, and passions 
of his political connexions. He was, indeed, what 
the circumstances of the times and his extreme 
youth might well excuse, if not justify, a most vio- 
lent partisan. Bold, sanguine, resolute, and into- 
lerant, it was difficult to persuade him that any 
opinionscouldbe just which were opposed to those 
of the circle in which he lived ; and out of that 
pale, it must be owned, he was as little inclined to 
recognise the existence of ability as of truth. 

As Lord Cadurcis slowly directed his way 
through the woods and park of Cherbuiy, past 
years recurred t'j him like a faint, yet pleasing, 
dream. Among these meads and bowers had 
glided away the only happy hours of his boyhood — 
the only period of his early life to which he could 
look back without disgust. He recalled the sacred 
exultation with which, in company with his poor 
mother, he had first repaired to Cadurcis, about to 
take possession of what, to his inexperienced ima- 
gination, then appeared a vast and noble inheri- 
tance, and, for the first time in his life, to occupy 
a position not unworthy of his rank. For how 
many domestic mortifications did the first sight of 



VENETIA. 



741 



tflat old abbey compensate ! How often, in pacing 
its venerable galleries and solemn cloisters, and 
musing over the memory of an ancient and illus- 
trious ancestry, had he forgotten those bitter pas- 
sages of daily existence, so humbling to his vanity, 
and so harassing to his heart ! He had beheld that 
mom, after an interval of many years, the lomb of 
his mother. That simple and solitary monument 
had revived and impressed upon him a conviction 
that too easily escaped in the various life and busy 
scenes in which he had since moved — the convic- 
tion of his worldly desolation and utter loneliness. 
He had no parents, no relations ; now that he was 
for a moment free from the artificial life in which 
he had of late mingled, he felt that he had no 
* friends. The image of his mother came back to 
him, softened by the magical tint of years ; after 
all, she was his mother, and a deep sharer in 
all his joys and woes. Transported to the old 
haunts of his innocent and warm-hearted child- 
hood, he sighed for a finer and sweeter sympath}' 
than was ever yielded by the roof which he had 
lately quitted — a habitation, but not a home. He 
conjured up the picture of his guardian, existing in 
a whirl of official bustle and social excitement. A 
dreamy reminiscence of finer impulses stole over 
the heart of Cadurcis. The dazzling pageant of 
metropolitan splendour faded away before the 
bright scene of nature that surrounded him. He felt 
the freshness of the fragrant breeze ; he gazed with 
admiration on the still and ancient woods ; and 
his pure and lively blood bubbled beneath the in- 
fluence of the golden smibeams. Before him rose 
the halls of Cherbury, that roof where he had 
been so happy, that roof to which he had appeared 
so ungrateful. The memory of a thousand acts of 
kindness, of a thousand soft and soothing traits of 
aiTection, recurred to him with a freshness which 
startled as much as it pleased him. Not to him 
only, but to his mother — that mother whose loss 
he had lived to deplore — had the inmates of Cher- 
bury been ministering angels of peace and joy. 
O ! that, indeed, had been a home ; there, indeed, 
had been days of happiness ; there, indeed, he 
had found sympathy, and solace, and succour ! 
And now he was returning to them a stranger, to 
fulfil one of the formal duties of society, in paying 
them his cold respects — an attention which he 
could scarcely have avoided olTering, had he been 
to them the merest acquaintance, instead of having 
found within those walls a home not merely in 
words, but friendship the most delicate, and love 
■tire most pure, a second parent, and the only being 
whom he had ever styled a sister ! 

The sight of Cadurcis became dim with emo- 
tion as the association of old scenes, and his im- 
pending interview with Venetia, brought back the 
past with a power which he had rarely experienced 
in the playing-fields of Eton, or the saloons of 
London. Five j'ears ! It was an awful chasm in 
their acquaintance. 

He despaired of reviving the kindness which 
had been broken by such a dreary interval, and 
broken on his side so wilfully ; and yet he began 
to feel that unless met with that kindness he 
should be ver}' miserable. Sooth to say, he was 
not a little embarrassed, and scarcely^ knew which 
contingency he most desired, to meet, or to escape 
from her. He almost repented his return to Ca- 
dxircis ; and yet to see Venetia again he felt must 
be exquisite pleasure. Influenced by these feel- 



ings he arrived a1 the hall steps, and so dismounting, 
and giving his horse to his groom, Cadurcis, with 
a palpitating heart and faltering hand, formally 
rang the bell of that hall, which in old days he 
entered at all seasons without ceremony. 

Never, perhaps, did a man feel more nervous ; 
he grew pale, paler even than usual, and his whole 
frame trembled as the approaching footstep of the 
servant assured him the door was about to open. 
He longed now that the famil}' might not be at 
home; that he might at least gain four-and-twenty 
hours to prepare himself. But the family were at 
home, and he was obliged to onter. He stopped for 
a moment in the hall, under the pretence of exam- 
ining the old familiar scene, but it was merely to 
collect himself, for his sight was clouded ; spoke 
to the old servant, to reassure himself by the sound 
of his own voice, but the husky words seemed to 
stick in his throat ; ascended the staircase with 
tottering steps, and leaned against the bannister 
as he heard his name announced. The effort, 
however, must be made ; it was too late to recede ; 
and Lord Cadurcis, entering the terrace-room, ex- 
tended his hand to Lady Annabel Herbert. She 
was not in the least changed, but looked as beauti- 
ful and serene as usual. Her salutation, though 
far from deficient in warmth, was perhaps a little 
more dignified than that which Plantagenet re- 
membered ; but still her presence reassured him ; 
and, while he pressed her hand with earnestness, 
he contrived to murmur forth with pleasing emo- 
tion his delight at again meeting her. Strange to 
say, in the absorbing agitation of the moment, all 
thought of Venetia had vanished; and it was 
when he had turned, and belicld a young lady of 
the most exquisite beauty that his vision had ever 
lighted on, who had just risen from her seat, and 
was at the moment saluting him, that he entirely 
lost his presence of mind ; he turned scarlet, was 
quite silent, made an awkward bow, and then 
stood perfectlj' fixed. 

"My daughter," said Lady Annabel, slightly 
pointing to Venetia; "will not your lordship be 
seated 1" 

Cadurcis fell into a chair in absolute confusion. 
The rare and stirpassing beauty of Venetia, his 
own stupidity, his admiration of her, his contempt 
for himself, the sight of the old chamber, the re- 
collection of the past, the minutest incidents of 
which seemed all suddenly to crowd upon his me- 
mory, the painful consciousness of the revolution, 
which had occurred in his position in the family, 
proved by his first being obliged to be introduced 
to Venetia, and then being addressed so formally 
by his title by her mother ; all these impressions 
united overcame him — he could not speak, he sat 
silent and confounded ; and, had it not been for 
the imperturbable self-composure and delicate and 
amiable consideration of Lady Annabel, it would 
have been impossible for him to have remained in 
a room where he experienced the most agonising 
embaiTassment. 

Under covei-, however, of a discharge of discreet 
inquiries as to when he arrived, how long he 
meant to stay, whether he found Cadurcis altered, 
and similar interrogations whicli required no ex- 
traordinary exertion of his lordship's intellect to 
answer, but to which he nevertheless contrived to 
give the most inconsistent and contradictory re- 
sponses, Cadurcis in time recovered himself suf 
ficiently to maintain a fair, though not rery 



742 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



brilliant, conversation, and even ventui'ed occasion- 
ally to address an observation to Venetia, who was 
seated at her work perfectly composed, but who 
replied to all his remarks with the same sweet 
voice and artless simplicity which had characterised 
her childhood, though time and thought had, by 
their blended influence, perhaps somewhat deprived 
her of that wild grace and sparkUng gayety for 
which she was once so eminent. 

These gi-eat disenchanters of humanity, if indeed 
they had stolen away some of the fascinating 
qualities of infancy, had amply recompensed Ve- 
netia Herbert for the loss by the additional and 
commanding charms which tlicy had conferred on 
her. From a beautiful child she had expanded 
into a most beautiful woman. She had now en- 
tirely recovered from her illness, of which the only 
visible effect was the addition that it had made to 
her stature, already slightly above the middle height, 
but of the most exquisite symmetry. Like her 
mother she did not wear powder, then usual in 
society ; but her auburn hair, which was of the 
finest texture, descended in long and luxuriant 
tresses far over her shoulders, braided with ribands, 
perfectly exposing her pellucid brow, here and 
there tinted with an undulating vein, for she had 
retained, if possible with an increased- lustre, the 
dazzUng complexion of her uifancy. If the rose 
upon the cheek were less vivid than of 3'ore, the 
dimples were certainly more developed ; the clear 
gray eye was shadowed by long dark lashes ; and 
every smile and movement of those ruby lips re- 
vealed teeth exquisitely small and regular, and 
fresh and brilliant as pearls just plucked by a diver. 

Conversation proceeded and improved. Cadur- 
cis became more easy and more fluent. His me- 
mory, which seemed suddenly to have returned to 
him with mrusual vigour, wonderfully served him. 
There was scarcely an individual of whom he did 
not contrive to inquire, from Dr. Masham to 
Mistress Pauncefort ; he was resolved to show 
that, if he had neglected, he had at least not for- 
gotten them. Nor did he exhibit the slightest 
indication of terminating his visit ; so that Lady 
Annabel, aware that he was alone at the abbey, 
and that he could have no engagement in the 
neighbourhood, could not refrain from inviting 
him to remain and dine with them. The invita- 
tion was accepted without hesitation. In due 
course of time Cadurcis attended the ladies in their 
walk ; it was a delightful stroll in the park ; 
though he felt some slight emotion when he found 
himself addressing Venetia by the title of " Miss 
Herbert." When he had exhausted all the topics 
of local interest, he had a great deal to say ajjout 
himself, in answer to the inquiries of Lady An- 
nabel. He spoke witTi so much feeling and sim- 
plicity of his fnst days at Eton, and the misei^ he 
experienced on first quitting Cherbury, that his 
details could not fail of being agreeable to those 
whose natural self-esteem they so agreeably flat- 
tered. Then he dwelt upon his casual acquaint- 
ance with London society, and Lady Annabel was 
gratified to observe, from many incidental observa- 
lions, that his principles were, in every respect, of 
the right tone ; and that he had zealously enlisted 
himself in the ranks of that national party who 
opposed themselves to the disorganising opinions 
tlien afloat. He spoke of his impending residence 
at the University with the aflectionate anticipations 
which might have been expected from a devoted 



child of the ancient and orthodox institutions of 
his country, and seemed perfectly impressed with 
the responsible duties for which he was destined, 
as an hereditary legislator of England. On the 
whole, his carriage and conversation aflorded a 
delightful evidence of a pure, and earnest, and 
frank, and gifted mind, that had acquired, at a 
very early age, much of the mature and fixed 
character of manhood, without losing any thing of 
that boyish sincerity and simphcity that are too 
often the penalty of experience. 

The dinner passed in pleasant conversation, and, 
if they were no longer familiar they were at least 
cordial. Cadurcis spoke of Dr. Masham with af 
fectionate respect, and mentioned his intention of 
visiting Marringhurst on the following day. He 
ventured to hope that he might accompany Lady 
Annabel and Miss Herbert, and it was aiTanged 
that his wish should be gratified. The evening 
drew on apace, and Lady Annabel was greatly 
jjleased when Lord Cadurcis expressed his wish 
to remain for their evening prayers. He was, in- 
deed, sincerely religious ; and as he knelt in the 
old chapel, that had been the hallowed scene of his 
boyish devotions, he oflered his ardent thanksgiv- 
ings to his Creator, who had mercifully kept his 
soul pure and true, and allowed him, after so long 
an estrangement from the sweet spot of his child- 
hood, once more to mingle his supplications with 
his kind and virtuous friends. 

Influenced by the solemn sounds still lingering 
in his ear, Cadurcis bade them farewell for the 
night, with an earnestness of manner and depth 
of feeling which he would scarcely have ventured 
to exhibit at their first meeting. " Good night, 
dear Lady Annabel," he said, as he pressed her 
hand ; " you know not how happy, how grateful 
I feel, to be once more at Cherbury. Good night, 
Venetia !" 

That last word lingered on his lips ; it was 
uttered in a tone at once mournful and sweet, and 
her hand was unconsciously detained for a moment 
in his ; — but for a moment ; and yet in that brief 
instant a thousand thoughts seemed to course 
through his brain. 

Before Venetia retired to rest, she remained a 
few minutes in her mother's room. " What do 
you think of him mamma ]" she said; " is he not 
very changed"!" 

" He is, my love," replied Lady Annabel, " what 
I sometimes thought he might, what I always hoped 
he would be." 

" He really seemed happy to meet us again, and 
yet how strange that for years he should never 
have communicated with us !" 

" Not so very strange, my love ! He was but 
a child when we parted, and he has felt embaiTass- 
ment in resuming connections which for a long 
interval had been inevitalily severed. Remember 
what a change his life had to endure ; few, after 
such an interval, would have returned with feel- 
ings so kind and so pure !" 

" He was always a favourite of yours, mam* 
ma!" 

"I always fancied that I observed in him the 
seeds of great virtues and great talents ; but I was 
not so sanguine that they would have flourished 
as they appear to have done." 

In the mean time the subject of their observa- 
tions strolled home on foot — for he had dismissed 
his horses — to the abbey. It was a briUiant night. 



VENETIA 



-43 



and the ■white beams of the moon fell full upon ' 
the old monastic pile, of which massy portions 
were in dark shade, while the light gracefully rest- 
ed on the projecting ornaments of the building, 
and played, as it were, with the fretted and fantastic 
pinnacles. Behind were the savage hills, softened 
by the hour ; and on the right extended the still 
and lumhious lake. Cadurcis rested for a moment, 
and gazed upon the fair, yet solemn, scene. The 
dreams of ambition, that occasionall)^ distracted 
him, were dead. The surrounding scene harmon- 
ised with the thoughts of purity, repose, and 
beauty, that filled his soul. Why should he ever 
leave this spot, sacred to him by the finest emo- 
tions of his nature 1 Why should he not at once 
quit that world which he had just entered, while 
he could quit it without remorse 1 If ever there 
existed a being who was his own master, — who 
might mould his destiny at his will, — it seemed to 
be Cadurcis. His lone, yet independent situa- 
tion, — his impetuous, yet firm volition, — alike 
qualified him to achieve the career most grateful 
to his disposition. Let him, then, achieve it here : 
here let him find that solitude he had ever loved, 
softened by that affection for which he had ever 
sighed, and which here only he had ever found. 
It seemed to him that there was only one being in 
the world whom he had ever loved, and that was 
Venetia Herbert : it seemed to him that there was 
only one thing in this world worth living for, and 
that was the enjoyment of her sweet heart. The 
pm'e-minded, the rare, the gracious creature ! Why 
should she ever quit these immaculate bowers, 
wherein she had been so mystically and delicately 
bred 1 Why should she ever quit the fond roof 
of Cherbury, but to shed grace and love amid the 
cloisters of Cadurcis ? Her life hitherto had been 
an enchanted tale ; why should the spell ever 
break 1 Why should she enter that world where 
care, disappointment, mortification, misery, must 
await her ? He, for a season, had left the magic 
circle of her life, and perhaps it was well. He 
was a man, and so he should know all. But he 
had returned, thank Heaven ! he had returned, 
and never again would he quit her. Fool that he 
had been, ever to have neglected her ! And for 
a reason that ought to have made him doubly her 
friend, her solace, her protector. O ! to think of 
the snee-s or taunts of the world calling for a mo- 
ment the colour from that bright cheek, or dusking 
for an instant the radiance of that brilliant eye ! 
His heart ached at tlie thought of her unhappiness, 
and he longed to press her to it, atid cherish her 
like some innocent dove that had flown from the 
terrore of a pursuing hawk. 



CHAPTER n. 

" Weli,, Pauncefort," said Lord Cadurcis, 
Bniiling, as he renewed his acquaintance with 
his old frirtid, " I hope you have not forgotten 
my last words, and have taken care of your young 
lady." 

" O ! dear, my lord," said Mistress Pauncefort, 
blushing and simpering. " Well, to be sure, how 
your lordship has surprised us all ! I thought we 
were never going to see you again." 



" You know I told you I should return ; and 
now I mean never to leave you again." 

" Never is a long word, my lord," said Mistress 
Pauncefort, looking very archly. 

" Ah ! but I mean to settle, regularly to settle 
here," said Lord Cadurcis. 

" Marry and settle my lord," said Mistress 
Pauncefort, still more arch. 

"And why noti" inquired Lord Cadurcis, 
laughing. 

" That is just what I said last night," exclaimed 
Mistress Pauncefort eagerly. " And why not 1 
for I said, says I, his lordship must marry sooner 
or later, and the sooner the better, say I ; and to 
be sure he is very young ; but what of that T for, 
says I, no one can say he does not look quite a 
man. And really, my lord, saving your presence, 
you are gi-own, indeed." 

" Pish !" said Ijord Cadurcis, turning away, 
and laughing, " I have left off growing, Paunce- 
fort, and all those sort of things." 

" You have not forgotten our last visit to Mar- 
ringhurstl" said Lord Cadurcis to Venetia, as the 
comfortable mansion 'of the worthy doctor appeared 
in sight. 

" I have forgotten nothing," replied Venetia with 
a faint smile; " I do not know what it is to forget. 
My life has been so uneventful, that every past 
incident, however slight, is as fresh in my memory 
as if it occurred yesterday." 

" Then you remember the strawben'ies and 
cream!" said Lord Cadurcis. 

" And other circumstances, less agreeable," he 
fancied Venetia observed, but her voice was low. 

" Do you know, Lady Annabel," said Lord 
Cadurcis, " that I was very nearly riding my pony 
to-day 1 I wish to bring back old times with the 
utmost possible completeness ; I wish for a mo- 
ment to believe that I have never quitted Cher- 
bury." 

" Let us think only of the present now," said 
Lady Annabel in a cheerful \cice, " for it is very 
agreeable. I see the good doctor ; he has discovered 
us." 

" I wonder whom he fancies Lord Cadurcis to 
be," said Venetia. 

" Have you no occasional cavalier for whom at 
a distance I may be mistaken V inquired his lord- 
ship, in a tone of affected carelessness, though, in 
truth, it WEis an inquiry tliat he made not without 
anxiety. 

" Every thing remains here exactly as you left 
it," replied Lady Annabel, vnth some quickness, 
yet in a lively tone. 

" Happy Cherbury !" exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, 
" May it, indeed, never change !" 

They rode briskly on ; the doctor was standing 
at his gate. He saluted Lady Annabel and Ve 
netia with his accustomed cordiality, and then 
stared at their companion, as if waiting for an in- 
troduction. 

" You forget an old friend, my dear doctoi," 
said his lordship. 

" Lord Cadurcis !" exclaimed Dr. Masham. His 
lordship had by this time dismounted, and eagerly 
extended his hand to his old tutor. 

Having quitted their horses, they all entered the 
house, nor was there naturally any want of con- 
versation.' Cadurcis had much information to give, 
and many questions to answer. He was in tho 



74 i 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Highest spirits and the most amiable mood, gay- 
amusing, and overflowing with kind-heartedness. 
The doctor seldom requii'ed any inspiration to be 
joyous, and Lady Annabel was unusually lively. 
Venetia alone, though cheerful, was calmer than 
pleased Cadurcis. Time, he sorrowfully observed, 
had occasioned a greater change in her manner 
than he could have expected. Youthful as she 
still was, indeed but on the threshold of woman- 
hood, and exempted, as it seemed she had been, 
from any thing to disturb the clearness of her 
mind, that enchanting play of fancy, which had 
once characterised her, and which he recalled with 
a sigh, appeared in a great degree to have deserted 
her. He watched her countenance with emotion, 
and, supremely beautiful as it undeniably was, 
there was a cast of thoughtfulness or suffering 
impressed upon the features, which rendered him 
mournful he knew not why, and caused him to 
feel as if a cloud had stolen unexpectedly over the 
sun, and made him shiver. 

But there was no time or opportunity for sad 
reflections ; he had to renew his acquaintance with 
all the sights and curiosities of the rectory, to sing 
to the canaries, and visit the gold-fish, admire the 
stuffed fox, and wonder that, in the space of five 
years, the voracious otter had not yet contrived to 
devour its prey. Then they refreshed themselves 
after their ride with a stroll in the doctor's garden ; 
Cadurcis persisted in attaching himself to Venetia, 
as in old days, and nothing would prevent him 
from leading her to the grotto. Lady Annabel 
walked behind, leaning on the doctor's arm, nar- 
rating, with no fear of being heard, all the history 
of their friend's return." 

" I never was so surprised in my life," said the 
doctor ; " he is vastly improved ; he is quite a 
man ; his carriage is very finished." 

" And his principles," said Lady Annabel. 
" You have no idea, my dear doctor, how right his 
opinions seem to be on every subject. He has 
been brought up in a good school ; he does his 
guardian great credit. He is quite loyal and ortho- 
dox in his opinions ; ready to risk his life for our 
blessed constitution in Church and State. He re- 
quested, as a favour, that he might remain at our 
prayers last night. It is delightful for me to see 
him turn out so well !" 

In the meantime Cadurcis and Venetia entered 
the grotto. 

" The dear doctor ?" said his lordship, " five 
years have brought no visible change even to him ; 
perhaps he may be a degree less agile, but I will 
not believe it. And Lady Annabel; it seems to 
me your mother is more youthful and beautiful 
tlran ever. There is a spell in our air," continued 
his lordship, with a laughing eye, " for if we have 
changed Venetia, ours is, at least, an alteration 
that bears no sign of decay. We are advancing, 
but they have not declined ; we are all enchanted." 

" I feel changed," said Venetia, gravely. 

" I left you a child, and I find you a woman," 
said Lord Cadurcis — "a change which who can 
regret 1" 

" I would I were a child again," said Venetia. 

" We were happy," said Lord Cadurcis, in a 
thoughtful tone ; and then, in an inquiring voice, 
he added, " and so we arc now." 

Venetia shook her head. 

" Can you be unhappy ]" said Lord Cadurcis. 



" To be unhappy would be wicked," said Vene- 
tia, " but my mind has lost its spring." 

" Ah ! say not so, Venetia, or you will make 
even me gloomy. I am happy, positively happy. 
There must not be a cloud upon your brow." 

" You are joyous," said Venetia," because you 
are excited. It is the novelty of return that ani- 
mates you. It will wear off; j'ou will growweaiy, 
and, when you go to the university, you will tlrink 
yourself happy again." 

" I do not intend to go to the university^" said 
Lord Cadurcis. 

" I understood from you that you were going 
there immediately." 

" My plans are changed," said Lord Cadurcis ; 
" I do not intend ever to leave home again." 

" My lord !" said Dr. Masham, who just then 
reached him, " when you go to Cambridge, I 
shall trouble you with a letter to an old friend of 
mine, whose acquaintance you may find valu- 
able." 

Venetia smiled ; Lord Cadurcis bowed, express- 
ed his thanks, and muttered something about talk- 
ing over the subject with the doctor. 

After this the conversation became general, and 
at length they all returned to the house to partake 
of the doctor's hospitality, who promised to dine 
at the hall on the morrow. The ride home was 
agreeable and animated ; but the conversation, on 
the part of the ladies, was principally maintained 
by Lady Annabel, who seemed every moment 
more delighted with the society of Lord Cadurcis, 
and to sympathise every instant more completely 
with his frank exposition of his opinions on all 
subjects. When they returned to Clierbury, Ca- 
durcis remained with them as a matter of course. 
An invitation was neither expected nor given. 
Not an allusion was made to the sports of the 
field, to enjoy which was the original purpose of 
his visit to the abbey ; and he spoke of to-morrow 
as of a period which, as usual, was to be spent en- 
tirely in their society. He remained with them, 
as on the previous night, to the latest possible mo- 
ment. Although reserved in society, no one could 
be more fluent with those with whom he was per- 
fectly unembarrassed. He was, indeed, exceed- 
ingly entertaining, and Lady Annabel relaxed 
into conversation beyond her custom. As for 
Venetia, she did not speak often, but she listened 
with interest, and was evidently amused. When 
Cadurcis bade them good night. Lady Annabel 
begged him to breakfast with them ; while Vene- 
tia, serene, though kind, neither seconded the invi- 
tation, nor seemed interested, one way or the other, 
in its result. 



CHAPTER IIL 

Except returning to sleep at the abbey. Lord 
Cadurcis was now as much an habitual inmate of 
Cherbury Hall as in the days of his childhood 
He was there almost with the lark, and never quit- 
ted its roof till its inmates were about to retire for 
the night. His guns and dogs, which had been 
sent down from London with so much pomp of 
preparation, were unused and unnoticed ; and he 
passed his days in reading Richardson's novels, 
wliich he had brought with him from town, to the 



VENETIA. 



745 



ladies, and then in riding with them about the 
country, for he loved to visit all his old haunts, 
and trace even the very green sward where he first 
met the gipsies, and he fancied that he had 
achieved his emancipation from all the coming 
cares and annoyances of the world. In this plea- 
sant life several weeks had glided away : Cadurcis 
had entirely resumed his old footing in the family, 
nor did he attempt to conceal the homage he was 
paying to the charms of Venetia. She, indeed, 
seemed utterly unconscious that such projects had 
entered, or indeed could enter, the brain of her old 
play-fellow, with whom, now that she was habitu- 
ated to his presence, and revived by his inspiring 
society, she had resumed all her old familiar inti- 
nvacy ; even addressing him in his Christian name, 
as if he had never ceased to be her brother. But 
Lady Annabel was not so blind as her daughter, 
and, had indeed her vision been as clouded, her 
faithful minister, Mistress Pauncefort, would have 
taken care quickly to couch it ; for a very short 
time had elapsed before that vigilant gentlewoman 
resolved to convince her mistress that nothing 
could escape her sleepless scrutiny, and that it was 
equally in vain for her mistress, to hope to possess 
any secrets without her participation, seized a con- 
venient opportunity, before she bid her lady good 
night, just to inquire " when it might be expected 
to take place 1" and in reply to the very evident 
astonishment which Lady Annabel testified at this 
question, and the expression of her extreme dis- 
pleasure at any conversation on a circumstance for 
which there was not the slightest foundation, Mis- 
tress Pauncefort, after duly flouncing about with 
every possible symptom of pettish agitation and mor- 
tified curiosity, her cheek pale with hesitating im- 
pertinence, and her nose quivering with inquisi- 
. tiveness, condescended to admit, with a sceptical 
sneer, that of course, no doubt, her ladyship knew 
more of such a subject than she could ; it was not 
her place to know any thing of such business ; for 
her part she said nothing ; it was not her place, 
but, if it were, she certainly must say that she 
could not help believing that my lord was looking 
remarkably sweet on Miss Venetia, and, what was 
more, every body in the house thought the same, 
though, for her part, whenever they mentioned the 
circumstance to her, she said nothing, or bid them 
hold their tongues, for what was it to them 1 it 
was not their business, and they could know no- 
thing ; and that nothing would displease her lady- 
ship more than chattering on such subjects, and 
many's the match, as good as finished, that's gone 
off by no worse means than the chitter-chatter of 
those who should hold their tongues. Therefore 
ehe should say no more ; but, if her ladyship wish- 
ed her to contradict it, why she could, and the 
sooner, perhaps, the better. 

Lady Annabel observed to her that she wished 
no such thing ; but she desired that Pauncefort 
would make no more observations on the subject, 
either to her or to any one else. And then Paunce- 
fort bade her ladyship good night in a huff, catch- 
ing up her candle with a rather impertinent jerk, 
and gently slamming the door, as if she had meant 
to close it quietly, only it had escaped out of her 
fingers. 

Whatever might be the tone, whether of sur- 
prise or displeasure, which Lady Annabel thought 
fiS to assume to her attendant on her noticing 
94 



Lord Cadurcis' attentions to her daughter, there 
is no doubt that his lordship's conduct had early 
and long engaged her ladyship's remark, her con- 
sideration, and her approval. Without meditating 
indeed an immediate union between Cadurcis and 
Venetia, Lady Annabel pleased herself with the 
prospect of her daughter's eventual maniage with 
one whom she had known so early, and so inti- 
mately ; who was by nature of a gentle, sincere, 
and affectionate disposition, and in whom educa- 
tion had carefully instilled the most sound and 
laudable principles and opinions ; one apparently 
with simple tastes, moderate desires, fair talents, a 
mind intelligent, if not brilliant, and passions 
which at the worst had been rather ill-regnlated 
than violent ; attached also to Venetia from her 
childhood, and always visibly affected by her influ- 
ence. All these moral considerations seemed to 



offer a fair security for happiness ; and the mate- 
rial ones were neither less promising, nor altoge- 
ther disregarded by the mother. It was a union 
which would join broad lands and fair estates ; 
which would place on the brow of her daughter 
one of the most ancient coronets in England ; and, 
which indeed was the chief of these considerations, 
would, without exposing Venetia to that contami- 
nating contact with the world from which Lady 
Annabel recoiled, establish her, without this ini- 
tiatoiy and sorrowful experience, in a position su- 
perior to which even the blood of the Herberts, 
though it might flow in as fair and gifted a form 
as that of Venetia, need not aspire. 

Lord Cadurcis had not returned to Cherbuiy a 
week before this scheme entered into the head of 
Lady Annabel. She had always liked him ; had 
always given him credit for good qualities ; had 
always believed that his early defects were the 
consequence of his mother's injudicious treatment ; 
and that at heart he was an amiable, generous, and 
trustworthy being, one who might be depended on, 
with a naturally good judgment, and substantial 
and sufficient talents, which only required cultiva- 
tion. When she met him again after so long an 
interval, and found her early prognostics so fairly, 
so completely fulfilled, and watched his conduct 
and conversation, exhibiting alike a well-informed 
mind, an obliging temper, and, what Lady Anna- 
bel valued even above all gifts and blessings, a 
profound conviction of the truth of all her own 
opinions, moral, political, and religious, she was 
quite charmed ; she was moved to unusual anima- 
tion ; she grew excited in his praise ; his presence 
delighted her ; she entertained for him the warm- 
est affection, and reposed in him the most unbound- 
ed confidence. All her hopes became concentrated 
in the wish of seeing him her son-in-law ; and she 
detected with the most lively satisfaction the im- 
mediate impression which Venetia had made upon 
liis heart ; for indeed it should not be forgotten, 
that although Lady Annabel was still young, and 
although her frame and temperament were alike 
promising of a long life, it was natural when she 
reflected upon the otherwise lone condition of her 
daughter, that she should tremble at the thought 
of quitting this world without leaving her child a 
protector. To Dr. Masham, from whom, indeed, 
Lady Annabel had no secrets, she confided in 
time these happy but covert hopes, and he was not 
less anxious than herself for their fulfilment. Smce 
^the return of Cadurcis the doctor contrived to be 

3 R 



746 



D'lSRAELPS NOVELS. 



more frequent visiter at the hall than usual, and I 
lie lost no opportunity of silently advancing the 
oliject of his friend. 

As for Cadurcis himself, it was impossible for 
him not quickly to discover that no obstacle to his 
heart's dearest wish would arise on the part of the 
parent. The demeanour of the daughter somewhat 
more perplexed him. Venetia, indeed, had entirelj' 
fallen into her old habits of intimacy and frankness 
with Plantagenet ; she was as affectionate and as 
unembarrassed as in former days, and almost as 
gay ; for his presence and companionship had in 
a great degree insensibly removed that stillness 
and gravity which had gradually influenced her 
mind and conduct. But in that conduct there 
was, and he observed it with some degree of morti- 
fication, a total absence of the consciousness of 
being the object of the passionate admiration of 
another. She treated Lord Cadvircis as a brother 
she much loved, who had returned to his home 
after a long absence. She liked to listen to his 
conversation, to hear of his adventures, to consult 
over his plans. His arrival called a smile to her 
face ; and his departure for the night was always 
alleviated by S07ue allusion to their meeting on tlic 
morrow. But many an ardent gaze on the part 
of Cadurcis, and many a phrase of emotion, passed 
•unnoticed and unappreciated. His gallantry was 
entirely thrown away, or, if observed, only occa- 
sioned a pretty stare at the unnecessary trouble he 
gave himself, or the strange ceremony which she 
supposed an acquaintance with society had taught 
him. Cadurcis attributed this reception of his 
veiled and delicate overtures to her ignorance of 
the world ; and, though he sighed for as passionate 
a return to his strong feelings as the sentiments 
which animated himself, he was on the whole not 
displeased, but rather interested, by these indica- 
tions of a pure and unsophisticated spirit. 



CHAPTER IV. 

CATiTJncis had proposed, and Lady Annabel had 
seconded the proposition with eager satisfaction, 
that they should seek some day at the abbey what- 
ever hos})itality it might offer; Dr. Masham was 
to be of the party, which was, indeed, one of those 
fanciful expeditions where the siime companions, 
though they meet at all times without restraint, 
and with every convenience of life, seek increased 
amusement in the novelty of a slight change of 
habits. With the aid of the neighbouring town 
of Southport, Cadurcis had made preparations for 
his friends not entirely unworthy of them, though 
he affected to the last all the air of a conductor of 
a wild expedition of discovery, and laughingly 
impressed upon them the necessity of steeling their 
minds and bodies to the experience and endurance 
of the roughest treatment and the most severe 
hardships. 

The morning of this eventful day broke as beau- 
tiful as the preceding ones. Autumn had seldom 
been more gorgeous than this year. Although he 
was to play the host, Cadurcis would not deprive 
himself of his usual visit to (he hall ; and he ap- 
peared there at an early hour to accompany his 
guests, who were to ride over to the abbey, to hus- 
band all their energies for their long rambles 
through the demesne. 



Cadurcis was in high spirits, and Lady Annabel 
scarcely less joyous. Venetia smiled, with her 
usual sweetness and serenity. They congratulated 
each other on the charming season ; and Mistress 
Pauncefort received a formal invitation to join the 
party, and go a-nutting with one of her follow- 
servants and his lordship's valet. The good doctor 
was rather late, but he arrived, at last, on his stout 
steed, in his accustomed cheerful mood. Here 
was a party of pleasure, which all agi'eed must be 
pleasant; no strangers to amuse, or to be amusing, 
but formed merely of four human beings who spent 
every day of their lives in each other's society, be- 
tween whom there was the most complete sympa- 
thy, and the most cordial good-will. 

By noon they were all mounted on their steeds ; 
and, though the air was warmed by a meridian 
sun shining in a clear sky, there was a gentle 
breeze abroad, sweet and grateful ; and, moreover, 
they soon entered the wood, and enjoyed the shel- 
ter of its verdant shade. The abbey looked most 
picturesque when they first burst upon it; the 
nearer and wooded hills, which formed its imme- 
diate background, just tinted by the golden pencil 
of autumn, while the meads of the valley were 
still emerald green ; and the stream, now lost, now 
winding, glittered here and there in the sun, and 
gave a life and sprightlinesi? to the landscape which 
exceeded even the effect of the more distant and 
expansive lake. 

They were received at the abbey by Mistress 
Pauncefort, who had preceded them, and who wel- 
comed them with a comjilacent smile. Cadurcis 
hastened to assist Lady Annabel to dismount, and 
was a little confused, but very pleased, when she 
assured him she needed no assistance, but request- 
ed him to take care of Venetia. He was just in 
time to receive her in his arms, where she found 
herself without the slightest embarrassment. The 
coolness of the cloisters was most gi-ateful after 
their ride ; and they lingered, and looked upon 
the old fountain, and felt the freshness of its fall 
with satisfaction which all alike expressed. Lady 
Annabel and Venetia then retired for a while to 
free themselves from their riding habits ; and Ca- 
durcis, affectionately taking the arm of Dr. Masham, 
led him a few paces, and then almost involuntarily 
exclaimed, " My dear doctor, I think I am the 
happiest fellow that ever lived !" 

" That I trust you may always be, my dear 
boy," said Doctor Masham, "but what has called 
forth this particular exclamation ]" 

" To feel that I am once more at Cadur^-is ; to 
feel that I am here once more with you all ; to 
feel that I never shall leave you again." 

" Not again 1" 

" Never !" said Cadurcis. " The experience of 
these last few weeks, which yet have seemed an 
age in my existence, has made me resolve never 
to (juit a society where I am persuaded I may ob- 
tain a degree of happiness which what is called 
the world can never alTord me." 

" What will your guardian say V 

"What care'n" 

« A dutiful ward !" 

" Poh ! the relations between us were formed 
only to secure my welfare. It is secured; it will 
be secured by my own resolution." 

" And what is that ?" inquired Dr. Masham. 

"To marry Venetia, if she will accept me.' 

"And that you do not doubt !" 



VENETIA. 



747 



k 



" "We doubt every thing, when every thing is at 
stake,"' replied Lord Cadurcis. " I know tliat her 
consent would ensure my happiness ; and, when I 
reflect, I cannot help being equally persuaded that 
it would secure hers. Her motlier, I think, would 
not be adverse to our union. And you, my dear 
sir, what do you think 1" 

"I think," said Doctor Mashani, " that whoever 
man'ies Venetia will marry the most beautiful and 
the most gifted of God's creatures ; I hope you may 
marry her ; I wish you to maiTy her ; I believe you 
will marry her ; but not yet ; you are too young. 
Lord Cadurcis." 

'• no, my dear doctor, not too young to marry 
Venetia. Remember I have known her all my 
life, at least as long as I have been able to form an 
opinion. How few are the men, my dear doctor, 
who are so fortunate as to unite themselves with 
women whom they have known, as I have known 
Venetia, for more tlian seven long years !" 

" During five of which you have never seen or 
heard of her." 

"Mine was the fault! And yet I cannot help 
thinking, as it may probably turn out, as you your- 
self believe it will turn out, that it is as well that 
we have been separated for this interval. It has 
afforded me opportunities for observation which I 
should never have enjoyed at Cadurcis; and, al- 
though my lot either way could not have altered 
the nature of things, I might have been discon- 
tented, I might have sighed for a world which now 
I do not value. It is true I have not seen Venetia 
for five years, but I find her the same, or changed 
only by nature, and fulfilling all the rich promise 
which her childhood intimated. No, my dear doc- 
tor, I respect your opinion more than that of any 
man living; but nobody, nothing, can persuade 
me that I am not as intimately acquainted with 
Venetia' s character, with all her rare virtues, as if 
we had never separated." 

" I do not doubt it," said the doctor , " high as 
you may pitch your estimate, you cannot overvalue 
her." 

'• And why should we not marry 1" 

" Because, my dear friend, although you may 
be perfectly acquainted with Venetia, you cannot 
be perfectly acquainted with yourself." 

"How so !" exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, in atone 
ef surprise, perhaps a little indignant. 

" Because it is impossible. No young man of 
eighteen ever possessed such precious knowledge. 
I esteem and admire you ; I give you every credit 
for a good heart and a sound head ; but it is im- 
possible, at your time of life, that your character 
can be formed ; and, until it be, you may marry 
Venetia, and yet be a very miserable man." 

"It is formed," said his lordship, firmly ; " there 
is not a subject important to a human being on 
which my opinions are not settled." 

"You may live to change them all," said the 
doctor, " and that ver}' speedily." 

" Impossible !" said Lord Cadurcis, " My dear 
doctor, I cannot understand you ; you say that you 
hope — that you wish — even that you believe that 
I shall maiTy Venetia; and yet you permit me to 
infer that our union will only make us miserable. 
What do you wish me to do 1" 

" Go to college for a term or two." 

" Without Venetia ! I should die." 

"' Vv'ell, if you be in a dying state, you can re- 
Uu-n." 



" You joke, my deai doctor." 
" My dear boy, I am perfectly senous." 
" But she may marry somebody else." 
" I am your only rival," said the doctor, with a 
smile ; " and, though even friends can scarcely be 
trusted under such circumstances, I promise you 
not to betray you." 

" Your advice is not very pleasant," said his 
lordship. 

" Advice seldom is," said the doctor 
" My dear doctor, I have made up my mind to 
marry her — and marry her at once. I know her 
well, you admit that yourself. I do not believe 
that there ever was a woman like her, that there 
ever will be a woman like her. Nature has marked 
her out from other women, and her education has 
not been less peculiar. Her mystic breeding pleases 
me. It is something to marry a wife so fair, so 
pure, so refined, so accomplished, who is, neverthe- 
less, perfectly ignorant of the world. I have dream- 
ed of such things ; I have paced these old cloisters 
when a boy, and when I was miserable at home ; 
and I have had visions, and this was one. I have 
sighed to live alone, with a fair spirit for my minis- 
ter. Venetia has descended from heaven for me, 
and for me alone. I am resolved I will pluck this 
fair flower with the dew upon its leaves." 

" I did not know I was reasoning with a poet," 
said the doctor, with a smile. " Had I been con- 
scious of it, I would not have been so rash." 

" I have not a grain of poetry in my composi- 
tion," said his lordship. " I never could write a 
verse ; I was notorious at Eton for begging all 
their old manuscripts from boys when they left 
school, to crib from ; but I have a heart, and I can 
feel. I love Venetia — I have always loved her — 
and, if possible, I will marry her, and marry her a! 
once." 



CHAPTER V. 

The re-appearance of the ladies at the end of the 
cloister terminated this conversation, the result of 
which was rather to confirm Lord Cadurcis in his 
resolution of instantly urging his suit than the re- 
verse. He ran forward to greet his friends with a 
smile, and took his place by the side of Venetia, 
whom, a little to her surprise, he congratulated in 
glowing phrase on her charming costume. Indeed, 
she looked very captivating, with a pastoral hat, 
then much in fashion, and a dress as simple and as 
sylvan, both showing to admirable advantage hei 
long descending hair, and her agile and sj)ringy 
figure. 

Cadurcis proposed that they should ramble over 
the abbey ; he talked of projected alterations, as if 
he really had the power immediately to effect them, 
and was desirous of obtaining their opinions before 
any change was made. So they ascended the 
staircase, which many years before Venetia had 
mounted for the first time with her mother, and 
entered that series of small and ill-furnished rooms 
in which Mrs. Cadurcis had principally resided, and 
which had undergone no change. The old pic- 
tures were examined ; these, all agreed, never must 
move ; and the new furniture, it was settled, must 
be in character with the building. Lady Annabel 
entered into all the details with an mterest and 
animation which rather amused Doctor Masham. 



748 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



Venetia listened, and suggested, and responded to 
the frequent appeals of Cadurcis to her judgment, 
with an unconscious equanimity not less divert- 
ing. 

"Now here we really can do something," said 
his lordship, as they entered the saloon, or rather 
refectory ; " here I think we maj'' effect wonders. — 
The tapestry must always remain. Is it not 
magnificent, Venetia? — But what hangings shall 
we have ! — We must keep the old chairs, I 
think. — Do you approve of the old chairs, Ve- 
netia 1 — And what shall we cover them with? — 
Shall it be damask ? — What do you think, Ve- 
netia ? — Do you like damask ? — And what colour 
shall it be ! — Shall it be crimson ? — Shall it be 
crimson damask. Lady Annabel ? — Do you think 
Venetia would lilce crimson damask ? — Now, Ve- 
etia, do give us the benefit of your opinion." 

Then they entered the old gallery ; here was to 
be a great transformation. Marvels were to be ef- 
fected in the old gallery ; and many and multiplied 
were the appeals to the taste and fancy of Vene- 
tia. 

" I think," said Lord Cadurcis, " I shall leave 
the gallery to be arranged when I am settled. The 
rooms and the saloon shall be done at once. I 
shall give orders for them to begin instantly. 
Whom do you re(?ommend, Lady Annabel ? Do 
you think there is any person at Southport who 
could manage to do it, superintended by our taste ? 
Venetia, what do you think?" 

Veneiia was standing at the window, rather 
apart from her companions, looking at the old gar- 
den. Lord Cadurcis joined her. " Ah ! it has 
been sadly neglected since my poor mother's time. 
We could not do much in those days, but still she 
loved this garden. I must depend on you ejitirely 
to arrange my garden, Venetia. This spot is sa- 
cred to you. You have not forgotten our labours 
here, have you, Venetia ? Ah ! those were happy 
days, and these shall be more happy still. This is 
your garden ; it shall always be called Venetia's 
garden ?" 

" I would have taken care of it, when you were 
away, but — " 

" But what ?" inquired Lord Cadurcis, anx- 
iously. 

" We hardly felt authorised," replied Venetia, 
very calmly. " We came at first, when you left 
Cadurcis, but at last it did not seem that our pre- 
sence was very acceptable." 

"The brutes !" exclaimed Lord Cadurcis. 

" No, no ; good simple people, they were not 
used to orders from strange masters, and they were 
perplexed. Besides, we had no right to interfere." 

" No right to interfere ! Venetia, my little fel- 
low-labourer, no right to interfere! Why all is 
yours ! Fancy you have no right to interfere at 
Cadurcis !" 

Then they proceeded to the park, and wandered 
to the margin of the lake. There was not a spot, 
not an object, which did not recall some advent ute 
or incident of childhood. Every moment Lord Ca- 
durcis exclaimed, " Venetia ! do you remember 
^is?" — "Venetia! have you forgotten that?" — 
and every time Venetia smiled, and proved how 
faithful was her memory, by adding some little 
unmentioned trait to the lively reminiscences of her 
companion. 

" Well, after all," said Lord Cadurcis with a 
sigh, " my poor mother was a strange woman, and. 



God bless her ! used sometimes to wcrr'"' me out 
of my senses ; but still she always love-^ y-n. No 
one can deny tha?t. Cherbury was a m^.gic name 
with her. She loved Lady Annabel, and sho 
loved j'ou, Venetia. It ran in the blood, you see; 
She would be happy, quite happy, if she saw usf 
all here together, and if she knew — " 

" Plantagenet," said Lady Annabel, " you mus^ 
build a lodge at this end of the park. I canno' 
conceive any thing more effective than an entrance 
from the Southport road in this quarter." 

" Certainly, Lady Annabel, certainly, we mus< 
build a lodge. Do not you think so, Venetia?" 

" Indeed, I think it would be a great improve- 
ment," replied Venetia ; " but you must take care 
to have a lodge in character with the abbey." 

" You shall make a drawing for it," said Lord 
Cadurcis ; " it shall be built directly, and it shall 
be called Venetia Lodge."- 

The hours flew away, loitenng in the park, 
roaming in the woods. They met Mistress 
Pauncefort and her friends loaded with plunder, 
and they offered to Venetia a trophy of their suc- 
cess ; but when Venetia, merely to please their 
kind hearts, accepted their tribute with cordiality, 
and declared there wa?; nothing she liked better, 
Lord Cadurcis would not be satisfied unless he 
immediately commenced nutting, and each moment 
he bore to Venetia the produce of his sport, till 
in time she could scarcely sustain the rich and 
increasing burden At length they bent their 
steps towards home, sufficiently wearied to look 
forward with welcome to rest and their repast, yet 
not fatigued, and exhilarated by the atmosph-ere, 
for the sun was now in its decline, though in this 
favoured season there were yet hours enough 
remaining of enchanting light. 

In the refectory they found, to the surprise of 
all but their host, a banquet. It was just one of 
those occasions where nothing is expected and 
every thing is welcome and surprising; when, 
from the unpremeditated air generally assumed, 
all preparation startles and pleases ; when even 
ladies are not ashamed to eat, and formality ap- 
pears quite banished. Game of all kinds, teal 
from the lake, and piles of beautiful fruit, made 
the table alike tempting and picturesque. Then 
there were stray bottles of rare wine disinterred 
from venerable cellars; and, more inspiring even 
than the choice wine, a host under the influence 
of every emotion, and swayed b}- every circum- 
stance, that can make a man happy and delightful. 
O ! they were very ga}% and it seemed difiicult to 
believe that care, or sorrow, or the dominion 
of dark or ungracious pas.sions, could ever disturb 
sympathies so complete, and countenances so ra- 
diant. 

At the urgent request of Cadurcis, Venetia sang 
to them ; and, while she sang, the expression oi 
her countenance and voice harmonising with the 
arch hilarity of the subject, Plantagenet for a mo- 
ment believed that he beheld the little Venetia of 
his j'outh, that sunny child, so full of mirth and 
grace, the very recollection of whose lively and 
bright existence might enliven the gloomiest hour 
and lighten the heaviest heart. 

Enchanted by all that surrounded him, — full of 
hope, and joy, and plans of future felicity, — em- 
boldened by the kindness of the daughter, — Ca- 
durcis now ventured to m-ge a request to Lady 
Annabel, and the request was granted, — for all 



VENETIA. 



749 



■eemed to feel that it was a day on which nothing 
was to be refused to their friend. Happy Cadur- 
cis ! Tlie child had a holiday, and it fancied itself 
a man, enjoying a triumph. In compliance, 
therefore, with his wish, it was settled that they 
should all walk back to the hall ; even Dr. Ma- 
sham declared he was competent to the exer- 
tion, but perhaps was lialf entrapped into the 
declaration by the promise of a bed at Cherbury. 
This consent enchanted Cadurcis, who looked for- 
ward with exquisite pleasure to the evening walk 
with Venetia. 



CHAPTER VI 



Although the sun had not set, it had sunk 
behind the hills leading to Cherbury when our 
friends quitted the abbey. Cadurcis, without 
hesitation, offered his arm to Venetia, and, whether 
from a secret sympathy with his wishes, or merely 
from some fortunate accident, Lady Annabel and 
Doctor Masham strolled on before without busy- 
ing themselves too earnestly with their compa- 
nions. 

" And how do you think our expedition to 
Cadurcis has turned outl" inquired the youn 
lord of Venetia. " Has it been successful ]" 

" It has been one of the most agreeable days I 
ever passed," was the reply. 

"Then it has been successful," rejoined his 
lordship ; " for my only wish was to amuse you." 
" I think we have all been equally amused," said 
Venetia. " I never knew mamma in such good 
spirits. I think, ever since you returned, she has 
been unusually light-hearted." 

" And you — has my return lightened only her 
heart, Venetia 1" 

" Indeed it lias contributed to the happiness of 
ever}' one." 

" And yet, when I first returned, I heard you 
utter a complaint ; the first that to my knowledge 
ever escaped your lips." 

" Ah ! we cannot be always equally gay." 
" Once you were, dear Venetia." 
" I was a child then." 

" And I, I too was a child ; yet I am happy, at 
least now that I am with you." 
" Well, we are both happy now." 
" O ! say that again, say that again, Venetia ; 
for, indeed, you made me miserable when you told 
me that you had changed. I cannot bear that you, 
Venetia, should ever change." 

" It is the course of nature, Plantagenet ; we all 
^ change, every thing changes. This day, that was 
so bright is changing fast." 

"The stars are as beautiful as the sun, Ve- 
netia." 

" And what do you infer V 
"That Venetia, a woman, is as beautiful as 
Venetia, a little girl ; and should be as happy." 
"Is beauty happiness, Plantagenet 7" 
^ " It makes others happy, Venetia ; and, when 
we make others happy, we should be happy our- 
selves." 

" Few depend upon my influence, and I trust 
all of them are happy." 

" No one depends upon vour influence more 
than I do." 



" Well, then, be happy always." 

" Would that I might ! Ah ! Venetia, can i 
ever forget old days ! You were the solace of my 
dark childhood ; you were the charm that first 
taught me existence was enjoyment. Before I 
came to Cherbury I never was happy, and since 
that hour — All! Venetia, dear, dearest Venetia, 
who is like to yovi !" 

" Dear Plantagenet, you were always too kind 
to me. Would we were children once more !" 

" Nay ! my own Venetia, you tell me every 
thing changes, and we must not murmur at the 
course of nature. I would not have our childhood 
back again, even with all its joys, for there are 
others yet in store for us, not less pure, not less 
beautiful. We loved each other then, Venetia, 
and we love each other now." 

" My feelings towards you have never changed, 
Plantagenet ; I heard of you always with interest, 
and I met you again with heartfelt pleasure." 

" O ! that morning ! Have you forgotten that 
morning! Do you know, you will smile very 
much, but I really believe that I expected to see 
my Venetia still a little girl, the veiy same who 
greeted me when I first arrived with my mother, 
and behaved so naughtily ! And, when I saw 
you, and found what you had become, and what I 
ought always to have known you must become, I 
was so confused, I entirely lost my presence of 
mind. You must have thought me very awkward, 
very stupid ]" 

" Indeed, I was rather gratified by observing 
that you could not meet us again without emotion. 
I thought it told well for your heart, which I 
always believed to be most kind, at least, I am 
sure, to VIS." 

" Kind ! ! Venetia, that word but ill describes 
what my heart ever was, what it now is, to you. 
Venetia ! dearest, sweetest Venetia, can you doubt 
for a moment my feelings towards your home, and 
what influence must principally impel theml 
Am I so dull, or you so blind, Venetia 1 Can I 
not express, can you not discover, how much, how 
ardently, how fondly, how devotedly, I — I — I — 
love you 1" 

" I am sure we always loved each other, Plan- 



tagenet. 

" Yes ! hut not with this love ; not as I love 
you now !" 

Venetia stared. 

" I thought we could not love each other more 
than we did,- Plantagenet," at length she said. 
" Do you remember the jewel that you gave me 1 
I always wore it, until you seemed to forget us, 
and then I thought it looked so foolish! You 
remember what was inscribed on it : — 'To 
Venetia, fbom her AyrECTioNATE Brother, 
Pla>-tare>'et.' And as a brother I always 
loved you ; had I indeed been your sister, I 
could not have loved you more warmly and more 
truly." 

"I am not your brother, Venetia, I wish not to 
be loved as a brother ; and yet I must be loved by 
you, or I shall die." 

"What then do you wishl" inquired Venetia, 
with great simplicity. 

" I wish you to marry me," replied L ord Cadurcis 
"Marry!" exclaimed Venetia, with a face of 
wonder. "Marry! Marry you! Morry you, 
Plantagenet !" 

3r2 



750 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Ay ! is that so wonderful 1 I love you, and, 
if you love me, why should we not marry 1" 

Venetiawas silent, and looked upon the gi'ound, 
not from agitation, for she was quite calm, but in 
thought ; and then she said, " I never thought of 
marriage in my life, Plantagenet; I have no in- 
tention, no wish to marry ; I mean to live always 
with mamma." 

" And you shall always live with mamma, but 
that need not prevent you from marrying me," he 
replied. " Do not we all live together now 1 
What will it signify if you dwell at Cadurcis and 
Lady Annabel at Chcrbury 7 Is it not one home ? 
But, at any rate, this point shall not be an obsta- 
cle ; for, if it please you, we will all live at Cher- 
bury." 

" You say that we are happy now, Plantagenet ; 
O, let us remain as we are !" 

" My own sweet girl, my sister, if you please, 
any title so it be one of fondness, your sweet sim- 
plicity charms me ; but, believe me, it cannot be 
as you wish ; we cannot remain as we are, unless 
we marry." 

"Why not?" 

" Because I shall be wretched, and must live 
elsewhere, if indeed I can live at all.' 

" O ! Plantagenet, indeed I thought you were 
my brother ; when I found you after so long a se 
paration as kind as in old days, and kinder still, I 
was so glad ; I was so sure you loved me ; I 
thought I had the kindest brother in the world. 
Let us not talk of any other love. It will, indeed 
it will, make mamma so miserable !" 

" I am greatly mistaken," replied Lord Cadur- 
cis, who saw no obstacles to his hopes in their 
conversation hitherto, " if on the contrary , our 
union would not prove far from disagreeable to your 
mother, Venetia ; I will say our mother, for indeed 
to me she has been one." 

" Plantagenet," said Venetia, in a very earnest 
tone, " I love you very much ; but, if you love 
me, press me on this subject no more at present. 
\ ou have surprised, indeed you have bewildered 
me. There are thoughts, there are feelings, there 
are considerations, that must be respected, that 
must influence me. Nay ! do not look so sorrow- 
ful, Plantagenet. Let us be happy now. To- 
morrow — only to-morrow — and to-morrow we are 
sure to meet, we will speak further of all this ; but 
now — now — for a moment let us forget it, if we 
can forget any thing so strange. Nay ! you shall 
smile !" 

He did. Who could resist that mild and win- 
ning glance ! And indeed Lord Cadurcis was 
scarcely disappointed, and not at all mortified, at 
the reception, or, as he esteemed it, the progress 



had suddenly succeeded all the excitement of the 
day. The doctor, who was wearied, retired imme- 
diately. Lady Annabel pressed Cadurcis to remain 
and take tea, or, at least, to ride home ; but his 
lordship, protesting that he was not in the slightest 
degree fatigued, and anticipating their spced}^ union 
on the morrow, bade her good night, and, pressing 
with fondness the hand of Venetia, retraced his 
steps to the now solitary abbey. 



CHAPTER VIL 

Cadurcis returned to the abbey, but not to 
slumber. That love of loneliness which had 
haunted him from his boyhood, and which ever 
asserted its sway when under the influence of his 
passions, came over him now with irresistible 
power. A day of enjoyment had terminated, and 
it left him melancholy. Hour after hour he paced 
the moon-lit cloisters of his abbey, where not a 
sound disturbed him, save the monotonous fall of 
the fountain, that seems by some inexplicable as- 
sociation always to blend with, and never to dis- 
turb, our feelings ; gay when we are joyful, and 
sad amid our sorrow. 

Yet was he sorrowful ! He was gloomy, am. 
fell into a revery about himself, a subject to him 
ever perplexing and distressing. His conversation 
of the morning with Doctor Masham recurred to 
him. What did the doctor mean by his character 
not being formed, and that he might yet live to 
change all his opinions 7 Character ! what was 
character 1 It must be will ; and his will was vio- 
lent and firm. Young as he was, he had early ha- 
bituated himself to reflection, and the result of his 
musings had been a desire to live away from the 
world, with those he loved. The world, as other 
men viewed it, had no channs for him. Its pur- 
suits and passions seemed to him on the whole 
paltry and faint. He could sympathise with great 
deeds, but not with bustling life. That which was 
common did not please him. He loved things 
that were rare and strange; and the spell that 
bound him so strongly to Venetia Herbert was her 
unusual life, and the singular circumstances of 
her destiny that were not unknown to him. True 
he was young ; but, lord of himself, youth was as- 
sociated with none of those mortifications wliich 
make the juvenile pant for manhood. Cadurcis 
valued his youth, and treasured it. He could not 
conceive love, and the romantic life that love 
should lead, without the circumambient charm of 
vouth adding fresh lustre to all that was bright 



of his suit. The conduct of Venetia he attributed i and fair, and a keener relish to every combination 



entirely to her unsophisticated nature, and the 
timidity of a virgin soul. It made him prize even 
more dearly the treasure that he believed awaited 
him. Silent, then — though for a time they both 
struggled to speak on indifferent subjects — silent, 
and almost content, Cadurcis proceeded, with the 
arm of Venetia locked in his, and ever and anon 
unconsciously pressing it to his heart. The rosy 
twilight had fiidcd away, the stars were stealing 
forth, and the moon again glittered. With a soul 
softer than the tinted shades of eve. and glowing 
like the heavens, CadurciS joined his companions 
as they entered the gardens of Cherbury. When 
they had arrived home, it seemed that exhaustion 



of enjoyment. The moonbeam fell upon his mo- 
ther's monument — the tablet on the cloister wall 
that recorded the birth and death of Kathehine 
Cadurcis. His thoughts flew to his ancestry 
They had conquered in France and Palestine, and 
left a memorable name to the annalist of his coun- 
tiy. Those days were past, and yet Cadurcis felt 
within him the desire, perhaps the power, of emu- 
lating them ; but what remained 1 What career 
was open in this mechanical age to the chivalric 
genius of his race 1 Was he misplaced then in 
life ? The applause of nations — there was some- 
thing grand and exciting in such a possession. 
To be the marvel of mankind, what would he nd 



VENETIA. 



751 



hazard 1 Dreams, dreams ! . If his ancestors were 
valiant and celebrated, it remained for him to rival, 
to excel them, at least in one respect. Their co- 
ronet had never rested on a brow fairer than the 
one for which he destined it. Venetia, then, inde- 
pendent of his passionate love, was the only appa- 
rent object worth his pursuit — the only thing in 
this world that had realised his dreams — dreams 
sacred to his own musing soul, that even 
she had never shared or guessed. And she, she 
was to be his. He could not doubt it ; but to- 
morrow would decide ; to-morrow would seal his 
triumph. 

His sleep was short and restless ; he had almost 
outwatched the stars, and yet he rose with the early 
mom. His first thought was of Venetia ; he was 
impatient for the interview — the interview she 
promised, and even proposed. The fresh air was 
grateful to him ; he bounded along to Cherlnny, 
and brushed the dew in his progress from the tall 
grass and shrubs. In sight of the hall, he for a 
moment paused. He was before his accustomed 
hour ; and yet he was always too soon. Not to- 
day, though, not to-day ; suddenly he rushes for- 
ward, and springs down the green vista, for Vene- 
tia is on the terace, and alone ! 

" Always kind, this morning she greeted him 
with unusual affection. Never had she seemed to 
him so exquisitely beautiful. Perhaps her coun- 
tenance to-day was more pale than wont. There 
seemed a softness in her eyes unusually so bril- 
liant, and even dazzling ; the accents of her salu- 
tation were suppressed and tender. 

" I thought you would be here early," she re- 
marked, and therefore I rose to meet you." 

Was he to infer from this artless confession that 
his image had haunted her in her dreams, or only 
that she would not delay the conversation on 
which his happiness depended ] He could scarcely 
doubt which version to adopt when she took his 
arm and led him from the ten-ace, to walk where 
they could not be disturbed. 

" Dear Plantagenet," she said — " for indeed you 
are very dear to me — ^I told you last night that I 
would speak to you to-day on your wishes, that 
are so kind to me, and so much intended for my 
happiness. I do not love suspense ; hut indeed, 
last night, I was too much surprised, too much 
overcome, by what occurred, that, exhausted as I 
naturally was by all our pleasure, I could not tell 
you what I wished ; indeed I could not, dear Plan- 
tagenet." 

" My own Venetia !" 

" So I hope you will always deem me ; for I 
should be very unhappy if you did not love me, 
Plantagenet — more unhappy than I have even 
been these last two years ; and I have been very 
unhappy, very unhappy indeed, Plantagennet." 

" Unhappy ! Venetia ; my Venetia unhappy ?" 

" Listen ! I will not weep. I can control my 
feelings. I have learned to do this ; it is very sad, 
and very different to what my life once was ; but I 
can do it." 

" Yon amaze me !" 

Venetia sighed and then resumed, but in a tone 
mournful and low, and yet to a degree firm. 

" You have been away five years, Plantagenet." 

" But you have pardoned that." 

" I never blamed you ; I had nothmg to pardon 
It was well for you to be away ; and I rejoice your 
absence has been so profitable to you." 



"But it was wicked to have been so silent." 

" Oh ! no, no, no. Such ideas never entered 
into my head, nor even mamma's. You were very 
yfflung ; you did as all would, as all must do. Har- 
bour not such thoughts. Enough you have re- 
turned, and love us yet." 

" Love ! I adore !" 

" Five j'ears are a long space of time, Plantage- 
net. Events will happen in five years, even at 
Cherbury. I told you I was changed." 

' Yes !" said Lord Cadurcis, in a voice of some 
anxiety, with a scrutinising eye. 

' You left me a happy child ; you find me a wo- 
man, — and a miserable one." 

' Good God ! Venetia, this suspense is awful. 
Be brief, I pray you. Has any one — " 

Venetia looked at him with an air of perplexity. 
She could not comprehend the idea tliat impelled 
his interruption. 

' Go on," Lord Cadurcis added, after a short 
pause; "I am, indeed, all anxiety." 

' You remember that Christmas which you 
passed at the hall, and walking at night in the 
gallery, and — " 

" Well ! Your mother — I shall never forget it. 

" You found her weeping when you were once 
at Marringhurst. You told me of it." 



■ Av ! ay !' 



We 



" There is a wing of our house shut up. 
often talked of it." 

" Often, Venetia ; it is a mystery." 

" I have penetrated it," replied Venetia, in a so- 
lemn tone ; " and I never have known what hap- 
piness is since." 

" Yes, yes !" said Lord Cadurcis, very pale, and 
speaking in a whisper. 

" Plantagenet, I have a father.' 

Lord Cadurcis started, and for an instant hie 
arm quitted Venetia's. At length he said, in a 
gloomy voice, " I know it." 

" Know it !" exclaimed Venetia with astonish- 
ment. " Who could have told you the secret !" 

" It is no secret," replied Cadurcis ; " would that 
it were !" 

" Would that it were ! How strange you speak, 
how strange you look, Plantagenet ! If it be no 
secret that I have a father, why this concealment 
then 7 I know that I am not the child of shame !" 
she added, after a moment's pause, with an air 
of pride. A tear stole down the cheek of Ca- 
durcis. 

" Plantagenet ! dear, good Plantagenet ! my 
brother ! my own brother ! — see, I kneel to you ; 
Venetia loieels to you ! your own Venetia ! — 
Venetia that you love ! O ! if you knew the load 
that is on my spirit, bearing me dovra to a grave 
which I would almost welcome, you would speak 
to me ; you would tell me all. — I have sighed for 
this ; I have longed for this ; I have prayed for this. 
To meet some one who would speak to me of my 
father — who had heard of him, who knew him — 
has been for years the only thought of my being, 
the only object for which I existed. And now here 
comes Plantagenet, my brother ! my own brother .' 
and he knows all, — and he will tell me ; yes, that 
he will ; he will tell his Venetia all — all !" 

"Is there not your mother 1" said Lord Cadur- 
cis, in a broken tone. 

" Forbidden, utterly forbidden. If I speak, they 
tell me her heart will break ; and therefore mine 
is breaking." 



752 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Have you no friend V 

"Are not you my friend 1" 

" Dr. Masham V 

" I have applied to him ; he tells me that he 
lives, and then he shakes his head." 

" You never saw your father ; think not of 
him." 

" Not think of him !" exclaimed Venetia, with 
extraordinary energy. " Of what else 1 For 
what do I live but to think of him 1 What object 
have I in life but to se'e him 1 I have seen him — 
once." 

" Ah !" 

" I know liis form by heart, and yet it was but 
a shade. O I what a shade ! — what a glorious, 
what an immortal shade ! If gods were upon 
earth, they would be like my father !" 

" His deeds, at least, are not godlike," observed 
Lord Cadurcis dryly, and vi'ith some bitterness. 

" I deny it !" said Venetia, her eyes sparkling 
with fire, her form dilated with enthusiasm, and 
involuntarily withdrawing her arm from her com- 
panion. Lord Cadurcis looked exceedingly asto- 
nished. 

" Yon deny it !" he exclaimed. " And what 
should you know about it ?" 

" Nature whispers to me that nothing but what 
is grand and noble could be breathed by those lips, 
or fulfilled by that form." 

" I am glad you have not read his works," said 
Lord Cadurcis, with increased bitterness. " As 
for his conduct, your mother is a livhig evidence 
of his honour, his generosity, and his virtue." 

" My mother !" said Venetia, in a softened 
voice ; " and yet he loved my mother !" 

" She was his victim, as a thousand others may 
have been." 

" She is his wife !" replied Venetia, with some 
anxiety. 

" Yes, a deserted wife ; is that preferable to 
being a cherished mistress 1 More honourable, 
but scarcely less humiliating." 

" She must have misunderstood him," said Ve- 
netia. "I have perused the secret vows of his 
passion, I have read his praises of her beauty, I 
have pored over the music of his emotions when 
he first became a father ; — yes, he has gazed on 
me — even though but for a moment — with love ! 
Over me he has breathed forth the hallowed bless- 
ing of a parent ! That transcendant form has 
pressed his lips to mine, and held me with fondness 
to his heart ! And shall I credit aught to his dis- 
honour 1 Is there a being in existence who can 
persuade me he is heartless or abandoned 1 No ! 
I love him ! I adore him ! I am devoted to him 
with all the energies of my being ! I live only 
on the memory that he lives, and, were he to die, 
I should pray to my God that I might join him, 
without delay, in a world where it cannot be jus- 
tice to separate a child from a father." 

And this was Venetia ! — the fair, the serene 
Venetia ! the young, the inexperienced Venetia ! 
pausing, as it were, on the parting threshold of 
girlhood, whom, but a few hours since, he had 
fancied could scarcely have proved a passion ; who 
appeared to him barely to comprehend the mean- 
ing of his advances ; for whose calmness or whose 
coldness he had consoled himself by the flattering 
conviction of her unknowing innocence. Before 
him stood a beautiful and inspired Maenad, her 
syc flashing supernatural fire, her fonn elevated 



above her accustomed stature, defiance on her 
swelling brow, and passion on her quivering lip ! 

Gentle and sensitive as Cadurcis ever appeared 
to those he loved, there was in his soul a deep and 
unfathomed well of passions that had been never 
stirred, and a bitter and mocking spirit in his brain, 
of which he was himself unconscious. He had 
repaired this hopeful morn to Cherbury, to receive, 
as he believed, the plighted faith of a simple and 
aifectionate, perhaps grateful, girl. That her un- 
sophisticated and untutored spirit might not receive 
the advances of his heart with an equal and cor- 
responding ardour, he was prepared. It pleased 
him that he should watch the gradual develope- 
ment of this bud of sweet affections, waiting, with 
proud anxiety, her fragrant and her full-blown 
love. But now it appeared that her coldness, or 
her indilierence, might be ascribed to any other 
cause than the one to which he had attributed it, — 
the innocence of an inexperienced mind. This 
girl was no stranger to powerful passions ; she 
could love, and love with fervency, with devotion, 
with enthusiasm. This child of joy was a woman 
of deep and thoughtful sorrows, brooding in soli- 
tude over high resolves and passionate aspirations. 
Why were not the emotions of such a tumultuous 
soul excited by himself ] To him she was calm 
and imperturbable ; she called him brother — she 
treated him as a child. But a picture, a fantastic 
shade, could raise in her a tempestuous swell of 
sentiment, that transfonned her whole mind, and 
changed the colour of all her hopes .and thoughts. 
Deeply prejudiced against her father, Cadurcis 
now hated him, and with a fell and ferocious ear- 
nestness that few bosoms but his could prove. 
Pale with rage, he ground his teeth, and watched 
her with a glance of sarcastic aversion. 

" You led me here to listen to a communication 
which interested me," he at length said ; " have I 
heard itl" 

His altered tone, the air of haughtiness which 
he assumed, were not lost upon Venetia. She 
endeavoured to collect herself, but she hesitated to 
reply. 

" I repeat my inquiry," said Cadurcis. ' Have 
you brought me here only to inform me that j'ou 
have a father, and that you adore him, or his pic- 
ture V 

" I led you here," replied Venetia, in a subdued 
tone, and looking on the ground, "to thank you 
for your love, and to confess to you that I love 
another." 

" Love another !" exclaimed Cadurcis in a tone 
of derision. " Simpleton ! The best thing your 
mother can do is to lock you up in the chamber 
with the picture that has produced such marvellous 
effects." 

" I am no simpleton, Plantagenet," rejoined Ve- 
netia, very quietly, " but one who is acting as she 
thinks right ; and not only as her mind, but as her 
heart, prompts her." 

They had stopped in the earlier part of this con- 
versation on a little plot of turf surrounded by 
shrubs ; Cadurcis walked up and down this area 
with angry steps, occasionally glancing at Venetia 
with a look of mortification and displeasure. 

" I tell you, Venetia," he at length said, " that 
you are a little fool. What do you mean by say- 
ing that you cannot marry me, because you love 
another? Is not that other, by your own account, 
your father 1 Love him as much as you like. Is 



VENETIA. 



753 



ftiat to prevent you from loving your husband 
also V 

" Plantagenet, you are rude, and unnecessarily 
so," said Venetia. " I repeat to you again, and 
for the last time, that all my heart is my father's. 
It would be wicked in me to marry you, because 
I cannot love j^ou as a husband should be loved. 
I can never love you as I love my father. How- 
ever, it is useless to talk upon this subject. I 
have not even the power of marrying you if I 
wished, for I have dedicated myself to my father 
in the name of God ; and I have offered a vow, to 
be registered in Heaven, that thenceforth I would 
exist only for the purpose of being restored to his 
heart." ^ 

" I congratulate you on your parent, Miss Her- 
bert." 

" I feel that I ought to be proud of him, though, 
alas ! I can only feel it. But, whatever your opi- 
nion may be of my father, I beg you to remember 
that you are speaking to his child." 

" I shall state my opinion respecting your father, 
madam, v>'ith the most perfect unreserve, wherever 
and whenever I choose; quite convinced that, 
however you esteem that opinion, it will not be 
widely dilfcrent from the real sentiments of the 
only parent whom you ought to respect, and whom 
you are bound to obey." 

" And I can tell, you, sir, that, whatever your 
opinion is on any subject, it will never influence 
mine. If, indeed, I were the mistress of my own 
destiny — which I am not — it would have been 
equally out of my power to have acted as you have 
so singularly proposed. I do not wish to marry, 
and marry I never will ; but were it in my power, 
or in accordance with my wish, to unite my fate 
for ever with another's, it should at least be with 
one to whom I could look up ■yvith reverence, and 
even with admiration. He sHould be at least a 
man, and a great man ; one with whose name the 
world rung ; perhaps, like my father, a genius and 
a poet." 

" A genius and a poet !" exclaimed Lord Cadur- 
cis, in a fury, stamping with passion ; " are these 
fit terms to use, when speaking of the most aban- 
doned profligate of his age 1 — A man whose name 
is synonymous with infamy, and which no one 
dares to breathe in civilised life ; — whose very 
blood is pollution, as you will some day feel ; — 
■who has violated every tie, and derided every prin- 
ciple, by which society is maintained ; — ^whose life 
is a living illustration of his own shameless doc- 
trines ; who is, at the same time, a traitor to his 
King and an apostate from his God !" 

Curiosity, overpowering even indign«.tion, had 
permitted Venetia to listen even to this tirade. 
Pale as her companion, but with a glance of with- 
ering scorn, she exclaimed, " Passionate and ill- 
mannered boy ! words cannot express the disgust 
and the contempt with which you inspire me." 
She spoke, and she disappeared. Cadurcis was 
neither able nor desirous to arrest her flight. He 
remained rooted to the ground, muttering to him- 
self the word " boy !" Suddenly raising his arm, 
and looking up to the sky, he exclaimed, " The 
illusion is vanished ! Farewell, Cherbury ! — fare- 
well, Cadurcis I a wider theatre awaits me ! I 
have been the slave too long of soft affections ! — 
I root them out of my heart for ever!" and, fitting 
the action to the phrase, it seemed tbat he hurled 
bpon tire earth all the tender emotions of his soul. 
03 



" Woman ! henceforth you shall be my sport ! I 
have novsr no feelings but for myself. When she 
spoke, I might have been a boy ; — I am a boy no 
longer. What I shall do I know not ; but this I 
know, the world shall ring with my name ; I will 
be a man, and a great man !" 



CHAPTER Vni. 

The agitation of Venetia on her return was not 
unnoticed by her mother ; but Lady Annabel 
ascribed it to a far ditferent cause than the real 
one. She was rather surprised when the break- 
fast passed, and Lord Cadurcis did not appear; 
somewhat perplexed when her daughter seized the 
earliest opportunity of retiring to her own cham- 
ber ; but, with that self-restraint of which she was 
so complete a mistress, Lady Annabel uttered no 
remark. 

Once more alone, Venetia could only repeat to 
herself the wild words that had burst from Planta- 
genet's lips in reference to her father. What 
could they mean 1 His morals might be misrepre- 
sented, his opinions might be misunderstood ; stu- 
pidity might not comprehend his doctrines — ma- 
lignity might torture them ; the purest sages have 
been accused of immorality — the most pious philo- 
sophers have been denounced as blasphemous ; 
but, " a traitor to his king" — that was a tangible, 
an intelligible proposition — one with which all 
might grapple — which could be easily disproved 
if false, scarcely propounded were it not true. 
"False to his king I" How false 1 Where? 
When 1 What mystery involved her life 1 Un- 
happy girl ! in vain she struggled with the over- 
whelming burden of her sorrows. Now she re- 
gretted that she had quarrelled with Cadurcis ; it 
was evident that he knew evei-y thing, and would 
have told her all. And then she blamed him for 
his harsh and unfeeling demeanour, and his total 
want of sympathy with ber cruel and perplexing 
situation. She had intended, she had struggled to 
be so kind to hiin ; she thought she had such a 
plain tale to tell, that he would have listened to it 
in considerate silence, and bowed to her necessary 
and inevitable decision without a murmur. Amid 
all these harassing emotions her mind tossed about 
like a ship without a rudder, until, in her despair, 
she almost resolved to confess every thing to her 
mother, and to request her to soothe and enlighten 
her agitated and confounded mind. But what 
hope was there of solace or information from such 
a quarter ? Lady Annabel's wns not a mind to be 
diverted from her purpose. Whatever might have 
been the conduct of her husband, 't was evident 
that Lady Annabel had traced out t course from 
which she had resolved not to depart. She remem- 
bered the earnest and repeated advice of Doctor 
Masham, that virtuous and intelligent man, who 
never advised any thing but for their benefit. How 
solemnly had he enjoined upon her never to speak 
to her mother upon the subject, unless she wished 
to produce misery and distress I And what could 
her mother tell her? Her father lived — he 
had abandoned her — he was looked upon as a cri- 
minal, and shunned by the society whose laws and 
prejudices he had alike outraged. Why should 
she revive, amid the comparative happiness and 
serenity in which her mother now lived, the bittei 



754 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



recollection of the almost intolerable misfortune of 
her existence 1 No ! Venetia was resolved to be 
a solitary victim. In spite of her passionate and 
romantic devotion to her father, she loved her mo- 
ther with perfect affection — the mother who had 
dedicated lier life to her child, and at least hoped 
she had spared her any share in their common un- 
happiness. And tliis father, whose image haunted 
her dreams — whose unknown voice seemed some- 
times to float to her quick ear upon the wind — 
could he be that abandoned being that CadurcL« 
nad described, and that all around her, and all tlie 
circumstances or her nie, wouia seem lo inaicate t 
Alas ! it might be truth ; alas ! it seemed like 
truth : and for one so lost, so utterly irredeemable, 
was she to murmur against that pure and benevo- 
lent parent who had cherished her with such de- 
votion, and snatched her perhaps from disgrace, 
dislronour, and despair ! 

And Cadurcis — would he return 1 With all 
his violence, the kind Cadurcis ! Never did she 
need a brother more than now ; and now he was 
absent, and she had parted with him in anger, deep, 
almost deadly : she, too, who had never before ut- 
tered a harsh word to a human being, who had 
been involved in only one quarrel in her life, and 
that almost unconsciously, and which had nearly 
broken her heart. She wept, bitterly she wept, 
tliis poor Venetia ! 

By one of those mental efforts which her 
strange lot often forced her to practise, Venetia 
at length composed herself, and returned to the 
room where she believed she would meet her mo- 
ther, and hoped she should see Cadurcis. He 
v/as not there ; but Lady Annabel was seated as 
calm and busied as usual ; the doctor had depart- 
ed. Even his presence would have proved a re- 
lief, however slight, to Venetia, who dreaded at 
this moment to be alone with her mother. She 
had no cause, however, for alarm ; Ijord Cadurcis 
never a})peared, and was absent even from dinner ; 
the day died away, and still he was wanting ; and 
at length Venetia bade her usual good night to 
Lady Annabel, and received her usual blessing 
and embrace, without his name having been even 
mentioned. 

Venetia passed a disturbed night, haunted by 
painful dreams, in which her father and Cadurcis 
were both mixed up, and with images of pain, 
confusion, disgrace, and misery ; but the morrow, 
at least, did not prolong her suspense ; for, just as 
she joined her mother at the breakfast. Mistress 
Pauncefort, who had been despatched on some do- 
mestic mission by her mistress, entered, with a 
face of wonder, and began as usual — " Only think, 
my lady ; well to be sure, w!io would have thought 
t ■? I am quite confident far my own part I was 
'^uite taken aback when I heard it ; and I could 
not have believed my ears, if John had not told 
me himself, and he had it from his lordship's own 
man." 

"Well, Pauncefort, what have you to say''" 
inquired Lady Annabel, vei^ calmly, 

" And never to send no note, my lady ; at least 
I have not seen one come up. That makes it so 
very strange." 

" Makes what, Pauncefort V 

" Why, my lady, doesn't your la'ship know his 
lordship left the abbey yesterday, and never said 
nothing to nobody ; rode off without a word, by 
j'our leave, or with your leave 1 To be sure, he 



always was the oddest young gentlemen as ever I 
met with ; and, as I said to John ; John, says I, I 
hope his lordship has not gone to join the gipsies 
again." 

Venetia looked into a teacup, and then touched 
an egg, and then twirled a spoon ; but Lady An- 
nabel seemed quite imperturbable, and only ob- 
served, " Probably his guardian is ill, and he has 
been suddenly summoned to town. I wish you 
would bring my knitting-needles, Pauncefort." 

The autumn passed, and Lord Cadurcis never 
returned to the abbe}', and never -wrote to any of 
his late companions. Lady Annabel never men- 
tioned his name ; and, although she seemed to 
have no other obj ect in life but the pleasure and 
happiness of her child, this strange mother never 
once consulted Venetia on the probable occasion 
of his sudden departure and his strange conduct. 



BOOK IV. 
CHAPTER L 

Party feeling perhaps never ran higher in 
England than during the period immediately sub- 
sequent to the expulsion of the Coalition Ministry. 
After the indefatigable faction of the American 
war, and the flagrant union with Lord North, the 
Whig party, and especially Charles Fox, then in 
the full vigour of his bold and ready mind, were 
stung to the quick that all their remorseless effort 
to obtain and preserve the government of the 
country, should terminate in the preferment, and 
apparent permanent power, of a mere boy. 

Next to Charles Fox, perhaps the most eminent 
and influential member of the Whig party was 
Lady Monteagle. The daughter of one of the 
oldest and most powerful Peers in the kingdom, 
possessing very lively talents and many fascinating 
accomplishments, the mistress of a great establish- 
ment, very beautiful, and although she had been 
married some years, still young, the celebrated 
wife of Lord Monteagle found herself the centre 
of a circle alike powerful, brilUant, and refined. 
She was the Muse of the Whig party, at whose 
shrine every man of wit and fashion was proud to 
offer his flattering incense ; and her house became 
not merely the favourite scene of their social plea- 
sures, but the sacred temple of their political rites : 
here many a manoeuvre was planned, and many a 
scheme suggested ; many a convert enrolled, and 
many a votary initiated. 

Reclining on a couch in a boudoir, which she 
was assured was the exact fac-simile of that of 
Marie Antoinette, Lady Monteagle, with an eye 
sparkling with excitement, and a cheek flushed 
with emotion, appeared deeply interested in a 
volume, from which she raised her head as her 
husband entered the room. 

" Gertrude, my love," said his lordship, I have 
asked the new bishop to dine with us to-day." 

" My dear Henry," replied her ladyship, " what 
could induce you to do any thing so strange V 

" I suppose I have made a mistake, as usual," 
said his lordship, shrugging his shoulders, with a 
smile. 

" My dear Henry, you know you may ask 
whomever you like to your house. I never find 
fault with what you do. But what could induc« 



VENETIA. 



756 



you io ask a Tory bishop to meet a dozen of our 
own people?" 

" 1 thought I had done wrong directly I had ask- 
ed him," rejoined his lordship ; " and yet he would 
not come if I had not made such a point of it. I 
think I will put him off." 

" No my love, that would be wrong ; you can- 
not do that." 

" I cannot think how it came into my head. 
The fact is, I lost my presence of mind. You 
know he was my tutor at Christchurch, when poor 
dear Herbert and I were such friends, and very 
kind he was to us both ; and so, the moment I 
saw him, I walked across the house, introduced 
myself, and asked him to dinner." 

" Well, never mind," said Lady Monteagle, 
smiling. " It is rather ridiculous ; but I hope no- 
thing will be said to offend him." 

" O ! do not be alarmed about that : he is 
quite a man of the world, and, although he has 
his opinions, not at all a partisan. I assure you 
poor dear Herbert loved him to the last, and, to 
this very moment, has the greatest respect and 
affection for him." 

" How very strange that not only your tutor, but 
Herbert's, should be a bishop," remarked the lady, 
smiling. 

" It is very strange," said his lordship, " and it 
only shows that it is quite useless in this world to 
lay plans or reckon on any thing. You know how 
it happened ?" 

" Not I, ifndeed ; I have never given a thought 
to the business ; I only remember being very vexed 
that that stupid old Bangerford should not have 
died when we were in office, and then, at any rate, 
we should have got another vote." 

" Well, you know," said his lordship, " dear old 
Masham, that is his name, was at Weymouth this 
year ; with whom do you think, of all people in 
the world V 

" How should I know ? Why should I think 
about it, Henry V 

" Why, with Herbert's wife." 

" What, that horrid woman !" 

" Yes, Lady Annabel." 

" And where was his daughter 1 Was she 
there?" 

" t)f course. She has grown up, and a most 
beautiful creature they say she is : exactly like 
her father." 

" Ah ! I shall always regret I never saw him," 
said her ladyship. 

" Well, the daughter is in bad health ; and so, 
after keeping her shut up all her life, the mother 
was obliged to take her to Weymouth ; and Ma- 
sham, who has a living in their neighbourhood, 
which, by-the-by, Herbert gave him, and is their 
chaplain and counsellor, and friend of the family, 
and all that sort of thing, though I really believe 
he has always acted for the best, he was with them. 
Well, the King took the greatest fancy to these 
Herberts ; and the Queen, too, quite singled them 
out ; and, in short, they were always with the 
royal family. It ended by his Majesty making 
Masham a chaplain ; and now he has made him a 
bishop." 

" Very droll, indeed," said her ladyship ; " and 
the drollest thing of all is, that he is now coming 
to dine here." 

" Have you seen Cadurcis to-day V said Lord 
Monteagle, 



" Of course," said her ladysip. 
" He dines here?" 

" To be sure. I am reading his new poem ; it 
will not be published till to-morrow." 
" Is it good 1" 

" Good ! What crude questions you do always 
ask, Henry !" exclaimed Lady Monteagle. "Good! 
Of course it is good. It is something better than 
good." 

" But I mean is it as good as his other things I 
Will it make as much noise as his last thing]" 

" Thing ! Now, Henry, you know very well 
that, if there be any thing I dislike in the world, it 
is calling a poem a thing." 

" Well, my dear, you know I am no judge of 
poetry. But, if you are pleased, I am quite con- 
tent. There is a knock. Some of your friends. 
I am off. I say, Gertrude, be kind to old Masham, 
that is a dear creature !" 

Her ladyship extended her hand, to which his 
lordship pressed his lips, and just effected his e* 
cape as the servant announced a visiter, in the 
person of Mr. Horace Pole. 

" ! my dear Mr. Pole, I am quite exhausted,'' 
said her ladyship ; " I am reading Cadurcis' new 
poem ; it will not be published till to-morrow, and 
it really has destroyed my nerves. I have got 
people to dinner to-day, and I am sure I shall not 
be able to encounter them." 

" Something outrageous, I suppose," said Mr. 
Pole with a sneer. " I wish Cadurcis would study 
Pope." 

" Study Pope ! My dear Mr. Pole, you have no 
imagination." 

" No, I have not, thank Heaven," drawled out 
Mr. Pole. 

" Well do not let us have a quarrel about Ca- 
durcis," said Monteagle. " All you men are 
jealous of him." 

" And some of you women, I think, too," said 
Mr. Pole. 

Lady Monteagle faintly smiled. 
" Poor Cadurcis !" she exclaimed ; " he has a 
very hard life of it. He complains bitterly that so 
many women are in love with him. But then 
he is such an interesting creature, what can he 
expect?" 

"Interesting!" exclaimed Mr. Pole. "Now I 
hold he is the most conceited, affected fellovsr, that 
I ever met," he continued with unusual energy. 

" Ah ! you men do not understand him," said 
Lady Monteagle, shaking her head. " You can- 
not," she added, with a look of pity. 

" I cannot, certainly," said Mr. Pole, " or his 
writings either. For ray part, I think the town 
has gone mad." 

" Well you must confess," said her ladyship, 
with a glance of triumph, " that it was very lucky 
for us that I made him a Whig." 

" I cannot agree with you at all on that head," 
said Mr. Pole. " We certainly are not very po- 
pular at this moment, and I feel convinced that a 
connexion with a person who attracts so much 
notice as Cadurcis unfortunately does at this mo- 
ment, and whose opinions on morals and religion 
must be so offensive to the vast majority of the 
English public, must ultimately prove any thing 
but advantageous to our party." 

" O ! my dear Mr. Pole," said her ladyship, in 
a tone of affected deprecation, " think what a go 
nius he is!" 



766 



D'lSRAELl'S MOVELS. 



" We have different ideas of genius, Lady Mont- 
eagle, I suspect," said her visiter. 

" You cannot deny," replied her ladyship, rising 
from her recumbent posture, v?ith some animation, 
" that he is a poet ]" 

" It is difficult to decide upon our contempora' 
ries," said Mr. Pole, dryly, 

" Charles Fox thinks he is the greatest poet 
that ever existed," said her ladyship, as if she were 
determined to settle the question. 

" Because he has written a lampoon on the royal 
family," rejoined Mr. Pole. 

" You are a very provoking person," said Lady 
Monteagle ; " but you do not provoke me ; do not 
flatter yourself you do." 

" That I feel to be an acliievement alike beyond 
my power and my ambition," replied Mr. Pole, 
slightly ])owing, but with a sneer. 

" Well, read this," said Lady Monteagle, " and 
then decide upon the merits of Cadurcis." 

Mr. Pole took the extended volume, but with no 
great willingness, and turned over a page or two, 
and read a passage here and there. 

" Much the same as his last effusion, I think," 
he obsei-ved, " as far as I can judge from so cursory 
a review. Exaggerated passion, bombastic lan- 
guage, egotism to excess, and which, perhaps, is 
the only portion that is genuine, mixed with com- 
mon-place scepticism, and impossible morals, and 
a sort of vague dreamy philosophy, which, if it 
mean any thing, means atheism, borrowed from 
his idol, Herbert, and which he himself evidently 
does not comprehend." 

" Monster !" exclaimed Lady Monteagle, with 
a mock assumption of indignation, " and you are 
going to dine with him here to day. You do not 
deserve it." 

" It is a reward which is unfortunately too often 
obtained by me," replied Mr. Pole. " One of the 
most annoying consequences of your friend's po- 
pularity. Lady Monteagle, is that there is not a 
dinner party where one can escape him. I met 
him yesterday at Fanshawe's. He amused him- 
self by eating only biscuits, and calling for soda 
water, while we quaffed our Burgundy. How 
very original ! What a thing it is to be a great 
poet!" 

" Perverse, provoking mortal !" exclaimed Lady 
Monteagle. " And on what should a poet live! On 
coarse food, like you coarse mortals ! Cadurcis is 
alu spirit, and in my opinion his diet only makes 
him more interesting." 

" I understand," said Mr. Pole, " that he cannot 
endure a woman to eat at all. But you are all 
spirit, Lady Monteagle, and therefore of course 
are not in the least inconvenienced. By-the-by, 
do you mean to give us any of those charming 
little suppers this season 1" 

" I shall not invite you," replied her ladyship ; 
" none but admirers of Lord Cadurcis enter this 
house." 

" Your menace effects my instant conversion," 
replied Mr. Pole. " I will admire him as much as 
you desire only do not insist upon my reading his 
works." 

" I have not the slightest doubt you know them 
by heart," rejoined her ladyship. 

Mr. Pole smiled, bowed and disappeared ; and 
Lady Monteagle sat down to write a billet to Lord 
Cadurcis, to entreat him to be with her at five 
o'clock, wluch was at least half an hour before the 



other guests were expected. The Monteagles were 
considered to dine ridiculously late. 



CHAPTER IL 

The readers of this work will infer, from the 
preceding chapter, that a very considerable change 
had occurred in the lives and situations of all, and 
the views and opinions also of some, of those indi- 
viduals in whose conduct and destiny it has 
hitherto been the attempt of the writer to interest 
them. The time likewise has arrived when they 
should perhaps be formally and particularly ap- 
prised of those passages in the early lives of the 
parents of our heroine involved in our preceding 
volume in so much mystery ; a mysteiy, however, 
which has been gradually clearing away. They 
should learn, therefore, that Marmion Herbert, 
sprung from one of the most illustrious families in 
England, became at a very early age the inheritor 
of a great estate, to which however he did not 
succeed with the prejudices or opinions usually 
imbibed or professed by the class to which he 
belonged. While yet a boy, Marmion Herbert 
afforded many indications of possessing a mind 
alike visionary and inquisitive, and both — although 
not in an equal degree — sceptical and creative. 
Nature had gifted him with very precocious talents ; 
and with a temperament essentially poetic, he was 
nevertheless a great student. His early reading, 
originally by accident, and afterwards by an irre- 
sistible inclination, — had fallen among the works 
of the English free-thinkers, — with all their errors, 
a profound and vigorous race, and much superior 
to the French philosophers, who were, after all, 
only their pupils and their imitators. While his 
juvenile studies, and in some degree the predispo- 
sition of his mind, had thus prepared him to doubt, 
and finally to challenge, the propriety of all that 
was established and received, the poetical and 
stronger bias of his mind enabled him quickly to 
supply the place of eveiy thing he would remove 
and destroy ; and far from being the victim of 
those frigid and indifferent feelings which must 
ever be the portion of the mere doubter, Herbert, 
on the contrary, looked forward with ardent and 
sanguine enthusiasm to a glorious and ameliorat- 
ing future, which should amply compensate and 
console a misguided and unhappy race for the 
miserable past and the painful and dreary present. 
To those therefore who could not sympathise with 
his views, it will be seen that Herbert, in attempt- 
ing to fulfd them, became not merely passively 
noxious from his example, but actively mischievous 
from his exertions. A mere sceptic, he would havo 
been perhaps merely pitied ; a sceptic with a pe- ■ 
culiar faith of his own, which he was resolved to 
promulgate, Herbert became odious. A solitary 
votary of obnoxious opinions, Herbert would have 
been looked upon only as a madman ; but the 
moment he attempted to make proselytes, he rose 
into a conspirator against society. 

Young, irresistibly prepossessing in his appear 
ance, with great eloquence, crude but considerable 
knowledge, an ardent imagination and a subtle 
mind, and a generous and passionate soul, — under 
any circumstances he must have obtained and 
exercised influence, even if his Creator had not 



VENETIA 



-^57 



also bestowed upon him a spirit of indomitable 
courage : but these great gifts of nature being 
aonibincd with accidents of fortune scarcely less 
qualified to move mankind, — high rank, vast 
wealth, and a name of traditionary glory, — it will 
not be esteemed surprising that Marmion Herbert, 
at a very early period, should have attracted around 
him many enthusiastic disciples. 

At Christchurch, whither he repaired at an unu- 
sually early age, his tutor was Dr. Mashain ; and 
the profound respect and singular alfection with 
which that able, learned, and amiable man early 
inspired his pupil, for a time controlled the spirit 
of Herbert ; or rather confined its workings to so 
limited a sphere, that the results were neither dan- 
gerous to society nor himself. Perfectly compre- 
hending and appreciating the genius of the youth 
intrusted to his charge, deeply interested in his 
spiritual as well as worldly welfare, and strongly 
impressed with the importance of enlisting his 
pupil's energies in favour of that existing order, 
both moral and religious, in the truth and indis- 
pensableness of which he was a sincere believer. 
Dr. Masham omitted no opportunity of combating 
the heresies of the young inquirer ; and as the tu- 
tor, equally by talent, experience, and learning, 
was a competent champion of the great cause to 
which he was devoted, his zeal and ability for a 
time checked the developcment of those opinions 
of which he witnessed the menacing influence over 
Herbert with so much fear and anxiety. The col- 
lege life of Marmion Herbert therefore passed in 
ceaseless controversy with his tutor ; and as he 
possessed, among many other noble qualities, a 
high and piiilosophic sense of justice, he did not 
consider himself authorised, while a doubt remain- 
ed on his own mind, actively to promulgate those 
opinions, of the propriety and necessity of which 
he scarcely ever ceased to be persuaded. To this 
cause it must be mainly attributed that Herbert 
was not expelled the university ; for had he pur- 
sued there the course of which his cruder career 
at Eton had given promise, there can be little 
doubt that some flagrant outrage of the opinions 
held sacred in that great seat of orthodoxy would 
have quickly removed him from the salutary sphere 
of their control. 

Herbert quitted Oxford in his nineteenth year, 
yet inferior to few that he left there, even among 
the most eminent, in classical attainments, and, 
with a mind naturally profound, practised in all 
the arts of ratiocination. His general knowledge 
also was considerable, and he was a proficient in 
those scientific pursuits which were then rare. 
Notwithstanding his great fortune and position, 
his departure from the university was not a signal 
with him for that abandonment to the world, and 
that unbounded self-enjoyment, naturally so tempt- 
ing to youth. On the contrary, Herbert shut him- 
self up in his magnificent castle, devoted to solitude 
and study. In his splendid library he consulted 
the sages of ajitiquity, and conferred with them on 
the nature of existence, and of the social duties ; 
while in his laboratory or his dissecting-room he 
occasionally flattered himself he might discover 
the great secret which had perplexed generations. 
The consequence of a year passed in this severe 
discipline and during which he scarcely allowed 
time even for the necessaries of life, was unfortu- 
nately a complete recurrence to those opinions 
tliat he had early imbibed, and which now seemed 



fixed in his conviction beyond the hope or chance 
of again faltering. In politics a violent republican., 
and an advocate — certainly a disinterested one — 
of a com[)lete equality of property and conditions, 
utterly objecting to the very foundation of our 
moral system, and especially a strenuous antago- 
nist of marriage, which he taught himself to esteem 
not only as a most unnatural tie, but as eminently 
unjust towards that softer sex, who had been so 
long the victims of man ; discarding as a mockery 
the received revelation of the divine will ; and, if 
no longer an atheist, substituting merely for such 
an outrageous dogma a subtle and shadowy Pla- 
tonism ; doctrines, however, which Herbert at 
least had acquired by a profound study of the 
works of their great founder ; the pupil of Dr. Ma- 
sham at length deemed himself qualified to enter 
that world which he was resolved to regenerate ; 
prepared for persecution, and steeled even to mar- 
tyrdom. 

But while the doctrines of the philosopher had 
been forming, the spirit of the poet had not been 
inactive. Loneliness — after all, the best of Muses 
— had stimulated the creative faculty of his being. 
Wandering amid his solitary woods and glades at 
all hours and seasons, the wild and beautiful appa- 
ritions of nature had appealed to a sympathetic 
soul. The stars and winds, the pensive sunset and 
the sanguine break of morn, the sweet solemnity 
of night, the ancient trees and the light and eva- 
nescent flowers, — all signs and sights and sounds 
of loveliness and power, — fell on a ready eye and 
a responsive ear. Gazing on the beautiful, he 
longed to create it. Then it was that the two 
passions, which seemed to share the being of Her- 
bert, appeared simultaneously to assert their sway, 
and he resolved to call in his Muse to the assist- 
ance of his philosophy. 

Herbert celebrated that fond world of his imagi- 
naiton, which he wished to teach men to love. In 
stanzas glittering with the most refined images, 
and resonant with the most subtle symphony, he 
called into creation that society of immaculate 
purity and unbounded enjoyment, which he be- 
lieved was the natural inheritance of unshackled 
man. In the hero he pictured a philosopher, young 
and gifted as himself: in the heroine, his idea of 
a perfect woman. Although all those peculiar 
doctrines of Herbert, — which, undisguised, must 
have excited so much odium, — were more or less 
developed and inculcated in this work ; neverthe- 
less they were necessarily so veiled by the highly 
spiritual and metaphorical language of the poet, 
that it required some previous acquaintance with 
the system enforced, to be able to detect and recog- 
nise the esoteric spirit of his Muse. The public 
read only the history of an ideal world, and of 
creatures of exquisite beauty, told in language that 
alike dazzled their fancy and captivated their ear. 
They were lost in a delicious maze of metaphor 
and music, and were proud to acknowledge an 
addition to the glorious catalogue of their poets 
in a young and interestmg member of their aris- 
tocracy. 

In the mean while Herbert entered that great 
world that had long expected him, and hailed his 
; advent with triumph. How long might have 
' elapsed before they were roused by the conduct of 
Herbert to the error under which they were labour- 
I ing as to his character, it is not difficult to conjee - 
i ture ; but before he could commence those philan 

3 S 



758 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



tliropic exertions which apparently absorbed him, 
he encountered an individual who most uncon- 
sciously put his philosophy not merely to the test, 
but partially even to the rout ; and this was Lady 
Annabel Sydney. Almost as new to the world as 
himself, and not less admired, her unrivalled beauty, 
her unusual accomplishments, and her pure and 
dignified mind, — combined, it must be confessed, 
with the most flattering admiration of his genius, — 
entirely captivated the philosophical antagonist of 
marriage. It is not surprising that Marmion Her- 
bert — scarcely of age, and with a heart of extreme 
susceptibility — resolved, after a struggle, to be the 
first exception to his system, and, as he faintly 
flattered himself, the last victim of prejudice. He 
wooed and won the Lady Annabel. 

The marriage ceremony was performed by Doc- 
tor Masham, who had read his pupil's poem, and 
had been a little frightened by its indications ; but 
this happy union had dissipated all his fears. He 
would not believe in any other than a future career 
for him alike honourable and happy ; and he trust- 
ed that, if any wild thoughts still lingered in Her- 
bert's mind, they would clear ofl' by the same lite- 
rary process ; so that the utmost ill consequences 
of his immature opinions might be an occasional 
line that the wise would have liked to blot, and 
yet which the unlettered might scarcely be compe- 
tent to comprehend. Mr. and Lady Annabel Her- 
bert departed after the ceremony to his castle, and 
Doctor Masham to Marringhurst, a valuable living 
in another county, to which his pupil had just 
presented him. 

Some months after this memorable event, ru- 
mours reached the ear of the good doctor that all 
was not as satisfactory as he could desire in that 
establishment, in the welfare of which he naturally 
took so lively an interest. Herbert was in the 
habit of corresponding with the rector of MaiTing- 
hurst, and his first letters were full of details as to 
his happy life and his perfect content ; but, gra- 
dually, these details had been considerably abridged, 
and the correspondence assumed chiefly a literary 
or philosophical character. Lady Annabel, how- 
ever, was always mentioned with regard, and an 
intimation had been duly given to the doctor that 
she was in a delicate and pronrising situation, and 
that they were both alike anxious that he should 
christen their child. It did not seem very sur- 
prising to the good doctor, who was a man of the 
world, that a husband, six months after marriage, 
should not si)eak of the memorable event with all 
the fulness and fondness of the honeymoon ; and, 
being one of those happy tempers that always an- 
ticipate the best, he dismissed from his mind, as 
vain gossip and idle exaggerations, the ominous 
whispers that occasionally reached him. 

Immediately after the Christmas ensuing his 
marriage, the Herberts returned to London, and 
the doctor, who happened to be a short time in 
the metropolis, paid them a visit. His observa- 
tions were far from unsatisfactory ; it was certainly 
too evident that Marmion was no longer in love 
with Lady Annabel, but he treated her apparently 
with courtesy, and even cordiality. The presence 
of Dr. Masham, tended, perhaps, a little to revive 
old feelings, for he was as much a favourite with 
the wife as with the husband ; but, on the whole, 
the doctor quitted them with an easy heart, and 
sanguine that the interesting and impending event 
would, in all probability, revive affection on the 



part of Herbert, or at least afford Lady Annabel 
the only substitute for a husband's heart. 

In due time the doctor heard from Herbert that 
his wife had gone down into the country to lie-in ; 
bul was sorry to observe that Herbert did not ac- 
company her. Even this disagreeable impression 
was removed by a letter, shortly after received from 
Herbert, dated from the castle, and written in high 
spirits, informing him that Lady Annabel had 
been safely delivered of the most beautiful little 
girl in the world. During the ensuing three 
months Mr. Herbert, though he resumed his resi- 
dence in London, paid frequent visits to the castle, 
where Lady Annabel remained ; and his occasional 
correspondence, though couched in a careless vein, 
still, on the whole, indicated a cheerful spirit; 
though ever and anon were sarcastic observations 
as to the felicity of the married state, which, he 
said, was an undoubted blessing, as it kept a man 
out of all scrapes, though unfortunately under the 
penalty of total idleness and inutility in life. On 
the whole, however, the reader may judge of the 
astonishment of Dr. Masham when, in common 
with the world, very shortly after the receipt of 
this letter — Mr. Herbert having previously pro- 
ceeded to London, and awaiting, as was said, 
the daily arrival of his wife and child — his for 
mer tutor learned lliat Lady Annabel, accompa- 
nied only by Paunccfort and Venetia, had sought 
her father's roof; declaring that circumstances 
had occurred which rendered it quite impossible 
that she could live with Mr. Herbert any longer, 
and entreating his succour and parental protec- 
tion. 

Never was such a hubbub in the world ! In 
vain Herbert claimed his wife, and expressed his 
astonishment ; declaring that he had parted from 
her with the expression of perfect kind feeling on 
both sides. No answer was given to his letter, 
and no explanation of any kind conceded him. 
The world universally declared Lady Annabel an 
injured woman, and trusted that she would even- 
tually have the good sense and kindness to gratify 
them by revealing the mysteiy ; while Herbert, on 
the contrary, was universally abused and shunned, 
— avoided by his acquaintances, and denounced as 
the most depraved of men. 

In this extraordinary state of affairs Herbert 
acted in a manner the best calculated to secure his 
happiness, and the very worst to preserve his cha- 
racter. Having ostentatiously shown himself in 
every public place, and courted notice and inquiry 
by every means in his power, to prove that he was 
not anxious to conceal himself or avoid any in- 
quiry, he left the country, free at last to pursue 
that career to which he had always aspired, and 
in which he had been checked by a blunder, from 
the consequences of which he little expected that 
he should so speedily and strangely emancipate 
himself. It was in a beautiful villa on the lake of 
Geneva that he finally established himself, and 
there for many years he employed himself in the 
publication of a series of works, which whether 
they were poetry or prose, imaginative or investi- 
gative, all tended to the same consistent purpose, 
namely, the fearless and unqualified promulgation 
of those opinions, on the adoption of which he 
sincerely believed the happiness of mankind de- 
pended ; and the opposite principles to which, in 
his own case, had been productive of so much 
mortification and misery. His works, which wera 



VENETIA. 



759 



published in England, were little read, and uni- 
versally decried. The critics were always hard at 
work, proving that he was no poet, and demon- 
strating in the most logical manner that he was 
quite incapable of reasoning on the commonest 
topic. In addition to all this, his ignorance was 
self-evident ; and though he was very fond of 
quoting Greek, they doubted whether he was ca- 
pable of reading the original authors. The general 
impression of the English public, after the lapse 
of some years, was, that Herbert was an abandoned 
being, of the most profligate habits, opposed to all 
the institutions of society that kept his infamy in 
check, and an avowed atheist ; and as scarcely any 
one but a sympathetic spirit ever read a line he 
Wrote — for indeed the very sight of his works was 
pollution — it is not very wonderful that this opi- 
nion was so generally prevalent. A calm inquirer 
might, perhaps, have suspected that abandoned 
profligacy is not very compatible with severe study, 
and that an author is seldom loose in »Js life, even 
if he be licentious in his wi;' tings. A calm inqui- 
rer might, perhaps, have been of opinion that a 
solitary sage may be the antagonist of a priesthood, 
without absolutely denying the existence of a God ; 
but there never are calm inquirers. The world, 
on every subject, however unequally, is divided 
into parties ; and even in the case of Herbert and 
his writings, those who admired his genius, and 
the generosity of his soul, were not content with- 
eut advocating, principally out of pique to his ad- 
versaries, his extreme opinions on every subject — 
moral, political, and religious. 

Besides, it must be confessed, there was another 
circumstance which was almost as fatal to Her- 
bert's character in England as his loose and hereti- 
cal opinions. The travelling English, during their 
visits to Geneva, found out that their countryman 
solaced or enlivened his solitude by a mistress. It 
is a habit which very young men, who are sepa- 
rated from, or deserted by, their wives, occasionally 
have recourse to. Wrong no doubt, as most things 
are, but it is to be hoped, venial ; at least in the 
case of any man who is not also an atheist. This 
unibrtuirate mistress of Herbert was magnified 
into a seraglio ; the most extraordinary tales of the 
voluptuous life of one who generally at his studies 
outwatched the stars, were rife in English society ; 
and 

" Hoary Marquisses and stripling Dukes," 

who were either protecting opera dancers, or, still 
worse, making love to their neighbours' wives, 
either looked grave when the name of Herbert was 
mentioned in female society, or affectedly confused, 
as if they could a tale unfold, if they were not 
convinced that the sense of propriety among all 
present was mfinitely superior to their sense of cu- 
riosity. 

The only person to whom Herbert communi- 
cated in England was Dr. Masham. He wrote to 
him immediately on his establishment at Geneva, 
in a calm, yet sincere and serious tone, as if it 
were useless to dwell too fully on the past. Yet 
he declared, although now that it was all over he 
avowed his joy at the interposition of his destiny, 
and the opportunity which he at length possessed 
of pursuing the career for which he was adapted, 
that he had to his knowledge given his wife no 
eause of offence which could authorise her conduct. 
As for his daughter, he said he should not be so 



cruel as to tear her from her mother's breast 
though, if any thing could induce him to such 
behaviour, it would be the malignant and ungene- 
rous menace of his wife's relatives, that the}' would 
oppose his preferred claim to the guardianship of 
his child, on the plea of his immoral life and athe- 
istical opinions. With reference to pecuniary 
arrangements, as his chief seat was entailed on 
male heirs, he proposed that his wife should take 
up her abode at Cherbury, an estate which had 
been settled on her and her children at her mar- 
riage, and which, therefore, would descend to Ve- 
netia. Finally, he expressed his satisfaction that 
the neighbourhood of Marringhurst would permit 
his good and still faithful friend to cultivate the 
society and guard over the welfare of his wife and 
daughter. 

During the first ten year's of Herbert's exile, for 
such indeed it might be considered, the doctor 
maintained with him a rare, yet regular corres- 
pondence ; but after that time a public event occur- 
red, and a revolution took place in Herbert's life 
which terminated all communication between 
them ; a termination occasioned, however, by such 
a simultaneous conviction of its absolute necessity, 
that it was not attended by any of those painful 
communications which are too often the harrow- 
ing foreruimers of a formal disruption of ancient 
ties. 

This event was the revolt of the American colo- 
nies ; and this revolution in Herbert's career, his 
junction with the rebels against his native coun- 
try. Doubtless it was not without a struggle, 
perhaps a pang, that Herbert resolved upon a line 
of conduct, to which it must assuredly have re- 
quired the strongest throb of his cosmopolitan 
sympathy, and his amplest definition of philanthro- 
py to have impelled him. But without any vin- 
dictive feelings towards England, for he ever pro- 
fessed and exercised charity towards his enemies, 
attributing their conduct entirely to their ignorance 
and prejudice, upon this step he nevertheless felt 
it his duty to decide. There seemed in the open- 
ing prospects of America, in a world still new, 
which had borrowed from the old as it were only 
so much civilisation as was necessary to create and 
maintain order ; there seemed in the circumstances 
of its boundless teiTitoiy, and the total absence of 
feudal institutions and prejudices, so fair a field for 
the practical introduction of those regenerating 
principles to which Herbert had devoted all tlie 
thought and labour of his life, tha,t he resolved, 
after long and perhaps painful meditation, to sacri- 
fice every feeling and future interest to its fulfil- 
ment. All idea of ever returning to his native 
country, even, were it only to mix his ashes with 
the generations of his ancestors ; all hope of recon- 
ciliation with his wife, or of pressing to his heart 
that daughter, often present to his tender fancy, 
and to whose affections he had feelingly appealed 
in an out-burst of passionate poetry — all these 
chances, chances which, in spite of his philosophy, 
had yet a lingering charm, must be discarded for 
ever. They were discarded. Assigning his estate 
to his heir upon conditions, in order to prevent its 
forfeiture, with such resources as he could com 
mand, and which were considerable, Marmion 
Herbert arrived at Boston, where his rank, his 
wealth, his distmguished name, his great talents, 
and his undoubted zeal for the cause of liberty, 
procured him an eminent and gratifying reception 



760 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



He offered to raise a regiment for the republic, and 
the offer was accepted ; and he w^s enrolled among 
the citizens. All this occurred about the time that 
the Cadurcis' family first settled at the abbey, and 
this narrative will probably throw light upon seve- 
ral slight incidents which heretofore may have at- 
tracted the perplexed attention of the reader : such 
as the newspaper brought by Dr. Masham at the 
Christmas visit ; the tears shed at a subsequent 
period at Marringhurst, when he related to her the 
last intelligence that had been received from Ame- 
rica. For, indeed, it is impossible to express the 
misery and mortification which this last conduct 
of her husband occasioned Lady Annabel, brought 
up, as she had been, with feelings of romantic loyal- 
ty and unswerving patriotism. To be a traitor 
seemed the only blot that remained for his sullied 
scutcheon, and she had never dreamed of that. An 
infidel, a profligate, a deserter from his home, an 
apostate from his God ! one infamy alone remained, 
and now he had attained it; — a traitor to his 
King ! Why, every peasant would despise him I 
General Herbert, however, for such he speedily 
became, at the head of his division, soon arrested the 
attention, and commanded the respect, of Europe. 
To his exerticvis the successful result of the strug- 
gle was, in a great measure, attributed ; and he 
received the thanks of the Congress, of which he 
became a member. His military and political re- 
putation exercised a beneficial influence upon his 
literary fame. His works were reprinted in America, 
and translated into French, and published at Ge- 
neva and Basle, whence they were surreptitiously 
introduced into France. The Whigs, who had 
become very factious, and nearly revolutionary, 
during the American war, suddenly became proud 
of their countryman, whom a new world hailed as 
a deliverer, and Paris declared to be a great poet 
and an illustrious philosopher. His writings be- 
came fashionable, especially among the young ; 
numerous editions of them appeared ; and in time 
it was discovered that Herbert was now not only 
openly read, and enthusiastically admired, but had 
founded a school. 

The struggle with America ceased about the 
time of Lord Cadurcis' last visit to Cherbury, 
when from his indignant lips Venctia first learned 
the enormities of her father's career. Since that 
period some three years had elapsed until we in- 
troduced our readers to the boudoir of Lady Mont- 
eagle. During this period, among the Whigs and 
their partisans the literary fame of Herbert had 
arisen and become established. How they have 
passed in regard to Lady Annabel Herbert and 
her daughter, on the one hand, and Lord Cadurcis 
himself on the other, we will endeavour to ascer- 
tain in the following chapter. 



CHAPTER m. 

From the last departure of Lord Cadurcis from 
Cherbury, the health of Venetia again declined. 
The truth is, she brooded in solitude over her 
strange lot, until her nerves became relaxed by 
intense revery and suppressed feeling. The atten- 
tion of a mother, so wrapped up in her child as 
Lady Annabel, was soon attracted to the increasing 
languor of our heroine, whose eye each day seemed 
tc grow less bright, and her graceful form less lithe 



and active. No longer fond of the sun and breeze, 
as a beautiful bird, was Venetia seen, as hereto- 
fore, glancing in the garden, or bounding over the 
lawns ; too often might she be found reclining on 
the couch, in spite of all the temptations of the 
spring ; while her temper, once so singularly sweet, 
that it seemed there was not in the world a word 
that could ruffle it, and which required so keenly 
and responded so quickly to sympathy, became re- 
served, if not absolutely sullen, or at times even 
captious and fretful. 

This change in the appearance and demeanouf 
of her daughter filled Lady Annabel with anxiety 
and alarm. In vain she expressed to Venetia her 
conviction of her indisposition ; but Venetia, 
though her altered habits confirmed the suspicion, 
and authorised the inquiry of her parent, persisted 
ever in asserting that she had no ailment. Her 
old medical attendant was, however, consulted, 
and, being perplexed with the case, he recom- 
mended change of air. Lady Annabel then con- 
sulted Dr. Masham, and he gave his opinion in 
favour of change of air for one reason ; and that 
was, that it would bring with it what he had long 
considered Venetia to stand in need of, and that 
was change of life. 

Dr. Masham was right ; but then to guide him 
in forming his judgment, he had the advantage of 
some psychological knowledge of the case, which, 
in a great degree, was a sealed book to the poor 
puzzled physician. We laugh very often at the 
errors of medical men; but if we would only, 
when we consult then, have strength of mind 
enough to extend to them something better than a 
half-confidence, we might be cured the sooner. How 
often, when the unhappy disciple of Esculapius is 
perplexing himself about the state of our bodies, 
we might throw light upon his obscure labours by 
simply detailing to him the state of our minds ! 

The result of these consultations in the Her 
bert family was a final resolution on the part of 
Lady Annabel, to quit Cherbury for a while. As 
the sea air was especially recommended to Venetia, 
and as Lady Annabel shrank with a morbid ap- 
prehension from society, to which nothing could 
persuade her she was not an object either of odium 
or impertinent curiosity, she finally resolved to visit 
Weymouth, then a very small and secluded wa- 
tering-place, and whither she arrived and settled 
herself, it not being even the season when its 
few customary visiters were in the habit of gather- 
ing. 

This residence at Weymouth quite repaid Lady 
Annabel for all the trouble of her new settlement, 
and for the change in her life, very painful to her 
confirmed habits, which she experienced in leaving, 
for the first time for such a long series of years, 
her old hall; for the rose soon returned to the 
cheek of her daughter, and the western breezes, 
joined with the influence of the new objects that 
surrounded her, and especially of that ocean, and 
its strange and inexhaustible variety, on which she 
gazed for the first time, gradually, but surely, com- 
pleted the restoration of Venetia to health, and 
with it to much of her old vivacity. 

When Lady Annabel had resided about a year 
at Weymouth, in the society of which she had in- 
variably made the indisposition of Venetia a reason 
for not entering, a great revolution suddenly oc- 
curred a this little quiet watering-place ; for it was 
fixed upon as the summer residence of the English 



VENETIA. 



761 



court. The celebrated name, the distinguished ap- 
pearance, and the sechided habits of Lady Anna- 
bel and her daughter, had rendered them the ob- 
jects of veiy general interest. Occasionally they 
were met in a sea-side walk, by some fellow wan- 
derer over the sands, or toiler over the shingles ; 
and romantic reports of the dignity of the mo- 
ther, and the daughter's beauty, were repeated by 
the fortunate observers to the lounging circle of 
the public library or the baths. 

The moment that Lady Annabel was assured 
that the royal family had positively fixed upon 
Weymouth for their residence, and were even 
daily expected, she resolved instantly to retire. 
Her stern sense of duty assured her that it was 
neither delicate nor loyal to obtrude before the 
presence of an outraged monarch the wife and 
daughter of a traitor; her haughty, though 
■wounded spirit shrank from the revival of her 
husband's history, which must be the consequence 
of such a conjunction, and from the startling and 
painful remarks which might reach the shrouded 
ear of her daughter. With her characteristic de- 
cision, and with her usual stern volition. Lady 
Annabel quitted Weymouth instantly, but she was 
in some degree consoled for the regret and appre- 
hensiveness which she felt at thus leaving a place 
that had otherwise so happily fulfilled all her 
hopes and wishes, and that seemed to agree so en- 
tirely with Venetia, by finding unexpectedly a ma- 
rine villa, some few miles further up the coast, 
which was untenanted, and which offered to Lady 
Annabel all the accommodation she could desire. 

It so happened this summer that Dr.' Masham 
paid the Herberts a visit, and it was his habit occa- 
sionally to ride into Weymouth to read the news- 
paper, or pass an hour in that easy lounging chat, 
which is, perhaps, one of the principal diversions 
of a watering-place. A great dignitary of the 
church, who was about the king, and to whom 
Dr. Masham was known not merely by reputa- 
tion, mentioned his presence to his majesty ; and 
the king, who was fond of the society of eminent 
divines, desired that Dr. Masham should be pre- 
sented to him. Now, so favourable was the im- 
pression that the rector of Marringhurst made upon 
his sovereign, that from that moment the king was 
scarcely ever content unless he was in attendance. 
His majesty, who was happy in asking questions, 
and much too acute to be baffled when he sought 
information, finally elicited from the doctor, all 
that, in order to please Lady Annabel, he long 
struggled to conceal ; but when the king found 
that the deserted wife and daughter of Herbert 
were really living in the neighbourhood, and that 
they had quitted Weymouth on his arrival, from a 
feeling of delicate loyalty, nothing would satisfy 
the kind-hearted monarch, but personally assuring 
them of the interest he took in their v^'elfare ; and, 
accordingly, the next day, without giving Lady 
Annabel even the preparation of a notice, his ma- 
jesty and his royal consort, attended only -by a 
lord in waiting, called at the marine villa, and 
fairly introduced themselves. 

An acquaintance, occasioned by a sentiment of 
generous and condescending sympathy, was estab- 
lished and strengthened into intimacy, by the per- 
sonal qualities of those thus delicately honoured. 
The King and Queen were equally delighted with 
the wife and daughter of the terrible rebel ; and 
although, of course, not an allusion was made to 
96 



his existence. Lady Annabel felt not the lesa 
acutely the cause to which she was indebted for 
a notice so gratifying, but which she afterwards 
ensured by her own merits. How strange are the 
accidents of life ! Venetia Herbert, who had been 
bred up in unbroken solitude, and whose converse 
had been confined to two or three beings, suddenly 
found herself the guest of a King, and a visiter to 
a court ! She stepped at once from solitude into 
the most august circle of society ; yet, though she 
had enjoyed none of that initiatory experience 
which is usually held so indispensable to the vota- 
ries of fashion, her happy nature qualified her 
to play her part without effort and with success. 
Serene and graceful, she mingled in the strange 
and novel scene, as if it had been forever her lot 
to dazzle and to charm. Ere the royal family re- 
turned to London, they extracted from Lady Anna- 
bel a compliance with their earnest wishes, that 
she should fix her residence, during the ensuing 
season, in the metropolis, and that she should her- 
self present Venetia at St. James's. The wishes 
of kings are commands ; and Lady Annabel, who 
thus unexpectedly perceived some of the most 
painful anticipations of her solitude at once dissi- 
pated, and that her child, instead of being subject- 
ed, on her entrance into life, to all the mortifica- 
tions she had imagined, would, on the contrary, 
find her first introduction under auspices the most 
flattering and advantageous, bowed a dutiful assent 
to the condescending injunctions. 

Such were the memorable consequences of this 
visit to Weymouth ! The return of Lady Anna- 
bel to the world, and her intei^dcd residence in the 
metropolis, while the good Masham preceded their 
arrival to receive a mitre. Strange events, and 
yet not improbable ! 

In the mean time. Lord Cadurcis had repaired 
to the university, where his rank and his eccentric 
qualities quickly gathered round him a choice 
circle of intimates, chiefly culled from his old 
schoolfellows. Of these, the great majority were 
his seniors, for whose society the maturity of his 
mind qualified him. It so happened that these 
companions were in general influenced by those 
liberal opinions which had become in vogue during 
the American war, and from which Lord Cadurcis 
had hitherto been preserved by the society in which 
he had previously mingled in the house of his 
guardian. With the characteristic caprice and 
impetuosity of youth, Cadurcis rapidly and ardently 
imbibed all these doctrines, captivated alike by 
their boldness and their novelty. Hitherto the 
child of prejudice, he flattered himself that he was 
now the creature of i-eason, and, determined to take 
nothing for granted^ he soon learned to question 
every thing that was received. A friend intro- 
duced him to the writings of Herbert, — that very 
Herbert whom he had been taught to look upon 
with so much terror and odium. Their perusal 
operated a complete revolution of his mind ; and 
in a little more than a year from his flight from 
Cherbury, he had become an enthusiastic votary 
of the great master, for his violent abuse of whom 
he had been banished from those happy bowers. 
The courage, the boldness, the eloquence, the 
imagination, the strange and romantic career of 
Herbert, carried the spirit of Cadurcis captive. 
The sympathetic companions studied his works., 
and smiled with scorn at the prejudice of which 
their great model had been the victim, and dC 

3s2 



763 



D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS. 



which they had heen so long the dupes. As for 
Cadurcis, he resolved to emulate him, and he com- 
menced his noble rivalship by a systematic neglect 
of all the duties and the studies of his college hfe. 
His irregular habits procured him constant repri- 
mands, in which he gloried ; he revenged himself 
on the authorities by writing epigrams, and by 
keeping a bear, which he declared should stand 
for a fellowship. At length, having wilfully out- 
raged the most important regulations, he was 
expelled ; and he made his expulsion the subject 
of a satire equally personal and philosophic, and 
which obtained applause for the great talent which 
it displayed, even from those who lamented its 
want of judgment and the misconduct of its writer. 
Flushed with success, Cadurcis at length found, 
to his astonishment, that Nature had intended him 
for a poet. He repaired to I^ondon, where he was 
received with open arms by the Whigs, whose 
party he immediately embraced, and where he 
published a poem, in which he painted his own 
character as the hero, and of which — in spite of 
all the exaggeration and extravagance of youth — 
the genius was undeniable. Society sympathised 
with a young and noble poet ; his poem was read 
by all parties with enthusiasm ; Cadurcis became 
the fashion. To use his own expression, " One 
morning he awoke, and found himself famous." 
Young, singularly handsome, with every gift of 
nature and fortune, and with an inordinate vanity 
that raged in his soul, Cadurcis soon forgot the 
high philosophy that had for a moment attracted 
him, and delivered himself up to the absorbing 
egotism which had ever been latent in his passion- 
ate and ambitious mind. Gifted with energies 
that few have ever equalled, and fooled to the 
bent by the excited sympathies of society, he 
poured forth his creative and daring spirit with a 
license that conquered all obstacles, from the very 
audacity with which he assailed them. In a word, 
the young, the reserved, and unknowli Cadurcis — 
who, but three years back, was to have lived in the 
domestic solitude for which he alone felt himself 
fitted — filled every heart and glittered in every eye. 
•The men envied, the women loved, all admired 
him. His life was a perpetual triumph ; a bril- 
liant and applauding stage, on which he ever 
played a dazzling and heroic part. So sudden 
and so startling had been his apparition, so vigor- 
ous and unceasing the efforts by which he 
had maintained his first overwhelming impres- 
sion, and not merely by his writings, but by his 
unusual manners and eccentric life, that no one 
had yet found time to draw his breath, to observe, 
to inquire, and to criticise. He had risen, and 
still flamed, like a comet ; as wild as it was beau- 
tiful, and strange as it was brilliant. 



CHAPTER IV. 

We must now return to the dinner party at 

Lord Monteagle's. When the Bishop of 

entered the room, he found nearly all the expected 
guests assembled, and was immediately presented 
by his host to the lady of the house, who received 
him with all that fascinating address for which she 
was celebrated.cxpressing the extreme delight which 
she felt at thus becoming formally acquainted with 
ene whom her husband had long taught her to 



admire and reverence. Utterly unconscious who 
had just joined the circle, while Lord Monleagle 
was introducing his newly arrived guest to many 
present, and to all of whom he was unknown ex- 
cept by reputation. Lord Cadurcis was standing 
apart, apparently wrapt in his own thoughts ; but 
the truth is, in spite of all the excitement in which 
he lived, he had difficulty in overcoming the na- 
tural reserve of his disposition. 

" Watch Cadurcis," said Mr. Horace Pole to a 
very fine lady. " Does not he look sublime V 

" Show me him," said the lady, very eagerly ; 
" I have never seen him yet ; I am actually dying 
to know him. You know we have just come to 
town ]" 

" And have caught the raging epidemic, I see," 
said Mr. Pole, with a sneer. " However, there 
is the marvellous young gentleman ! ' Alone in 
a crowd,' as he says in his last poem. Very in- 
teresting !" 

" Wonderful creature !" exclaimed the dame. 

"Charming!" said Mr. Pole. "If you ask 
Lady Monteagle, she will introduce him to you, 
and then, perhaps, you will be fortunate enough 
to be handed to dinner by him." 

" ! how I should like it !" 

" You must take care, however, not to eat ; he 
cannot endure a woman who eats." t 

" I never do," said the lady, very simply ; " at 
least at dinner." 

" Ah ! then you will quite suit him ; I dare 
say he will write a sonnet to you, and call j'ou 
Thyrza." 

"I wish I could get him to write some lines in 
my book," said the lady ; " Charles Fox has 
written some ; he was staying with us in the 
autumn, and he has written an ode to my little 
dog." 

" How very amiable !" said Mr. Pole ; " I dare 
say they are as good as his elegy on Mrs. Crewe's 
cat. But you must not talk of cats and dogs to 
Cadurcis. He is too exalted to commemorate any 
animal less sublime than a tiger or a barb." 

" You forget his beautiful lines on his New- 
foundland," said the lady. 

" Very complimentary to us all," said Mr 
Horace Pole. " The interesting misanthrope !" 

" He looks very unhappy." 

" Very," said Mr. Pole. " Evidently something 
on his conscience." 

" They do whisper very odd things," said the 
lady with great curiosity. " Do you think there 
is any thing in them 1" 

" O ! no doubt," said Mr. Pole ; " look at him ; 
you can detect crime in every glance." 

" Dear me, how shocking ! I think he must 
be the most interesting person that ever lived. I 
should like to know him ! They say he is so 
very odd." 

" Very," said Mr. Pole. " He must be a man 
of genius ; he is so unlike every body ; the very 
tie of his cravat proves it. And his hair, so savage 
and dishevelled ; none but a man of genius would 
not wear powder. Watch him to-day, and you will 
observe that he will not condescend to perform 
the slightest act like an ordinary mortal. I met 
him at dinner yesterday at Fanshawe's, and he 
touched nothing but biscuits and soda water 
Fanshawc, you know, is famous for his cook. Very 
complimentary and gratifying, was it noti" 

" Dear me !" said the lady, « I am delighted to 



VENETIA, 



763 



see him ; and yet I hope I shall not sit by him at 
dinner, I am quite afraid of him." 

" He is really very awful !" said Mr. Pole. 

In the mean time, the subject of these observa- 
tions slowly withdrew to the further end of the 
saloon, apart from every one, and threw himself 
upon a couch, with a somewhat discontented air, 
Lady Monteagle, whose eye had never left him 
for a moment, although her attentions had been 
necessarily commanded by her guests, and who 
dreaded the silent rages in which Cadurcis con- 
stantly indulged, and which when once assumed 
for the day, were with great difficulty dissipated, 
seized the first opportunity to join and soothe 
him. 

" Dear Cadurcis," she said, " why do you sit 
here 1 You know I am obliged to speak to all 
these odious people, and it is very cruel of you." 

'' You seem to me to be extremely happy," re- 
plied his lordship, in a sarcastic tone. 

" Now, Cadurcis, for heaven's sake, do not play 
with my feelings," exclaimed Lady Monteagle, in 
a deprecating tone. " Pray be amiable. If I think 
you are in one of your dark humours, it is quite 
impossible for me to attend to these people ; and 
you know it is the only point on which Monteagle 
over has an opinion ; he insists upon my attending 
to his guests." 

" If you prefer his guests to me, attend to 
them." 

" Now, Cadurcis ! I ask you as a favour, a favour 
to me, only for to-day. Be kind, be amiable, you 
can if you like ; no person can be more amiable ; 
now, do !" 

"I am very amiable," said his lordship, "I am 
perfectly satisfied, if 3'ou are. You made me dine 
here." 

" Now, Cadurcis !" 

" Have I not dined here to satisfy you 1" 

" Yes ! It was very kind." 

"But, really, that I should be wearied with all 
the common-places of these creatures who come to 
eat j'our husband's cutlets, is too much," said his 
lordship. And you, Gertrude, what necessity can 
there be ia your troubling yourself to amuse people 
whom you meet every day of your life, and who, 
from the vulgar perversity of society, value you in 
exact proportion as you neglect them ?" 

" Yes, but to-day I must be attentive ; for Hen- 
y, with his usual thoughtlessness, has asked this 
new bishop to dine with us." 

"The Bishop of 1" inquired Lord Cadur- 
cis, eagerly. " Is he coming 1" 

" He has been in the room this quarter of an 
hour." 

" What, Masham ! Doctor Masham !" continued 
Lord Cadurcis. 

" Assuredly." 

Lord Cadurcis changed colour, and even sighed. 
He rose rather quickly, and said, " I must go and 
speak to him." 

So, quitting Lady Monteagle, he crossed the 
room, and with all the simplicity of old days, which 
instantly returned on him, those melancholy eyes 
sparkling with animation, and that languid form 
quick with excitement, he caught the doctor's 
glance, and shook his extended hand with a hear- 
tiness which astonished the surrounding spectators, 
accustomed to the elaborate listlessness of his usual 



" My dear doctor ! my dear lord I I am glad tc 
say," said Cadurcis, " this is the greatest and the 
most unexpected pleasure I ever received. Of all 
persons in the world, you are the one whom I was 
most anxious to meet." 

The good bishop appeared not less gratified wdth 
the rencounter than Cadurcis himself; but, in the 
midst of their mutual congratulations, dinner was 
announced and served ; and, in due order. Lord 
Cadurcis foxmd himself attending that veiy fine 
lady whom Mr. Horace Pole had, in jest, sug- 
gested should be the object of his services ; while 
Mr. Pole himself was seated opposite to him at 
table. 

The lady, remembering all Mr. Pole's intima- 
tions, was really very much frightened ; she at first 
could scarcely reply to the casual observations of 
her neighbour, and quite resolved not to eat any 
thing. But his livety and valuable conversation, 
his perfectly unaffected manner, and the noncha- 
lance with which he helped himself to every dish that 
was offered him, soon reassured her. Her voice 
became a little firmer, her manner less embarrassed, 
and she even began meditating a delicate assault 
upon a fricassee. 

"Are you going to Ranelagh to-night 1" inquired 
Lord Cadurcis ; " I think I shall take a round. 
There is nothing like amusement ; it is the only 
thing worth living for; and I thank my destiny I 
am easily amused. We must persuade Lady Mont- 
eagle to go with us. Let us make a party, and re- 
turn and sup. I hke a supper ; nothing in the 
world more charming than a supper — 

"A lobster salad, and cliampagne and chat." 

That is life, and very delightful. Why, really, my 
dear madam, you eat nothing. You will never ba 
able to endure the fatigues of a Ranelagh campaign 
on the sustenance of a pate. Pole, my good fel- 
low, will you take a glass of wine 1 We had a 
pleasant party, yesterday, at Fanshawe's, and ap- 
parently a capital dinner. I was sorry that I could 
not play my part ; but I have led rather a raking 
life lately. We must go ar.d dine with him again ; 
I long to sweat his Burgiuidy." 

Lord Cadurcis' neighbour and Mr. Pole ex- 
changed looks ; and the lady, emboldened by the 
unexpected conduct of her cavalier, and the ex- 
ceeding good friends which he seemed resolved to 
be with her and every one else, began to flatter 
herself that she might yet obtain the much-desired 
inscription in her volume. So, after making the 
usual approaches, of having a great favour to re- 
quest, which, however, she could not flatter herself 
would be granted, • and which she even was afraid 
to mention ; encouraged by the ready declaration 
of Lord Cadurcis, that he should think it would 
be quite impossible for any one to deny her any 
thing, the lady ventured to state that Mr. Fox had 
written something in her book, and she should be 
the most honoured and happiest lady in the land 
if— 

" ! I shall be most happy," said Lord Cadur- 
cis ; " I really esteem your request quite an honour : 
you know I am only a literary amateur, and can- 
not pretend to vie with your real authors. If you 
want them, you must go to Mrs. Montagu. I 
would not write a line for her, and so the blues 
have quite excommunicated me. Nevermind; I 



764 



D'ISRAELl S NOVELS. 



leave them to Miss Hannah More : but you — you 
are quite a difierent sort of person. What shall 
I write !" 

" I must leave the subject to you," said his gra- 
tified friend. 

" Well, then," said his lordship, " I dare say you 
have got a lapdog or a broken fan ; I don't think I 
could soar above them. I think that is about my 
tether." 

This lady, though a very great person, was not 
a beauty, and very little of a wit, and not calculated 
in any respect to excite the jealousy of Lady 
Monteagle. In the mean time that lady was quite 
delighted with the unusual animation of Lord Ca- 
durcis, who was much the most entertaining mem- 
ber of the party. Every one present would circu- 
late throughout the world that it was only at the 
Monteagles' that Lord Cadurcis condescended to 
be amusing. As the bishop was seated on her 
right hand. Lady Monteagle seized the opportunity 
of making inquiries as to their acquaintance ; but 
she only obtained from the good Masham that he 
had once resided in his lordship's neighbourhood, 
and had known him as a child, and was greatly 
attached to him. Her ladyship was anxious to 
obtain some juvenile anecdotes of her hero ; but 
the bishop contrived to be amusing without degc- 
nerating into gossip. She did not glean nmch, 
except that all his early friends were more asto- 
nished at his present career than the bishop him- 
self, who was about to add that he always had 
some misgivings, but, recollecting where he was, 
he converted the word into a more gracious term. 
But if Lady Monteagle were not as successful as 
she could wish in her inquiries, she contrived still 
to speak on the, to her, ever-interesting subject, 
and consoled herself by the communications which 
she poured into a guarded yet not unwilling car, 
respecting the present life and conduct of the 
bishop's former pupil. The worthy dignitary had 
been prepared by public fame for much th'at was 
dazzling and eccentric ; but it must be confessed 
that he was not a little astonished by a great deal 
to which he listened. One thing, however, was 
clear, — that whatever might be the demeanour of 
Cadurcis to the circle in which he now moved, 
time, and the strange revolutions of his life, had 
not affected his carriage to his old friend. It gra- 
tified the bishop when he listened to Lady Mont- 
eagle's details of the haughty, reserved, and melan- 
choly demeanour of Cadurcis, which impressed 
every one with an idea that some superior beins 
had, as a punishment, lieen obliged to visit their 
humble globe, to recall the apparently heartfell 
cordiality with which he had resumed his old 
acquaintance with the former Rector of Marring- 
hurst. 

And indeed, to speak truth, the amiable and 
unpretending behaviour of Cadurcis this day was 
entirely attributable to the unexpected meeting 
with this old friend. In the hurry of society he 
could scarcely dwell upon the associations which 
it was calculated to call up ; yet more than once 
he found himself quite absent, dwelling on sweet 
lecollections of that Cherbury that he had so loved. 
And ever and anon the tones of a familiar voice 
caught his ear, so that they almost made him start : 
they were not the less striking, because, as Masham 
was seated on the same side of the table as Cadur- 
is, his eye had not become habituated to the 



bishop's presence, which sometimes lie had almos 
doubted. 

He seized the first opportunity after dinner ot 
engaging his old tutor in conversation. He took 
him affectionately by the arm, and led him, as if 
unintentionally to a sofa, apart from the rest of the 
company, and seated himself by his side. Cadur- 
cis was agitated, for he was about to inquire of 
some whom he could not mention without emo- 
tion. 

" Is it long since you have seen our friends 1" 
said his lordship, "if indeed I may call them 
mine." 

"Lady Annabel Herbert 1" said the bishop. 

Cadurcis bowed. 

" I parted from her about two months back," 
continued the bishop. 

" And Cherbury, dear Cherbury, is it un 
changed V 

" They have not resided there for more than 
two years." 

" Indeed !" 

" They have lived, of late, at Weymouth, for 
the benefit of the sea air." 

" I hope neither Lady Annabel nor her daughter 
needs it]" said Lord Cadurcis, in a tone of great 
feeling. 

" Neither now, God be praised," replied Ma- 
sham; "but Miss Herbert has been a great inva- 
lid." 

There was a rather awkward silence. At length, 
Lord Cadurcis said, " We meet rather unexpected- 
ly, my dear sir." 

" Why, you have become a great man," said 
the bishop, with a smile ; " and one must expect 
to meet you." 

" Ah ! my dear friend," exclaimed Lord Cadur- 
cis, with a sigh, " I would willingly give a whole 
existence of a life like this, for one year of happi- 
ness at Cherbury." 

" Nay !" said the bishop, with a look of good- 
natured mockery, " this melancholy is all very 
well in poetry ; but I always half suspected, and I 
am quite sure now, that Cherbury was not parti- 
cularly adapted to you. 

" You mistake me," said Cadurcis, mournfully 
shaking his head. 

" Hitherto, I have not been so very wrong in 
my judgment respecting Lord Cadurcis, that I am 
inclined very easily to give up my opinion," re- 
plied the Bishop. 

" I have often thought of the conversation to 
which you allude," replied Lord Cadurcis ; " ne- 
vertheless, there is one opinion I never changed, 
one sentiment that still reigns paramount in my 
heart." 

" You think so," said his companion ; " but, 
perhaps, were it more than a sentiment, it would 
cease to flourish." 

" No," said Lord CadiUcis, firmly, " the only 
circumstance in the world of which I vcntuie to 
feel certain is my love for Venetia." 

"It raged certainly during your last visit to 
Cherbury," said the Bishop, " after an interval of 
five years: it has been revived slightly to-day, 
after an interval of three more, by the sight of a 
mutual acquaintance, who has reminded you of 
her. But what have been your feelings in the 
mean time, my Lord] Confess the truth, and 
admit you have very rarely spared a thought to 



VENETIA. 



765 



the person to whom you fancy yourself at this mo- 
ment so passionately devoted." 

" You do not do me justice," said Lord Cadur- 
eis ; " you are prejudiced against me." 

" Nay ! prejudice is not my humour, my good 
Lord. I decide only from what I myself observe ; 
I give my opinion to you at this moment as freely 
as I did when you last conversed with me at the 
abbey, and when I a little displeased you, by speak- 
ing what you will acknowledge has since turned 
out to be the truth." 

" You mean, then, to say," said his lordship, 
with some excitement, " that you do not beUeve 
that I love Venetia 1" 

" I think you do, at this moment, ver{ much," 
replied Masham; "and I think," he continued, 
smiling, "that you may probably continue very 
much in love with her, even during the rest of the 
week." 

" You mock me 1" 

" Nay ! I am most sincerely serious." 
" What, then, do you mean?" 
" I mean that your imagination, my Lord, dwell- 
ing for the moment with great power upon the 
idea of Venetia, becomes inflamed, and your whole 
mind is filled with her image." 

" A metaphysical description of being in love," 
said Lord Cadurcis rather dryly. 

"Nay !" said Masham, "I think the heart has 
something to do with that." 

" But the imagination acts upon the heart," re- 
joined his companion. 

" But it is in the nature of its influence not to 
endure. At this moment, I repeat, your lordship 
may, perhaps, love Miss Herbert ; you may go 
home and muse over her memory, and even deplore 
in passionate verses your miserj' in being separated 
from her ; but, in the course of a few days, she 
will be again forgotten." 

"But were she mine 1" urged Lord Cadurcis, 
eagerly. 

" Why, you would probably part from her 
in a year, as her father parted from Lady Anna- 
bel." 

" Impossible ! for my imagination could not 
conceive any thing more exquisite than she is." 

" Then it would conceive something less ex- 
quisite," said the Bishop. " It is a restless 
quality, and is ever creative, either of good or of 
evil." 

"Ah! my dear doctor — excuse me for again 
calling you doctor, it is so natural," said Cadurcis, 
in a tone of affliction. 

" Call me what you will, my dear Lord," said 
the good Bishop, whose heart was moved ; " I can 
never forget old days." 

" Believe me, then," continued Cadurcis, " that 
you misjudge me in respect of Venetia. I feel 
assured that, had we married three years ago, I 
should have been a much happier man." 

" Why, you have every thing to make you 
happy," said the Bishop ; " if you are not happy, 
who should be 1 You are young, and you are fa- 
mous : all that is now wanted is to be wise." 

Lord Cadurcis shrugged his shoulders. " I am 
tired of this life," he said ; " I am wearied of the 
same hollow bustle, and the same false glitter day 
after day. Ah ! my dear friend, when I remember 
the happy hours when I used to roam through the 
woods of Cherbuiy with Venetia, and ramble in 



that delicious park — both young, both innocent — 
lit by the sunset and guided by the stars , and 
then remember that it has all ended in this, and 
that this is success, glory, fame, or whatever be 
the proper title to baptise the bubble, the burthen 
of existence is too great for me." ' 

"Hush, hush!" said his friend, rising from the 
sofa ; " you will be happy if you be wise." 

" But what is wisdom?" said Lord Cadqrcis. 

" One quality of it, in your situation, my Lord, 
is to keep your head as calm as you can. Now, I 
must bid you good night," 

The Bishop disappeared, and Lord Cadurcis 
was immediately surrounded by several fine ladies, 
who were encouraged by the flattering bulletin 
that his neighbour at dinner, who was among 
them, had given of his lordship's temper. They 
were rather disappointed to find him sullen, sar- 
castic, and even morose. As for going to Eanelagh, 
he declared that, if he had the power of awarding 
the punishment of his bitterest enemy, it would be 
to consign him for an hour to the barbarous inflic- 
tion of a promenade in the temple of ennui ; and 
as for the ownier of the album, who, anxious about 
her verses, ventured to express a hope that his 
lordship would call upon her, the contemptuous 
bard gave her what he was in the habit of styling 
" a look," and quitted the room, without deigning 
otherwise to acknowledge her hopes and her 
courtesy. 



CHAPTER V. 

We must now return to our friends 'the Her 
berts, who, having quitted Weymouth, without 
even revisiting Cherbury, are now on their journey 
to the metropolis. It was not without considerable 
emotion that Lady Annabel, after an absence of 
nearly nineteen years, contemplated her return to 
the scene of some of the most extraordinary and 
painful occurrences of her life. As for VeneJ;ia, 
who knew nothing of towns and cities, save from 
the hasty observations she had made in travelling, 
the idea of London, formed only from books and 
her imagination, was invested with even awful 
attributes. Mistress Pauncefort alone looked for- 
ward to their future residence simply with feelings 
of self-congratulation at her return, after so long 
an interval, to the theatre of former triumphs and 
pleasures, and where she conceived herself so emi- 
nently qualified to shme and to enjoy. 

The travellers entered town towards nightfall, 
by Hyde Park Corner, and proceeded to an hotel 
in St. James' Street, where Lady Annabel's man 
of business had engaged them apartments. Lon- 
don, with its pallid parish lamps, scattered at long 
intervals, would have presented liut a gloomy ap- 
pearance to the modern eye, habituated to all the 
splendour of gas; but to Venetia it seemed diffi- 
cult to conceive a scene of more brilliant bustle ; 
and she leaned back in the carriage, distracted with 
the lights and the confusion of the crowded streets. 
When they were once safely lodged in their new 
residence, the tumult of unpacking the carriages 
had subsided, and the ceaseless tongue of Paunce- 
fort had in some degree refrained from its weary 
ing and worrying chatter, a feeling of loneliness, 
after all this agitation and excitement, simultane 



766 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



ously came over tlie feelings of both mother and 
daughter, though they alike repressed its expres- 
sion. Lady Annabel was lost in many sad thoughts, 
and Venetia felt mournful, though she could scarce- 
ly define the cause. Both were silent, and they 
soon sought refuge from fatigue and melancholy in 
sleep. 

The next morning, it being now April, was for- 
tunately bright and clear. It certainly was a happy 
fortune that the fair Venetia was not greeted with 
a fog. She rose refreshed and cheerful, and joined 
her mother, who was, however, not a little agitated 
by an impending visit, of which Venetia had been 
long apprised. This was from Lady Annabel's 
brother, the former ambassador, who had of late 
returned to his native country. The brother and 
sister had been warmly attached in youth, but the 
awful interval of time that had elapsed since they 
parted, filled Venetia's mother with many sad and 
serious reflections. The- earl and his family had 
been duly informed of Lady Annabel's visit to the 
metropolis, and had hastened to offer her the hos- 
pitality of their home ; but the offer had been de- 
clined, with feelings, however, not a little gratified 
by the earnestness with which it had been prof- 
fered. 

Venetia was now, for the first time in her life, 
to see a relative. The anticipated meeting excited 
in her mind rather curiosity than sentiment. She 
could not share the agitation of her mother, and 
yet she looked forward to the arrival of her uncle 
with extreme inquisitiveness. She was not long 
kept in suspense. Their breakfast was scarcely 
finished when he was announced. Lady Annabel 
turned very pale; and Venetia, who felt herself 
as it were a stranger to her blood, would have 
retired, had not her mother requested her to remain ; 
so she only withdrew to the background of the 
apartment. 

Her uncle was ten years the senior of his sister, 
but not unlike her. Tall, graceful, with those 
bland and sympathising manners that easily win 
hearts, be entered the room with a smile of affec- 
tion, yet with a composure of deportment that 
expressed at the same time how sincerely delighted 
he was at the meeting, and how considerably de- 
termined at the same time not to indulge in a 
scene. He embraced his sister with tenderness, 
assured her that she looked as young as ever, 
softly chided her for not making his house her 
home, and hoped that they should never part 
again ; and he then turned to his niece. A fine 
observer, one less interested in the scene than the 
only witnesses, might have detected in the earl, 
notwithstanding his experienced breeding, no ordi- 
nary surprise and gratification at the sight of the 
individual whose relationship he was now to claim 
for the first time. 

" I must claim an uncle's privilege," he said, in 
a tone of great sweetness and some emotion, as he 
pressed with his own the beautiful lips of Venetia. 
" I ought to be proud of my niece. W^hy ! Anna- 
bel, if only for the honour of our family, you should 
Tiot have kept this jewel so long enshrined in the 
casket of Cherbury." 

The earl remained with them some hours ; and 
his visits were really prolonged by the unexpected 
jileasure which he found in the society of his rela- 
tions. He would not leave them until they pro- 
mised to dine with him that day, and mentioned 
that he had prevented his wife from calling with 



him that morning, because he thought, after so 
long a separation, it might be better to meet thus 
quietl}'. Then they parted with affectionate cor- 
diality on both sides ; the earl enchanted to find 
delightful companions where he was half afraid 
he might only meet tiresome relatives ; Lady An- 
nabel proud of her brother, and gratified by his 
kindness ; and Venetia anxious to ascertain whe- 
ther all her relations were as charming as her 
uncle. 



CHAPTER VL 

Whex Lady Annabel and her daughter re- 
turned from their morning drive, they found the 
visiting ticket of the Countess on the table, who 
had also left a note, with which she had provided 
herself in case she was not so fortunate as to me«t 
her relations. The note was very affectionate, and 
expressed the great delight of the writer at again 
meeting her dear sister and forming an acquaintance 
with her charming niece. 

" More relations !" said Venetia, with a some- 
what droll expression of countenance. 

At this moment the Bishop of , who had 

already called twice upon them unsuccessfully, 
entered the room. The sight of this old and dear 
friend gave great joy. He came to engage them 
to dine with him the next day, having already in- 
effectuaUy endeavoured to obtain them for perma 
nent guests. They sat chatting so long with him, 
that they were obliged at last to bid him an .abrupt 
adieu, and hasten and make their toilets for their 
dinner. 

Their hostess received her relations with a warmth 
which her husband's praises of her sister-in-law 
and niece had originally prompted, but which 
their appearance and manners instantly confirmed. 
As all the Earl's children were married, theii 
party consisted to-day only of themselves ; but it 
was a very happy and agreeable meeting' for every 
one w-as desirous of being amiable. Ta be sure 
they had not many recollections or associations in 
common, and no one recurred to the past ; but 
London, and the history of its fleeting hours, was 
an inexhaustible source of amusing conversation • 
and the Countess seemed resolved that Venetia 
should have a very brilliant season; that she 
should be very much amused and very much ad- 
mired. Lady Annabel, however, put in a plea for 
moderation, at least until Venetia was presented ; 
but that the Countess declared must be at the 
next drawing-room, which was early in the ensuing 
week. Venetia listened to glittering narratives of 
balls and routs, operas and theatres, breakfasts and 
masquerades, Ranelagh and the Pantheon, with 
the same smiling composure as if she had been 
accustomed to them all her life, instead of having 
been shut up in a garden, with no livelier oi 
brighter companions than birds and flowers. 

After dinner, as her aunt and uncle and Lady 
Annabel sat round the fire, talking of her maternal 
grandfather, a subject which did not at all interest 
her, Venetia stole from her chair to a table in a 
distant part of the room, and turned over some 
books and music that were lying upon it. Among 
these was a literary journal, which she touched 
almost by accident, and which opened, with the 
name of Lord Cadurcis on the top of its page. 



VENETIA. 



r67 



This, of coiirse, instantly attracted her attention. 
Her eye passed hastily over some sentences which 
greatly astonished her, and, extending her arm for 
a chair without quitting the book, she was soon 
deeply absorbed by the marvels which rapidly un- 
folded themselves to her. The article in question 
was an elaborate criticism as well of the career as 
the works of the noble poet; for, indeed, as Vc- 
netia now learned, they were inseparably blended. 
She gathered from these pages a faint and hasty, 
yet not altogether unfaithful, conception of the 
strange revolution that had occurred in the cha- 
racter, pursuits, and position of her former com- 
panion. In that mighty metropolis, whose wealth 
and luxury and power had that morning so vividly 
impressed themselves upon her consciousness, and 
to the history of whose pleasures and brilliant and 
fantastic dissipation she had- recently been listen- 
ing with a lively and diverted ear, it seemed that, 
by spine rapid and magical vicissitude, her little 
Plantagenet, the faithful and affectionate compa- 
nion of her childhood, whose sorrows she had so 
often soothed, and who in her pure and devoted 
love had always found consolation and happiness, 
had become the " observed of all observers," — the 
most remarkable where all was striking, and daz- 
zling where all were brilliant ! 

His last visit to Cherbury, and its strange con- 
sequences, then occurred to her ; his passionate 
addresses, and their bitter parting. Here was 
surely matter enough for a maiden's revery, and 
into a revery Venetia certainly fell, from which 
she was roused by the voice of her uncle, who 
could not conceive what book his charming niece 
could find so interesting, and led her to feel what 
a very ill compliment she was paying to all present. 
Venetia hastily closed the volume, and rose rather 
confused from her seat ; her radiant smile was the 
best apology to her uncle ; and she compensated 
for her previous inattention, by playing to him on 
the harpsichord. All the time, however, the image 
of Cadurcis flitted across her vision, and she was 
glad when her mother moved to retire, that she 
might enjoy the opportunity of pondering in si- 
lence and unobserved over the strange history that 
she had read. 

London is a wonderful place ! Four-and-twenty 
hours back, with a feeling of loneliness and depres- 
sion amounting to pain, Venetia had fled to sleep 
as her only refuge ; now only a day had passed, 
and she had both seen and heard many things that 
had alike startled and pleased her ; had found 
powerful and charming friends ; and laid her head 
upon her pillow in a tumult of emotion that long 
banished slumber from her beautiful eyes. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Vexetia soon found that she must bid adieu 
forever, in London, to her old habits of solitude. 
She soon discovered that she was never to be alone. 
Her aunt called upon them very early in the 
morning, and said that the whole day must be 
devoted to their court dresses; and, in a few 
minutes, they were all whirled off to a celebrated 
milliners. After innumerable consultations and 
experiments, the dress of Venetia was decided on ; 
her aunt and Lady Annabel were both assured 
that it would excee-J in splendour and propriety 



any dress at the drawing-room. Indeed, as the 
great artist added, with such a model to work 
from it would reflect but little credit on the esta- 
blishment, if any approaclied Miss Herbert in the 
effect she must inevitably produce. 

While her mother was undergoing some of 
those attentions to which Venetia had recently 
submitted, and had retired for a few minutes into 
an adjoining apartment, our little lady of Chcrbuiy 
strolled about the saloon in which she had been 
left, until her attention was attracted by a portrait 
of a young man, in an oriental dress, standing very 
sublimely amid the ruins of some desert city ; a 
palm tree in the distance, and by his side a crouch- 
ing camel, and some recumbent followers slumber- 
ing amid the fallen columns.' 

" That is Lord Cadurcis, my love," said her 
aunt, who at the moment joined her, " the famous 
poet. All the young ladies are in love with him. 
I dare say you know his works by heart." 

" No, indeed, aunt," said Venetia ; " I never 
even read them ; but I should like veiy much." 

" Not read Lord Cadurcis' p«cms ! O ! we must 
go and get them directly for you. Every body 
reads them. You will be looked upon quite as a 
little barbarian. We will stop the carriage at 
Stockdalc's, and get them for you." 

At this moment Lady Annabel rejoined them ; 
and, having made all their arrangements, they 
re-entered the Countess's carriage. 

" Stop at Stockdale's," said her ladyship to the 
servant ; " I must get Cadurcis' last poem, for 
Venetia. She will be quite back in her learning, 
Annabel." 

" Cadurcis' last poem !" said Lady Annabel ; 
" do you mean Lord Cadurcis 1 Is he a poet 1" 

" To be sure ! Well, you are countryfied not 
to know Lord Cadurcis!" 

" I know him veiy well," said Lady Annahd, 
gravely ; " but I did not know he was a poet." 

The Countess laughed, the carriage stopped, the 
book was bought ; Lady Annabel looked very 
uneasy, and tried to catch her daughter's counten- 
ance, but, strange to say, for the first time in her 
life was quite unsuccessful. The Countess took 
the book, and immediately gave it Venetia. " There, 
my dear," said her aunt, " there never was any 
thing so charming. I am so provoked that Ca- 
durcis is a Whig." 

"A W"hig!" said Lady Annabel, "he was not a 
Whig when I knew him." 

" O ! my dear, I am afraid he is worse than a 
Whig. He is almost a rebel ! But then he is such 
a genius ! Every thing is allowed, you know, to 
a genius !" said the thoughtless Countess. 

Lady Annabel was silent ; but the stillness o! 
her emotion must not be judged from the stillness 
of her tongue. Her astonishment at all she had 
heard was only equalled by what we may justly 
term her horror. It was impossible that she could 
have listened to any communication at the same 
time so astounding, and to her so fearful. 

" We knew Lord Cadurcis when he was very 
young, aunt," said Venetia, in a very quiet tone. 
" He lived near mamma, in the country." 

" ! my dear Annabel, if you see him in town, 
bring him to me," said the Countess ; " he is the 
most difficult person in the world to get to one's 
house, and I would give any thing if he would 
come and dine with me." 

The Countess at last set her relations down al 



768 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS, 



their hotel. When Lady Annabel was once more 
alone with her daughter, she said — " Venetia, 
dearest, give me that book your aunt lent you." 

Venetia immediately handed it to her, but her 
mother did not open it; but saying — "The 
Bishop dines at four, darling, I think it is time for 
us to dress," Lady Annabel left the room. 

To say the truth, Venetia was less surprised 
than disappointed .by this conduct of her mother's ; 
but she was not apt to murmur, and she tried to 
dismiss the subject from her thoughts. 

It was with unfeigned delight that the kind- 
hearted Masham welcomed under his own roof his 
two best and dearest friends. He had asked nobody 
to meet them ; it was settled that they were to be 
quite alone, and to talk of nothing but Cherl)ury 
and Marringhurst. When they were seated at 
table, the Bishop, who had been detained at the 
House of Lords, and had been rather hurried to be 
in time to receive his guests, turned to his servant, 
and inquired whether any one had called. 

" Yes, my Lord, Lord Cadurcis," was the re- 

piy- 

" Our old companion," said the Bishop to Lady 
Annabel, with a smile. " He has called upon me 
twice, and I have on both occasions unfortunately 
been absent." 

Lady Annabel merely bowed an assent to the 
Bishop's remark. Venetia longed to speak, but 
found it impossible. " What is it that represses 
me V she asked herself. " Is there to be another 
forbidden subject insensibly to arise between us 1 
I must struggle against this indefinable despotism 
that seems to pervade my life." 

" Have j'ou met Lord Cadurcis, Sir 1" at length 
asked Venetia. 

" Once ; we resumed our acquaintance at a din- 
ner party one day ; but I shall soon see a great 
deal of him, for he has just taken his seat. He is 
of age, you know." 

" I hope he has come to years of discretion in 
every sense," said Lady Annabel, " but I fear 
not.'"' 

" O ? my dear lady," said the Bishop, " he has 
become a great man ; he is our star. I assure you 
there is nobody in London talked of but Lord Ca- 
durcis. He asked me a gi-eat deal after you and 
Cherbury. He will be delighted to see you." 

" I cannot say," replied Lady Annabel, " that 
the desire of meeting is at all mutual. From all I 
hear, our connexions and opinions are very diffe- 
rent, and I dare say our habits likewise." 

" My aunt lent us his new poem to-day," said 
Venetia, very boldly. 

" Have you read it 1" asked the Bishop. 

" I am no admirer of modern poetry," said Lady 
Annabel, somewhat tartly. 

" Poetry of any kind is not much in my way," 
said the Bishop, " but if you like to read his 
poems, I will lend them to you, for he gave me a 
copy ; esteemed a great honour, I assure you." 

"Thank you, my Lord," said Lady Annabel, 
" both Venetia and myself are very much engaged 
now ; and I do not wish her to read while she is 
in London. When we return to Cherbury she will 
have abundance of time, if desirable." 

Both Venetia and her worthy host felt that the 
present subject of conversation was not very agree- 
able to Lady Annabel, and it was immediately 
(Ranged. They fell upon more gracious topics, 
and, in spite of this somewhat sullen commence- 



ment, the meeting was quite as delightful as they 
anticipated. Lady Annabel particularly exerted 
herself to please, and, as was invariably the case 
under such circumstances with this lady, she was 
eminently successful ; she apparently endeavoured, 
by her remarkable kindness to her daughter, to 
atone for any unpleasant feeling which her previous 
manner might for an instant have occasioned. Ve- 
netia watched her beautiful and affectionate parent, 
as Lady Annabel now dwelt with delight upon the 
remembrance of their hapjiy home, and now re- 
curred to the anxiety she naturally felt about her 
daughter's approaching presentation, with feelings 
of love and admiration, which made her accuse 
herself for the recent rebellion of her heart. She 
thought only of her mother's sorrows, and her de- 
votion to her child ; and, grateful for the unex- 
pected course of circumstances which seemed to be 
leading every member of their former little society to 
honour and happiness, she resolved to persist in 
that career of duty and devotion to her mother, 
from which it seemed to her she had never deviated 
for a moment, but to experience sorrow, misfor- 
tune, and remorse. Never did Venetia receive her 
mother's accustomed embrace and blessing with 
more responsive tenderness and gratitude than this 
night. She banished Cadurcis and his poems from 
her thoughts, confident that, as long as her mother 
approved neither of her continuing his acquaint- 
ance nor perusing his writings, it was well that 
the one should be a forgotten tie, and the other a 
sealed book. 



CHAPTER Vni 

Among the most intimate acquaintances of Ladj 
Annabel's brother was the nobleman who had been 
a minister during the American war, and who had 
also been the guardian of Lord Cadurcis, of whom, 
indeed, he was likewise a distant relative. He had 
called with his lady on Lady Annabel, after meet- 
ing her and her daughter at her brother's, and had fj 
cultivated her acquaintance with great kindness 
and assiduity, so that Lady Annabel had found it 
impossible to refuse his invitation to dinner. 

This dinner occurred a few days after the visit 
of the Herberts to the Bishop, and that excellent 
personage, her own family, and some others equal- 
ly distinguished, but all of the ministerial party, 
were invited to meet her. Lady Annabel found 
herself placed at table between a very pompous 
courtier, who, being a gourmand, was not very 
prompt to disturb his enjoyment by conversation, 
and a young man, whom she found very agreeable, 
and who at first, indeed, attracted her attention by 
his resemblance to some face with which she feU 
she was familiar, and yet which she was not suc- 
cessful in recalling. His manners were remarkably 
frank and ingenuous, yet soft and refined. With- 
out having any peculiar brilliancy of expression, 
he was apt and fluent, and his whole demeanour 
characterised by a gentle modesty that was highly 
engaging. Apparently he had travelled a grcal 
deal, for he more than once alluded to his expe- 
rience of foreign countries, but this was afterwards 
explained by Lady Annabel discovering, from an ob- 
servation he let fall, that he was a sailor. A passing 
question from an opposite guest also told her that 
he was a m of parliament. While she was 



V E N E T I A. 



769 



father anxiously wishing to know who he might 
lie, and congratulating herself that one in whose 
favour she was so much prepossessed, should be 
on the right side, their host saluted him from the 
top of the table, and said, " Captain Cadurcis, a 
glass of wine." 

The countenance was now explained. It was, 
indeed, Lord Cadurcis whom he resembled, though 
his eyes were dark blue, and his hair light brown. 
This then was that cousin who had been sent to 
sea to make his fortune, and whom Lady Annabel 
had a faint recollection of poor Mrs. Cadurcis once 
mentioning. George Cadurcis had not exactly 
made his fortune, but he had distinguished himself 
in his profession, and especially in Rodney's victory, 
and had fought his way up to the command of a 
frigate. The frigate had recently been paid off, 
and he had called to pay his i-espects to his noble 
relative, with the hope of obtaining his interest for 
a new command. The guardian of his cousin, very 
much mortified with the conduct of his hopeful 
ward, was not very favourably impressed towards 
any one who bore the name of Cadurcis, yet 
George, with no pretence, had a winning, honest 
manner that made friends ; his lordship took a 
fancy to him, and, as he could not at the moment 
obtain him a ship, he did the next best thing for 
him in his power ; a borough was vacant, and he 
put him into parliament. 

" Do you know," said Lady Annabel to her 
neighbour, "I have been fancying all dinner time, 
that we had met before ; but I find it is that you 
only resemble one with whom I was once acquaiiit- 
cd." 

"My cousin!" said the Captain, "he will be 
rery mortified when I go home, if I tell him 
your ladyship speaks of his acquaintance as one 
that is past." 

" It is some years since we met," said Lady An- 
nabel, in a more reserved tone. 

" Plantagcnet can never forget what he owes to 
you," said Captain Cadurcis. " How often has 
he spoken to me of you and Miss Herbert ! It 
was only the other night — yes! not a week ago — 
that he made me sit up with him all night, while 
he was telling stories of Cherbury ; you see I am 
quite familiar with the spot," he added, smiling. 

"You are very intimate with your cousin, I 
see," said Lady Annabel. 

" I live a great deal with hira," said George Ca- 
durcis. " You know we had never met or com- 
municated ; and it was not Plantagenet's fault, I 
am sure ; for of all the generous, amiable, loveable 
beings, Cadurcis is the best I ever met with in this 
world. Ever since we knew each other, he has 
been a brother to me ; and, though our politics and 
opinions are so opposed, and we naturally live in 
such a different circle, he would have insisted even 
upon my having apartments in his house, nor is it 
possible for me to give you the slightest idea of the 
delicate and unceasing kindness I experience from 
him. If we had lived together all our lives, it 
would be impossible to be more united." 

This eulogium rather softened Lady Annabel's 
heart ; she even observed, " I always thought 
Lord Cadurcis naturally well disposed ; I always 
hoped he would turn out well ; but I was afraid, 
from what I heard, he was very m<uch changed. 
He shows, however, his sense and good feeling in 
selecting you for his friend ; for you are his natu- 
ral one," she added, after a momentary pause. 
97 



" And, then, you know," he continued, " it is 
so purely kind of him ; for of course I am not fit 
to be a companion for Cadurcis, and perhaps, as 
far as that, no one is. Of course we have not a 
thought in common. I know nothing but what I 
have picked up in a rough life ; and he, you 
know, is the cleverest person that ever lived — at 
least I think so." 

Lady Annabel smiled. 

" Well, he is very young," she observed, "much 
your junior. Captain Cadurcis ; and I hope he will 
yet prove a faithful steward of the great gifts that 
God has given him." 

" I would stake all I hold dear," said the Cap- 
tain, with great animation, " that Cadurcis turns 
out well. He has such a good heart. Ah! Lady 
Annabel, if he be now and then a little irregular, 
only think of the temptations that assail him. 
Only one-and-twenty — his own master — and all 
London at his feet. It is too much for any one's 
head. But say or think what the world may, I 
know hira better than they do ; and I know there 
is not a finer creature in existence. I hope his old 
friends will not desert him," added Captain Cadur- 
cis, Vvfith a smile which seemed to deprecate the 
severity of Lady Annabel, " for, in spite of all his 
f mie and prosperity, perhaps, after all, this is the 
time when he most needs them." 

" Vei-j' possibly," said her ladj^ship, rather dry- 
ly." 

While the mother was engaged in this conver- 
sation with her neighbour respecting her former 
interesting acquaintance, such was the fame of 
Lord Cadurcis then in the metropolis that he also 
formed the topic of conversation at another part 
of the table, to which the daughter was an atten- 
tive listener. The tone in which he was spoken 
of, however, was of a very different character. 
While no one disputed his genius ; his principles, 
temper, and habits of life were submitted to the 
severest scrutiny ; and it was with blended feelings 
of interest and astonishment that Vcnetia listened 
to the detail of wild opinions, capricious conduct, 
and extravagant and eccentric behaviour ascribed 
to the companion of her childhood, who had now 
become the spoiled child of society. A very shrewd 
gentleman, who had taken an extremely active 
part in this discussion, inquired of Venetia, next 
to whom he was seated, whether she had read his 
lordship's last poem. He was extremely surprised 
when Venetia. answered in the negative ; but he 
seized the opportunity of giving her an elaborate 
criticism on the poetical genius of Cadurcis. " As 
for his style," said the critic, "no one can deny 
that is his own, and he will last by his style ; as 
for his philosophj', and all these wild opinions of 
his, they will pass away, because they are not 
genuine, they are not his own, they are borrowed. 
He will outwrite them ; depend upon it, he will. 
The fact is, as a friend of mine observed the other 
day, Herbert's writings have turned his head. Of 
course you know nothing about them, but there 
are wonderful things in them, I can tell you 
that." 

" I believe it most sincerely," said Venetia, 

The critic stared at his neighbour. " Hush !" 
said he, " his wife and daughter are here. We 
must not talk of these things. You know Lady 
Annabel Herbert 1 There she is; a very fine 
woman too. And that is his daughter there, I 
' believe, that girl with a tumed-up nose. I can 

3 T 



770 



D'ISRAELl S NOVELS. 



not say she warrants the poetical address to 
her: — 

My precious pearl tlie false and glittering world 
Has ne'er polluted witli its garish light V 

" She does not look much like a pearl, does she 1 
She should keep in solitude, eh V 

The ladies rose and relieved Venetia from her 
mbarrassment. 

After dinner Lady Annabel introduced George 
Cadurcis to her daughter ; and, seated by them 
both, he contrived without effort and without the 
slightest consciousness of success, to confirm tlie 
pleasing impression in his favour, which he had 
already made, and when they parted, it was 
even witli a mutual wish that they might meet 
again. 



CHAPTER LX. 

It was the night after the drawing-room. Lord 
Cadurcis was at Brookes' dining at midnight, 
having risen since only a few hours. Being a 
mal-contcnt, he had ceased to attend the court, 
where his original reception had been most gra- 
cious, which he had returned by some very fac- 
tious votes, and a very caustic lampoon. 

A party of young men entered from the Court 
Ball ; wliich in tiiose days always terminated at 
midniglit, v,'hence the guests generally proceeded 
to Ranelagh ; one or two of them seated them- 
selves at the table at which Cadurcis was sitting. 
They were full of a new beauty who had been 
presented. Their violent and even extravagant 
encomiums excited his curiosity. Such a creature 
had never been seen, she was peerless, the most 
radiant of acknowledged charms had been dimmed 
before her. Their Majesties had accorded to her 
the most marked reception. A prince of the blood 
had honoured her with his hand. Then they be- 
gan to expatiate with fresh enthusiasm on her 
unparalleled loveliness. 

" ! Cadurcis," said a young noble, who was 
one of his extreme admirers, " she is tlie only crea- 
ture I ever beheld worthy of being one of your 
heroines." 

" Who are you talking about 1" asked Cadurcis 
in a rather listless tone. 

" The new beauty, of course." 

" And who may she be 1" 

" Miss Herbert, to be sure. Who speaks or 
thinks of any one elsel" 

"What, Ve , I mean Miss Herbert?" ex- 
claimed Cadurcis with no little energy. 

" Yes. Do you know her 1" 

" Do you mean to say " and Cadurcis 

stopped and rose from the table, and joined the 
party round the fire. " What Miss Herbert is it V 
he added after a short pause. 

" Why the Miss Herbert ; Herbert's daughter, 
to be sure. She was presented to-day by her mo- 
ther." 

"Lady Annabel ]" 

" The same." 

" Presented to-day !" said Cadurcis audibly, yet 
speaking as it were to himself. " Presented to-day ! 
Presented ! how strange !" 

"So every one thinks; one of the strangest 



things that ever happened," remarked a by- 
stander. 

" And I did not even know they were in town," 
continued Cadurcis, for, from his irregular hour?, 
he had not seen his cousin since the party of yes- 
terday. He began walking up and down the 
room, muttering, " Masham, Weymouth, London, 
presented at court, and I know nothing. How life 
changes ! Venetia at court, my Venetia !" Then 
turning round and addressing the young nobleman 
who had first spoken to him, he asked " if the ball 
were over." 

' Yes ; all the world are going to Eanelagh. 
Are you inclined to take a round V 

" I have a strange fancy," said Cadurcis, " and 
if you will go with me, I will take you in my vis- 
a-vis. It is here." 

This was an irresistible invitation, and in a few 
minutes the companions were on their way. Ca- 
durcis, apparently with no peculiar interest in the 
subject, leading the conversation very artfully to 
the presentation of Miss Herbert. His friend wag 
heartily inclined to gratify his curiosity. He gave 
him the most ample details of Miss Herbert's per 
son. Even her costume, and the sensation both 
produced ; how she was presented by her mother, 
who, after so long an estrangement from the 
world, scarcely excited less impression, and the 
remarkable cordiality with which both mother and 
daughter were greeted by the sovereign and bis 
ro3ral consort. 

The two yo>ing noblemen found Ranelagh very 
crowded, but the presence of Lord Cadurcis occa- 
sioned a great sensation the moment he was recog- 
nised. Every where the whisper went round, and 
many parties crowded near to catch a glimpse of 
the hero of the day. " Which is he 1 That fair, 
tall young man 1 No, the other to be sure. Is it 
really he 1 How very distinguished ! How veiy 
melancholy ! Quite the poet. Do you think he 
is really as unhappy as he looks 1 I would sooner 
see him than the king and queen. He seems very 
young, but then he has seen so much of the world ! 
Fine eyes, beautiful hair ! I wonder who is his 
friend 1 How proud he must be ! Who is that 

lady he bowed to 1 That is the duke of 

speaking to him." Such were the remarks that 
might be caught in the vicinity of Lord Cadurcis 
as he took his round, gazed at by the assembled 
crowd, of whom many knew him only by fame, 
for the charm of Ranelagh was that it was rather 
a popular than a mere fashionable assembly. So- 
ciety at large blended with the court, which main- 
tained and renewed its influence by being witnessed 
under the most graceful auspices. The personal 
authority of the aristocracy has decreased with the 
disappearance of Ranelagh and similar places of 
amusement, where rank was not exclusive, and 
luxury by the gratification it occasioned others 
seemed robbed of half its selfism. 

In his second round. Lord Cadurcis recognised 
the approach of the Herberts. They formed a por- 
tion of a very large party. Lady Annabel was 
leaning on her brother, whom Cadurcis knew by 
sight ; Venetia was at the side of her aunt, and 
several gentlemen were hovering about them ; 
among them, to his surprise, his cousin, George 
Cadurcis, in his uniform, for he had been to court 
and to the Court Ball. Venetia was talking with 
I animation. She was in her comt dress and in 



VENETIA. 



771 



powder. Her appearance was strange to him. He 
could scarcely recognise the friend of his child- 
hood ; but without any doubt in all that assembly, 
unrivalled in the whole world for beauty, grace, 
and splendour, she was without a parallel ; a cyno- 
sure on which all eyes were fixed. 

So occupied were the ladies of the Herbert party 
by the conversation of their numerous and bril- 
liant attendants, that the approach of any one else 
but Lord Cadurcis might have been unnoticed by 
them, but a hundred tongues before he drew nigh, 
had prepared Venetia for his appearance. She 
was indeed most anxious to behold him, and 
though she was aware that her heart fluttered not 
slightly as the moment was at hand, she com- 
manded her gaze, and her eyes met his although 
she was very doubtful whether he might choose 
or care to recognise her. He bowed almost to the 
ground ; and when Venetia had raised her respon- 
sive head he had passed by. 

"Why, Cadurcis, you know Miss Herbert 1" 
said his friend in a tone of some "astonishment. 

" Well ; but it is a long time since I have seen 
her." 

" Is she not beautiful V 

" I never doubted on that subject ; I tell you, 
Scrops, we must contrive to join her party. I wish 
we had some of our friends among them. Here 
comes the Monteagle ; aid me to escape her." 

The most fascinating smile foiled in arresting 
the progress of Cadurcis ; fortunately, the lady 
was the centre of a most brilliant band ; — all that 
he had to do, therefore, was boldly to proceed. 

"Do you think my cousin is altered since you 
knew him]" inquired George Cadurcis of Ve- 
netia. 

" I scarcely had time to observe him," she re- 
pUed. 

" I wish you would let me bring him to you. 
He did not know until this moment you vv^ere in 
town. I have not seen him since we met yester- 
day." 

" 0, no," said Venetia; " Do not disturb him." 

In time, however, Lord Cadurcis was again in 
sight; and now, without any hesitation, he stop- 
ped, and fpUing into the line by Miss Herbert, he 
addressed her : " I am proud of being remembered 
by Miss Herbert," he said. 

" I am most happy to meet you," replied Vene- 
tia, with unaffected sincerity. 

" And Lady Annabel, I have not been able to 
catch her eye — is she quite well 1 I was ignorant 
that you were in London until I heard of your 
triumph this night." 

The countess whispered her niece, and Venetia 
accordingly presented Lord Cadurcis to her aunt 
This was a most gratifying circumstance to him 
He was anxious, by some means or other, to effect 
his entrance into her circle ; and he had an in-e 
sistible suspicion that Lady Annabel no longer 
looked upon him with eyes of favour. So he re- 
solved to enlist the aunt as his friend. Few per- 
sons could be more winning than Cadurcis, when 
he willed it ; and every attempt to please from 
one whom all emulated to gratify and honour, was 
sure to be successful. The countess, who, in 
spite of politics, was a secret votary of his, was 
quite prepared to be enchanted. She congratulated 
herself on forming, as she had long wished, an 
acquaintance with one so celebrated. She longed 
10 pass Lady Monteagle in triumph. Cadurcis 



improved his opportunity to the utmost. It was 
impossible for any one to be more engaging ; live- 
ly, yet at the same time gentle, and deferential 
with all his originality. He spoke, indeed, more 
to the aunt than to Venetia; but when he ad- 
dressed the latter, there was a melting, almost a 
mournful, tenderness in his tones, that alike af- 
fected her heart and charmed her imagination. 
Nor could she be insensible to the gratification 
she experienced as she witnessed, every instant, 
the emotion his presence excited among the passers 
by, and of which Cadurcis himself seemed so 
properly and so utterly unconscious. And this 
was Plantagenet ! 

Lord Cadurcis spoke of his cousin, who, on his 
oining the party, had assisted the arrangement 
by moving to the other side ; and he spoke of him 
with a regard which pleased Venetia, though his 
lordship envied him his good fortune in having the 
advantage of a prior acquaintance with Miss Her- 
bert in town ; " but then we are old acquaintances 
in the country," he added, half in a playful, half 
in a melancholy tone, " are we noti" 

" It is a long time that we have known each 
other, and it is a long time since we have met," 
replied Venetia. 

' A delicate reproach," said his lordship ; " but 
perhaps rather my misfortune than my fault. My 
thoughts have been often, I might say ever, at 
Cherbury." 

" And the abbey ; have you forgotten the 
abbey 1" 

" I have never been near it since a morning you 
perhaps remember," said his lordship in a low 
voice. " Ah ! Miss Herbert," he continued, with 
a sigh, " I was young then ; I have lived to change 
many opinions, and some of which you then dis- 
approved." 

The party stopped at a box just vacant, and in 
which the ladies seated themselves while their 
carriages were inquired for. Lord Cadurcis, with 
a faltering heart, went up to pay his respects to 
Venetia's - mother. Lady Annabel received him 
with a courtesy, that however was scarcely cordial, 
but the Countess instantly presented him to her 
husband with an unction which a little astonished 
her sister-in-law. Then a whisper, but unobserved, 
passed between the Earl and his lady, and in a 
minute Lord Cadurcis had been invited to dine 
Vi^ith them on the next day, and meet his old fi-iends 
from the country. Cadurcis was previously en- 
gaged, but hesitated not a moment in accepting 
the invitation. The Monteagle party now passed 
by ; the lady looked a little surprised at the com- 
pany in which she found her favourite, and not 
a little mortified by his neglect. What business 
had Cadurcis to be speaking to that Miss Herbert'! 
Was it not enough that the whole day not another 
name had scarcely crossed her ear, but the night 
must even witness the conquest of Lord Cadurcis 
by the new beauty 1 It was such bad ton, it was 
so unlike him, it was so underbred, for a person of 
his position immediately to bow before the new 
idol of the hour — and a Tory girl too ! It was 
the last thing she could have expected from him. 
She should, on the contrary, have thought that 
the very universal admiration which this Miss 
Herbert commanded would have been exactly the 
reason why a man like Cadurcis would have 
seemed almost unconscious of her existence. She 
determined to remonstrate with him ; and she was 



772 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



sure of a speedy opportunity, for he was to dine ' 
with her en the morrow. 



CHAPTER X. 

NoTWiTHSTAXDiNfj Lady Annabel's reserved 
demeanour, Lord Cadurcis, supported by the pre- 
sence of his cousin, who he had discovered to be 
a favourite of that lady, ventured to call upon her 
the next day, but she was out. They were to 
meet, however, at dinner, where Cadurcis deter- 
mined to omit no opportunity to propitiate her. 
The Countess had a great deal of tact, and she 
contrived to make up a party to receive him in 
which there were several of his friends, among 

them his cousin and the Bishop of — , and no 

strangers who were not, like herself, his great 
admirers ; but if she had known more she need not 
have given herself this trouble, for there was a 
charm among her guests of which she was igno- 
rant, and Cadurcis went determined to please and 
to be pleased. 

At dinner he was seated next to Lady Annabel, 
and it was impossible for any person to be more 
deferential, soft, and insinuating. He spoke of 
old days with emotion which he did not attempt 
to suppress ; he alluded to the present with infinite 
delicacy. But it was very difficult to make way. 
Lady Annabel was courteous, but she was reserved. 
His lively reminiscences elicited from her no cor- 
responding sentiment ; and no art would induce 
her to dwell upon the present. If she only would 
have condescended to compliment him, it would 
have given him an opportunity of expressing his 
distaste of the life which he no%v led, and a des- 
cription of the only life which he wished to lead ; 
but Lady Annabel studiously avoided affording 
liira any opening of the kind. She treated him 
like a stranger. She impressed upon him without 
clFort that she would only consider him an ac- 
quaintance. How Cadurcis, satiated with the 
incense of the whole world, sighed for one single 
congratulation from Lady Annabel I Nothing 
could move her. 

" I was so surprised to meet you last night," at 
length he again observed. " I have made so many 
inquiries after you. Our dear friend, the Bishop, 
was, I fear, almost wearied with my inquiries after 
Cherbury. I know not how it was, I felt quite a 
pang when I heard that you had left it, and that 
all these years, when I have been conjuring up so 
many visions of what was passing under that dear 
roof, you were at Weymouth." 

" Yes. We were at Weymouth some time." 
"But do not you long to see Cherbury again? 
T cannot tell you how I pant for it. For my part, 
I have seen the world, and I have seen enough of 
it. After all, the end of all our exertions is to be 
happy at home ; that is the end of every thing ; 
don't you think so V 

'' A hap})y home is certainly a great blessing," 
replied Lady Annabel ; " and a very rare one." 

" But why should it be so rarel" inquired Lord 
(yadurcis. 

" It is our own fault," said Lady Annabel ; " our 
vanity drives us from our hearths." 

" But we soon return again, and calm and cooled. 



For my part I have no object in life but to settle 
down at the old abbey, and never to quit again 
our woods. But I shall lead a dull life without 
my neighbours," he added, with a smile, and in a 
tone half coaxing. 

"I suppose you never see Lord******* nowl" 
said Lady Annabel, mentioning his late guardian. 
There was, as Cadurcis fancied, some sarcasm in 
the question, though not in the tone in which it 
was asked. 

" No, I never see him," his lordship answered, 
firmly ; " we differ in our opinions, and I diffei 
from him with regret ; but I differ from a sense of 
duty, and therefore I have no alternative." 

" The claims of duty are of course paramount,' 
observed Lady Annabel. 

" You know my cousin ?" said Lord Cadurcis 
to turn the conversation. 

" Yes, and I like him very much ; he appears 
to be a sensible, amiable person, of excellent prin- 
ciples." 

" I am not bound to admire George's principles," 
said Lord Cadurcis, gaily ; " but I respect them, 
because I know that they are conscientious. I 
love George; he is my only relation, and he is my 
friend." 

"I trust he will always be your friend, for I 
think you will then, at least, know one person on 
whom you can depend." 

" I believe it. The friendships of the world are 
wind." 

" I am surprised to hear you say so," said Lady 
Annabel. 

" Why, Lady Annabel 1" 

" You have so many friends." 

Lord Cadurcis smiled. "I wish," he said, after 
a little hesitation, " if only for ' Auld lang syne,' 
I might include Lady Annabel Herbert among 
them." 

" I do not think there is any basis for friendship 
between us, my lord," she said, very dryly. 

" The past must ever be with me," said Lord 
Cadurcis, " and I should have thought a sure and 
solid one." 

" Our opinions on all subjects are so adverse, 
that I must believe that there could be no great 
sympathy in our feelings." 

" My feelings are beyond my control," he re- 
plied ; " they are, and must ever be, totally inde- 
pendent of my opinions." 

Lady Annabel did not reply. His lordship felt 
baffled, but he was resolved to make one more 
effort. 

" Do you know," he said, " I can scarcely be- 
lieve myself in London to-day 1 To be sitting 
next to you, to see Miss Herbert, to hear Doctor 
Masham's voice — ! does it not recall Cherbury, 
or Marringhurst, or that day at Cadurcis, when 
you were so good as to smile over my rough re- 
past. Ah ! Lady Annabel, those days were happy ! 
those were feelings that can never die ! All the 
glitter and hubbub of the world can never make 
me forget them, — can never make you, I hope, 
Lady Annabel, quite recall them with an effort. 
We were friends then : let us be friends now." 

" I am too old to cultivate new friendships," 
said her ladyship ; " and if we are to be friends, 
Lord Cadurcis, I am sorry to say that, after the 
interval that has occurred since we last parted, we 
should have to begin again." 



VENETIA. 



773 



" It is a long time," saiJ his lordship, mourn- 
fully, a " very long time, and one — in spite of what 
the world may think — to which I cannot look baclf 
with any self-congratulation. I wished three years 
ago never to leave Cadurcis again. Indeed I did ; 
;-ind indeed it was not my fault that I quitted it." 

" It was no one's fault, I hope, my lord. What- 
ever the cause may have been, I have ever remain- 
ed quite ignorant of it ; I wished, and wish, to 
remain ignorant of it. I, for one, have ever 
considered it the wise dispensation of a merciful 
Providence." 

Cadurcis ground his teeth ; a dark look came 
over him which, when once it rose on his brow, 
was with difficulty dispelled ; and for the remain- 
der of the dinner he continued silent and gloomy. 

He was, however, not unobserved by Venetia. 
She had watched his evident attempts to conciliate 
her mother, with lively interest ; she had witnessed 
their failure with sincere sorrow. In spite of that 
stormy interview, the results of.wb.ich — in his hasty 
departure, and the severance of their acquaintance 
— she had often regretted, she had always retained 
for him the greatest affection. During these three 
years he had still, in her inmost heart, remained 
her own Plantagenet — her adopted brother, whom 
she loved, and in whose welfare her feelings were 
deeply involved. The mysterious circumstances 
of her birth, and the discoveries to which they had 
led, had filled her mind with a fanciful picture of 
human nature, over which she had long brooded. 
A great poet had become her ideal of man. Some- 
times she had sighed — when musing over her fa- 
ther and Plantagenet on the solitary sea-shore at 
Weymouth — that Cadurcis, instead of being the 
merely amiablej and somewhat narrow-minded be- 
ing, that she supposed, had not been invested with 
those brilliant and commanding qualities which 
she felt could alone master her esteem. Often had 
she, in those abstracted hours, played with her 
imagination in combining the genius of her father 
with the soft heart of that friend to whom she was 
so deeply attached. She had w'ished, in her reve- 
ries, that Cadurcis might have been a great man ; 
that he might have existed in an atmosphere of 
glory, amid the plaudits and admiration of his race ; 
and that then he might have turned from all that 
fame, so dear to them both, to the heart which could 
alone sympathise with the native simplicity of his 
childhood. 

The ladies withdrew. The Bishop and another 
of the guests joined them after a short interval. 
The rest remained below, and drank their wine 
with the fieedom not unusual in those days. Lord 
Cadurcis among them, although it was not his 
habit. But he was not convivial, though he never 
passed the bottle untouched. He was in one of 
those dark humours of which there was a latent 
spring in his nature, but which, in old days, had 
been kept in check by his simple life, his inexperi- 
enced mind, and the general kindness that greeted 
him, and which nothing but the caprice and per- 
versity of his mother could occasionally develope. 
But since the great revolution in his position, since 
circumstances had made him alike acquainted with 
his nature, and had brought all society to acknow- 
ledge its superiority ; since he had gained and felt 
his irresistible power, and had found all the world, 
and all the glory of it, at his feet, these moods had 
become more frequent. The slightest reaction in 
the self-complacency that was almost unceasingly 



stinnilated by the applause of applauded men, and 
the love of the loveliest women, instantly took the 
shape and found refuge in the immediate form of 
the darkest spleen, generally indeed brooding in 
silence, and, if speaking, expressing itself only in 
sarcasm. Cadurcis was, indeed, — as we have al- 
ready' described him, — the spoiled child of society ; 
a froward and petted darling, not always to be con- 
ciliated by kindness, but furious when neglected or 
controlled. He was habituated to triumph ; it had 
been his lot to come, to see, and to conquer ; even 
the procrastination of certain success was intolera- 
ble to him ; his energetic volition could not endure 
a check. To Lady Annabel Herbert, indeed, he 
was not exactly what he was to others ; theie was 
a spell in old associations from which he uncon- 
sciously could not emancipate himself, and from 
which it was his opinion he honoured her, in not 
desiring to be free. He had his reasons for wish- 
ing to regain his old, his natural influence, over 
her heart; he did not doubt for an instant that, if 
Cadurcis sued, success must follow the condescend- 
ing effort. He had sued, and he had been met 
with coldness, almost with disdain. He had ad- 
dressed her in those tones of tenderness which ex- 
perience had led him to believe were irresistible, 
yet to which he seldom had recourse, for hitherto 
he had not been under the degrading necessity of 
courting. He hod dwelt with fondness on the in- 
«gnificant past, because it was connected with 
her ; he had regretted, or affected even to despise, 
the glorious present, because it seemed, for some 
indefinite cause, to have estranged him from her 
hearth. Yes ! he had humbled himself before her: 
lie had thrown with disdain at her feet all that 
dazzling fame and expanding glory which seemed 
his peculiar and increasing privilege. He had de- 
licately conveyed to her that even these would he 
sacrificed, not only without a sigh, but with cheer- 
ful delight, to find himself once more living, as of 
old, in the limited world of her social afti;ctions. 
Three years ago he had been rejected by the daugh- 
ter, because he was an undistinguished youth. 
Now the mother recoiled from his fame. And who 
was this woman 1 The same cold, stern heart, that 
had alienated the gifted Herbert ; the same narrow, 
rigid mind, that had repudiated ties that every 
other woman in the world would have gloried to 
cherish and acknowledge. And with her he had 
passed his prejudiced youth, and fancied, like an 
idiot, that he had found sympathy ! Yes, as long 
as he was a slave, a mechanical, submissive slave, 
bowing his mind to all the traditionary bigotry 
which she adored, never daring to form an opinion 
for himself, worshipping her idol custom, and la- 
bourhig by habitual hypocrisy to perpetuate the 
delusions of all around her ! 

In the mean time, while Lord Cadurcis was 
chewing the cud of these bitter feelings, we will 
take the opportunity of explaining the immediate 
cause of Lady Annabel's frigid reception of his 
friendly advances. All that she had heard of Ca- 
durcis, all the information which she had within 
these few days so rapidly acquired of his character 
and conduct, were indeed not calculated to dispose 
her to witness the renewal of their intimacy with 
feelings of remarkable satisfaction. But this morn- 
ing she had read his poem, the poem that all Lon- 
don was talking of and she had read it with -hor- 
ror. She looked upon Cadurcis as a lost man. 
With her, indeed, since her marriage, an imagina- 
3t2 



774 



D'ISRAEL['vS NOVELS. 



tire mind had become an object of tenor; but 
there were some peculiarities in the tone of Cadur- 
cis' genius, which magnified to excess her general 
apprehension on this head. She traced, in every 
line, the evidences of a raging vanity, whicli she 
was convinced must prompt its owner to sacrifice, 
on all occasions, every feeling of duty to its gratifi- 
<;ation. Amid all the fervour of rebellious passions, 
and the violence of a wayward mind, a sentiment 
of profound egotism appeared to her impressed on 
every page she perused. Great as might have been 
the original errors of Herbert — awful as in her esti- 
mation were the crimes to which they had led him, 
they might in the first instance be traced rather to 
a perverted view of society than of himself. But 
self was the idol of Cadurcis ; self distorted into a 
phantom that seemed to Lady Annabel pregnant 
not only with terrible crimes, but with the basest 
and most humiliating vices. The certain degra- 
dation which in the instance of her husband had 
been the consequences of a bad system, would, in 
her opinion, in the case of Cadurcis, be the result 
of a bad nature ; and when she called to mind that 
there had once been a probability that this indivi- 
dual might have become the husband of her Venetia, 
her child whom it had been the sole purpose of her 
life to save from the misery of which she herself 
had been the victim ; that she had even dwelt on 
the idea with complacency, encouraged its pro- 
gress, regretted its abrupt termination, but consoled 
herself by the flattering hope that time, with even 
more favourable auspices, would mature it into ful- 
filment; she trembled, and turned pale. 

It was to the Bishop that, after dinner, Lady 
Annabel expressed some of the feelings which the 
re-appearance of Cadurcis had occasioned her. 

" I see nothing but misery for his future," she 
exclaimed ; " I tremble for him when he addresses 
me. In spite of the glittering surface on which he 
now floats, I foresee only a career of violence, degra- 
dation, and remorse." 

" He is a problem difficult to solve," replied Ma- 
sham, " but there are elements not only in his 
character, but his career, so different from those of 
the person of whom we were speaking, that I am 
not inclined at once to admit, that the result must 
necessarily be the same." 

" I see none," replied Lady Annabel ; " at least, 
none of sufllcient influence to work any material 
change." 

" What think you of his success 1" replied Ma- 
sham. " Cadurcis is evidently proud of it. With 
all his affected scorn of the world, he is the slave 
of society. He may pique the feelirigs of mankind, 
but I doubt whether he will outrage them." 

" He is on such adhzy eminence," replied Lady 
Annabel, " that I do not believe he is capable of 
calculating so finely. He does not believe, I am 
sure, in the possibility of resistance. His vanity 
will tempt him onwards." 

" Not to persecution," said Masham. " Now 
my opinion of Cadurcis is, that his egotism, or 
selfism, or whatever you may style it, will ulti- 
mately presei-vc him from any very fatal, from any 
irrecoverable excesses. He is of the world — world- 
ly. All his works, all his conduct, tend only to 
astonish mankind. He is not prompted by any 
visionary ideas of ameliorating his species. The 
instinct of self-preservation will serve him as bal- 
last." 

" We shall see," said Lady Annabel ; " for my- 



self, whatever may be his end, I feel assured that 
great and disgraceful vicissitudes are in store for 
him." 

" It is strange after what, in comparison with 
such extraordinary changes, must be esteemed so 
brief an interval," obsei-ved Masham, with a smile, 
" to witness such a revolution in his position. I 
often think to myself, can this indeed be ovu" little 
Plantagcnet!" 

" It is awful !" said Lady Annabel ; " much 
more than strange. For m3'self, when I recall 
certaiir indications of his feelings when he was 
last at Cadurcis, and think for a moment of the 
results to which they might have led, I shiver ; I 
assure you, my dear lord, I tremble from head to 
foot. And I encouraged him ! I smiled with fond-' 
ness on his feelings ! I thought I was securing 
the peaceful happiness of my child ! What can 
we trust to in this world ! It is too dreadful to 
dwell upon ! It must have been an interposition 
of Providence that Venetia escaped !" 

'' Dear little Venetia !" exclaimed the good Bi- 
shop ; " for I believe I shall call her little Venetia 
to the day of my death. How well she looks to- 
night ! Her aunt is, I think, very fond of her. 
See !" 

" Yes, it pleases me," said Lady Annabel ; " but 
I do wish my sister was not such an admirer of 
Lord Cadurcis' poems. You cannot conceive 
how uneasy it makes me. I am quite anno3'ed 
that he was asked here to-day.- Why ask himl" 

" ! there is no harm," said Masham ; " you 
must forget the past. By all accounts, Cadurcis 
is not a marrying man. Indeed, as I understood, 
marriage with him is at present quite out of the 
question. And as for Venetia, she rejected hira 
before, and she will, if necessary, reject him again, 
He has been a brother to her, and after that he can 
be no more. Girls never fall in love with thosa 
with whom they are bred up." 

" I hope — I believe there is no occasion for ap- 
prehension," replied Lady Annabel ; indeed it has 
scarcely entered my head. The very charms he 
once admired in Venetia, can have no sway over 
him, as I should think, now. I should believe 
him as little capable of appreciating Venetia now, 
as he was when last at Cherbury of anticipating 
the change in his own character." 

" You mean opinions, my dear lady, for charac- 
ters never change. Believe me, Cadurcis is radi- 
cally the same as in old days. Circumstances have 
only developed his latent predisposition." 

" Not changed, my dear lord ; what, that inno- 
cent, sweet-tempered, docile child — " 

" Hush ! here he comes." 

The earl and h.is guests entered the room ; a 
circle was fonned round Lady Annabel ; some 
evening visiters arrived ; there was singing. It 
had not been the intention of Lord Cadurcis to 
return to the drawing-room after his rebuff by Lady 
Annabel ; he had meditated making his peace at 
Monteagle House ; but when the moment of his 
projected departure arrived, he could not resist the 
temptation of again seeing Venetia. He entered 
the room last, and some moments after his compa- 
nions. Lady Annabel, who watched the general 
entrance, concluded he had gone, and her atten- 
tion was now fully engaged. Lord Cadurcis re- 
mained at the end of the room alone, apparently 
abstracted, and looking far from amiable ; but hia 
eye, in reality, was watching Venetia. Suddenly 



VLNETIA. 



"75 



her aunt approached her, and invited the lady who 
was conversing with Miss Herbert to sing ; Lord 
Cadurcis immediately advanced and took her seat. 
Venetia was surprised that for the first time in her 
life with Plantagenet she felt embarrassed. She 
had met his look when he approached her, and 
had welcomed, or, at least, intended to welcome 
him with a smile, but she was at a loss for words ; 
she was haunted with the recollection of her 
mother's behaviour to him at dinner, and she 
looked down on the ground, far from being at 
ease. 

" Venetia !" said Lord Cadurcis. 

She started. 

" We are alone," he said ; " let me call you Ve- 
netia when we are alone." 

She did not — she could not reply ; she felt 
confused ; she felt, indeed, the blood rise to her 
cheek. 

" How changed is every thing !" continued Ca- 
durcis. " To think the day should ever arrive 
when I should have to beg your permission to call 
you Venetia !" 

She looked ug ; she met his glance. It was 
mournful ; nay, his eyes were suffused with tears. 
She saw at her side the gentle and melancholy 
Plantagenet of her childhood. 

" I cannot speak ; I am agitated at meeting you," 
she said with her native frankness. " It is so long 
since we have been alone ; and, as you say, all is 
so changed." 

"But are you changed, Venetia?" he said in 
a. voice of emotion, " for all other change is no- 
thing." 

"I meet you with pleasure," she replied; "I 
hear of your fame with pride. .You cannot suppose 
that it is possible I should cease to be interested in 
your welfare." 

" Your mother does not meet me with pleasure ; 
she hears of nothing that has occurred with pride ; 
your mother has ceased to take an interest in my 
welfare; and why should you be vmchanged 1" 

" You mistake my mother." 

"No, no," replied Cadurcis, shaking his head, 
" I have read her inmost soul to-day. Your mother 
hates me, — me, whom she once styled her son. 
She was a mother once to me, and you were my 
sister. If I have lost her heart, why have I not 
lost yours V 

" My heart, if you care for it, is unchanged," said 
Venetia. 

" ! Venetia, whatever you may think, I never 
wanted the solace of a sister's love more than I do 
at this moment." 

" I pledged my affection to you when we were 
children," replied Venetia ; " you have done nothing 
to forfeit it, and it is yours still." 

" When we were children," said Cadurcis, mu- 
singly ; when we were innocent , when we vi'ere 
happy. You, at least, are innocent still ; are you 
happy, Venetia?" 

" Life has brought sorrows even to me, Plemta- 
genet." 

The blood deserted his heart when she called 
liim Plantagenet; he breathed with difficulty. 

" When I last returned to Cherbury," he said, 
" you told me you were changed, Venetia ; you 
revealed to me on another occasion the secret cause 
of your affliction. I was a boy then, — a foolish, 
ignorant boy. Instead of sympathising with your 



heart-felt anxiety, my silly vanity was offended by 
feelings I should have shared, and soothed, and 
honoured. Ah ! Venetia, well had it been for on.e 
of us that I had conducted myself more kindly, 
more wisely." 

" Nay, Plantagenet, believe me, I remember that 
interview only to regret it. The recollection of it 
has always occasioned me great grief. We were 
both to blame ; but we were both children then. 
We must pardon each other's faults." 

" You will hear, — that is, if you care to listen, 
Venetia, — much of my conduct and opinions," 
continued Lord Cadurcis, " that may induce 3"ou 
to believe me headstrong and capricious. Perhaps 
I am less of both in all things than the world 
imagines. But of this be certain, that my feelings 
towards you have never changed, whatever you 
may permit them to be ; and if some of my boy- 
ish judgments have, as was but natural, undergone 
some transformation, be you, my sweet friend, in 
some degree consoled for the inconsistency, since 
I have at length learned duly to appreciate one of 
whom we then alike knew little, but whom a na- 
tural inspiration taught you, at least, justly to ap- 
preciate — I need not say I moan the illustrious 
father of your being." 

Venetia could not restrain hei tears ; she endea- 
voured to conceal her agitated countenance be- 
hind the fan with which she was fortunately 
provided. 

" To me a forbidden subject," said Venetia, " at 
least with them I could alone converse upon it, 
but one that my nund never deserts." 

" O ! Venetia," exclaimed Lord Cadurcis witli 
a sigh, " would we were both with him !" 

'' A wild thought," she murmured, " and one I 
must not dwell upon." 

" We shall meet, I hope," said Lord Cadurcis ; 
" we must meet — meet often. I called upon your 
mother to-day, fruitlessly. You must attempt to 
conciliate her. Why should we be parted ? We, 
at least, are friends, and more than friends. I 
cannot exist unless we meet, and meet with the 
frankness of old days." 

" I think you mistake mamma ; I think you 
may, indeed. Remember how lately she has met 
you, and after how long an interval ! A little 
time, and she will resume her former feelings, and 
believe that you have never forfeited yours. Be- 
sides, we have friends, mutual friends. My aunt 
aduiires you, and here I naturally must be a great 
deal. And the bishop, — he still loves "you ; that I 
am sure he does ; and your cousin, — mamma likes 
your cousin. I am sure, if you can manage only 
to be patient, — if you will only attempt to concili- 
ate a little, all will be as before. Remember, too, 
how changed your position is," Venetia added 
with a smile ; " you allow me to forget you aie a 
great man, but mamma is naturally restrained by 
all this wonderful revolution. When she finds 
that you really are the Lord Cadurcis whom she 
knew such a very little boy, — the Lord Cadurcis 
who, without her aid, would never have been able 
even to write his fine poems, — ! she must love 
you again ! How can she help it ?" 

Cadurcis smiled. "We shall see,'" he said, 
" In the meantime do not you desert me, Vene- 
tia." 

"That is impossible," she repUed: "the hap- 
piest of my days have been past with you. You 



776 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



remember the inscription on the jewel 1 I shall 
keep to my vows." 

" That was a very good inscription as far as it 
went," said Cadurcis; and then, as if a little 
alarmed at his temerity, he changed the subject. 

" Do you know," said Yenetia, after a pause, 
" I am treating you all this time as a poet, merely 
in deference to public opinion. Not a line have I 
been permitted to read ; but I am resolved to rebel, 
and you must arrange it all." 

"Ah!" said the enraptured Cadurcis, "this is 
fame !" 

At this moment the countess approached them, 
and told Venetia that her mother wished to speak 
to her. Lady Annabel had discovered the tete-d- 
t te, and resolved instantly to terminate it. Lord 
Cadurcis, however, who was quick as lightning, 
read all that was necessary in Venctia's look. In- 
stead of instantly retiring, he remained some little 
time longer, talked a great deal to the countess, — 
who was perfectly enchanted with him, — even 
sauntered up to the singers, and complimented 
them, and did not make his bow until he had con- 
vinced at least the mistress of the mansion, if not 
her sister-in-law, that it was not Venetia Herbert 
who was his principal attraction in this agreeable 
society. 



CHAPTER XL 

The moment he had quitted Venetia, Lord Ca- 
durcis returned home. He could not endure the 
usual routine of gayety after her society ; and his 
coachman, often waiting until five o'clock in the 
morning at Monteagle House, could scarcely as- 
sure himself of his good fortune in this exception 
to his accustomed trial of patience. The vis-a-vis 
stopped, and Lord Cadurcis bounded out with a 
light step and a lighter heart. His table was co- 
vered with letters. The first one that caught his 
eye was a missive from Lady Monteagle. Cadur- 
cis seized it like a wild animal darting on its prey, 
tore it in half without opening it, and, grasping the 
poker, crammed it with great energy into the fire. 
This exploit being achieved, Cadurcis began walk- 
ing, up and down the room ; and indeed he paced 
it for nearly a couple of hours in a deep revery, 
and evidently under a considerable degree of ex- 
citement, for his gestures were violent, and his 
voice often audible. At length, about an hour 
after midnight, he rang for his valet, tore off his 
cravat, and hurled it in one corner of the apartment, 
called for his robe de chambre, soda water, and 
more lights, seated himself, and began pouring 
forth, faster almost than a pen could trace the 
words, the poem that he had been meditating ever 
since he had quitted the roof where he had met 
Yenetia. She had expressed a wish to read his 
j)oems ; he had resolved instantly to compose one 
for her solitary perusal. Thus he relieved his 
Jieart : — 

T. 

Within a cloisler'd pile, wlioae Gothic towera 
Rose by the margin of a sedgy lake, 
Emljosom'il in a valley of green bowers. 
And girl by many a grove, and ferny brakfl 
Loved by the anller'd deer; a tender youth 
Whom time to childhood's gentle sway of love 
Still spared ; yet innocent as is the dove, 
Vor wounded yet by care's relentless tooth j 



Stood musing: of that fair antique domain 
The orphan lord ! And yet no childish thought 
With wayward purpose holds its transient reign 
In his young mind, with deeper feelings fraught; 
Then mystery all to him, and yet a dream. 
That lime has touched with his revealing beam. 

IF. 

There came a maiden to that lonely boy, 

And like to him as is the morn to night; 

Her sunny face a very type of joy. 

And with her soul's unclouded lustre bright. 

Still scantier summers had licr urow illumed 

Than that on which she threw a witchins smile, 

Unconscious of the spell that could beguile 

His being of the burden ii was doom'd 

By his ancestral blood to bear— a spirit 

Kife with desponding thoughts and fancies drear. 

A moody soul that men sometimes inherit, 

And worse than all the woes the world may beafj 

Bui when he met that maid'in's dazzling eye, 

He bade each gloomy image baffled fly. 

III. 

Amid the shady woods and supny lawns 
The maiden and the youth now wander, gay 
As the bright birds, and happy as the fawns, 
Their S|xifiive rivals, that around Ihem play ; 
Their liidit hands linked in love, the golden hours 
Unconscious fly, while thus they graceful roam, 
And careless ever till the voice oi" home 
KecaU'd tliem from their sunshine and their flowtrs , 
. For then they parted : to his lonely pile 
The orphan chief, for though, his wo to lull, 
The maiden call'd him brother, her fond smile 
Gladden'd another hearth, while his was dull. 
Yet, as they parted, she reproved his sadness, 
And, for her sake she gayly whisper'd gladness. 

IV. 

She was the daughter of a noble race. 
That beauteous girl, and yet she owed her name 
To one who needs no herald's skill to trace 
His blazon'd lineage, for his lofty fame 
Lives in the mouth of men, and distant climes 
l!e-echo his wide glory ; where the brave 
Are hotiour'd, where 'tis noble deem'd to save 
A prostrate nation, and for future times 
Work with a high devotion, that no taunt, 
Or ribald lie, or zealot's eager curse, 
Or the short-sighted world's neslect can daunt. 
That name is worshipp'd! His immortal verse 
Blends with his godlike deeds, a double spell 
To bind the coming age he loved loo well ! 

V. 

For from his ancient home, a sratlerling. 

They drove him forth, unconscious of their fize, 

And liranded as a vile unhallow'd 'thing, 

The man who struggled only to be wise. 

And even his hearth rebell'd, the duteous wife 

Whose bosom well might soothe in that dark hour, 

Swell'd with her gentle force the world's harsh powers 

And aim'd her dart at his devoted life. 

That struck ; the rest his mighty soul might scorn, 

Bill when his household gods averted stood, 

'Twas the last pang ihal cannot well be borne 

■When tortured e'en to torpor: his heart's blood 

Flow'dto the unseen blow: then forth he went, 

And gloried in his ruthless banishment. 

VL 

A new-born pledire of love within his home. 

His alien's home, the exiled father left; 

And when, like Cain, he wander'd forth to roanii 

A Cain without his solace, all bereft: 

Stole down his pallid cheek the scalding tear, 

To think a stranger to his lender love 

His child must crrow, untroubled where might rova 

His restless life, or taught, perchance, to fear 

Her father's name, and, bred in sullen hale, 

Shrink frotn his image. Thus the gentle maid. 

Who with her smiles had soothed an orphan's fate 

Had fell an orphan's pang ; yet undismay'd. 

Though tausht to deem her sire the child of sharaj 

She clung with instinct to that reverent name ! 

VII. 

Time flew ; the boy became a man, no more 
His shadow falls upon his cloisler'd hall. 
But to a stirring world he leari;'d lo pour 
The passion of his being, skilled lo call 
From the deep caverns of his musing tliought^ 
Shadows lo which Ihey bow'd, and on their mind 
To stamp the image of his own; the wind. 
Though all unseen, willi force or ardour fraught. 



VENETIA. 



777 



Can sway mankind, and thus a poet's voice, 

Now toiich'd with sweetness, now inflamed with rage, 

Though breath, can make us grieve and then rejoice ; 

Sucli is the spell of his creative page, 

Thai blends with all our moods; and thoughts can yield 

That all have felt, and yet till then were seal'd. 

VIII 

The lute is sounding in a chamber bright 

With a higli festival,— on every side. 

Soft, in the gleamy blaze of mellfflw'd light. 

Fair women smile, and dancers graceful glide ; 

And words still sweeter than a serenade 

Are breathed with guarded voice and speaking eyes, 

By-joyous hearts, in spile of all their sighs; 

But bygone fantasies that ne'er can fade 

Retain the pensive spirit of the youth ; 

Reclined against a column he surveys 

His laughing compeers with a glance, in sooth, 

Oreless of {ill their mirth : for other days 

Enchain him with their vision, the bright hours 

Fass'd with the maiden in their sunny bowers. 

LX. 

Why turns this brow so pale, why starts to life 
That languid eye ? What form before unseen, 
With all the spells of hallow'd memory rife, 
Now rises on liis vision 1 As the Queen 
Of Beauty from her bed of sparkling foam 
Sprang to the azure light ; and felt the air — 
Soft as her cheek, the wavy dancers bear 
To his rapt sight a mien that calls his home. 
His cloisler'd home, liefore him, with his dreams 
Prophetic strangely blending. The bright muse 
Of his dark childhood still divinely beams 
Upon his being; glowing with the hues 
That painters love, when raptured pencils soar 
To trace a form that nations may adore I 

X. 

One word alone within her thrilling ear 

Breathed with hush'd voice the broVher of her heart. 

And that for aye is hidden. With a tear 

Smiling she strove toconquer, see her start, 

The bright blood rising to her quivering cheek. 

And meet the glance she hasten'd once to greet, 

When not a thought had he, save in her sweet 

And solacing society ; to seek 

Her smiles, his only life ; ah ! happy prime 

Of cloudless purity, no stormy fame 

His unknown sprite then stirr'd, a golden time 

Worth all the restless splendour of a name. 

And one soft accent from those gentle lips 

Might all the plaudits of a world eclipse. 

XI. 

My tale is done; and if some deem it strange 

My fancy thus should droop, deign then to learn 

My tale is truth : imagination's range 

Its bounds exact may touch not : to discern 

Far stranger things than poets ever feign, 

In life's perple.xing annals, is the fate 

Of those who act, and musing penetrate 

The mystery of lijitune: to whose reign 

Tlie haughtiest brow must bend : 'twas passing strange, 

The youth of these fond children ; strange the flush 

Of his high fortunes and his spirit's change ; 

Strange was the maiden's tear, the maiden's blush ; 

Strange were his musing thoughts and trembling heart; 

'Tis strange they met, and stranger if they part ! 



CHAPTER XII. 

Whex liady Monteagle discovered, which she 
did a very few hour.s after the mortifying event, 
where Lord Cadurcis had dined the day on which 
he had promised to be her guest, she was very 
indignant, but her vanity was more offended than 
her self-complacency. She was annoyed that Ca- 
durcis should have compromised his exalted repu- 
tation by so publicly dangling in the train of the 
new beauty ; still more that he should have signi- 
fied in so marlted a manner the impression which 
the fair stranger had made upon him, by instantly 
accepting an invitation to a house so totally un- 
coiiiaected witli his circle, and where, had it not 
98 



been to meet this Miss Herbert, it would of course 
never have entered his head to be a visiter. But, 
on the whole. Lady Monteagle was rather irritated 
than jealous ; and far from suspecting that there 
was the slightest chance of her losing her influ- 
ence, such as it might be, over Lord Cadurcis, all 
that she felt was, that less lustre must redound to 
her from its possession and ejfercise, if it were 
obvious to the world that his attentions could be 
so easily attracted and commanded. 

When Lord Cadurcis, therefore, having de- 
spatched his poem to Venetia, paid his usual visit 
on the next day to Monteagle House, he was 
received rather with sneers than reproaches, as her 
lad3'ship, with no superficial knowledge of society 
or of his lordship's character, was clearly of opi- 
nion that this new fancy of her admirer was to be 
treated rather with ridicule than indignation ; and, 
in short, as she had discovered that Cadurcis was 
far from being insensible to mockery, that it was 
clearly a fit occasion, to use a phrase then very 
much in vogue, for quizzing. 

" How d'ye do V said her ladyship, with a very 
arch smile, " I really could not expect to see you !" 
Cadurcis looked a little confused ; he detested 
scenes, and now he dreaded one. 

" You seem quite distrait," continued Lady 
Monteagle, after a moment's pause, which his lord- 
ship ought to have broken. " But no wonder, if 
the world be right." 

" The world cannot be wrong," said Cadurcis, 
sarcastically. 

" Had you a pleasant party yesterday 1" 

" Very." 

" Lady must have been quite charmed to 

have got you at last," said Lady Monteagle. " I 
suppose she exhibited you to all her friends, as if 
you were one of the savages that went to court the 
other day." 

" She was very courteous." 

" O! I can fancy her flutter ! For my part, if there 
be one character in the world more odious than 

another, I think it is a fussy woman. Lady , 

with Lord Cadurcis dining with her, and the new 
beauty for a niece, must have been in a most delec- 
table state of bustle." 

" I thought she was rather quiet," said her 
companion, with provoking indilTerence, " Slie 
seemed to me a very agreeable person." 

"I suppose you mean Miss Herbert 1" said 
Lady Monteagle. 

"0 ! these are very moderate expressions to use 
in reference to a person like Miss Herbert." 

" You know what they said of you two at Ra- 
nelaghl" said her ladyship. 

" No," said Lord Cadurcis, somewhat changing 
colour, and speaking through his teeth. " Some- 
thing devilish pleasant, I dare say." 

" They call you Sedition and Treason." said 
Lady Monteagle. 

"Then we are well suited," said Lord Cadur- 
cis. 

" She certainly is a most beautiful creattjre," said 
her ladyship. 

" I think so," said Lord Cadurcis. 

" Rather too tall, I think." 

" Do you 1" 

" Beautiful complexion, certainly ; wants deli- 
cacy, I think." 

" Do you 1" 

" Fine eyes ? Gray, I believe. Cannot say I 



ns 



D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



admire gray eyes. Certain sign of bad temper, I 
(relieve, gray eyes." 

" Arc they f" 

" I did not observe lier hand. I dare say a httle 
coarse. Fair people, who are tall, generally fail in 
the hand and arm. What sort of a hand and arm 
has she ]'' 

" I did not observe any thing coarse about Miss 
Herbert." 

" Ah ! you admire her. And )-ou have cause. 
No one can deny she is a fine girl, and every one 
must regret, that with her decidedly provincial air 
and want of style altogether, which might naturally 
be expected, considering the rustic way I under- 
stand she has been brought up, (an old house in the 
country, with a methodistica! mother,) that she 
should have fallen into such hands as her aunt. 

Lady is enough to spoil any girl's fortune in 

London." 

" I thought that the were people of the 

highest consideration," said Lord Cadurcis. 

" Consideration !" exclaimed Lady Monteagle. 
" If you mean that they are people of rank, and 
good blood, and good property, they are certainly 
people of consideration ; but they are Goths, Van- 
dals, Huns, Calmucks, Canadian savages ! They 
have no fashion, no style, no ton, no influence in the 
world. It is impossible that a greater misfortune 
could have befallen your beauty than having such 
an aunt. Why, no man who has the slightest re- 
gard for his reputation would be seen in her com- 
pany. She is a regular quiz, and you cannot ima- 
gine how everybody was laughing at you the other 
night." 

" I am \cvj much obliged to them," said Lord 
Cadurcis. 

" And, upon my honour," continued Lady 
Monteagle, " speaking merely as your friend, and 
not being the least jealous — Cadurcis, do not sup- 
pose that — not a twinge has crossed my mind on 
that score ; but still I must tell you that it was most 
ridiculous for a man like you, to whom everybody 
looks up, and from whom the slightest attention is 
an honour, to go and fasten yourself the whole 
night upon a rustic simpleton, something between 
a wax doll and a dairy-maid, whom every fool in 
Iiondon was staring at ; the very reason why you 
should not have appeared to have been even aware 
of her existence." 

" We have all our moments of weakness, Ger- 
trude," said Lord Cadurcis, perfectly charmed that 
the lady was so thoroughly unaware and unsuspi- 
cious of his long and intimate connexion with the 
Herberts. " I suppose it was my cursed vanity. I 
saw, as you say, every fool staring at her, and so I 
determined to show that in an instant I could en- 
gross her attention." 

" Of course, I know it was only that; but you 
should not have gone and dined there, Cadurcis," 
added the lady, very seriously. " That compro- 
mised you ; but, by cutting them in future in the 
most marked manner, you may get over it." 

" You really think I may ]" inquired Lord Ca- 
durcis, with some anxiety. 

'' O ! I have no doubt of it," said Lady Mont- 
eagle." 

" What it is to have a friend like you, Gertrude," 
said Cadurcis, " a friend who is neither a Goth, 
nor a Vandal, nor a Hun, nor a Calmuck, nor a 
Canadian savage ; but a woman of fashion, style, 
ton, influence in the world. It is impossible that a 



greater piece of good fortune could have befallen 
me than having you for a friend !" 

" Ah ! mechant ! you may mock !" said the 
lady, triumphantly, for she was quite satisfied with 
the turn the conversation had taken ; " but I am 
glad for your sake that you take such a sensible 
view of the case." 

Notwithstanding, however, this sensible view of 
the case, after lounging an hour at Monteagle 
House, Lord Cadurcis' carriage stopped at the door 
of Venetia's Gothic aunt. He was not so fortu- 
nate as to meet his heroine ; but, nevertheless, he 
did not esteem his time entirely thrown away, and 
consoled himself for the dif^ajipointment by con- 
firming the favourable impression he had already 
made in this establishment, and cultivating an inti- 
macy, which he was assured must contribute many 
opportunities of finding himself in the society of 
Venetia. From this day, indeed, he was a frequent 
guest at her uncle's, and generally contrived also to 
meet her several times in the week at some great as- 
sembly ; but here, both from the occasional presence 
of Lady' Monteagle, although party spirit deterred 
her from attending many circles where Cadurcis 
was now an habitual visitant, and from the crowd 
of admirers who surrounded the Herberts, he rarely 
found an opportunity for any private conversation 
with Venetia. His friend the bishop also, notwith- 
standing the prejudices of Lady Annabel, received 
him always with cordiality, and he met the Her- 
berts more than once at his mansion. At the opera 
and in the Park also he hovered about them, in 
spite of the sarcasms or reproaches of Lady Mont- 
eagle ; for the reader is not to suppose that that 
lady continued to take the same self-complacent 
view of Lord Cadurcis' acquaintance with the'' 
Herberts which she originally adopted, and at first 
flattered herself was the just one. His admiration 
of Miss Herbert had become the topic of general 
conversation ; it could no longer be concealed or 
disguised. But Lady Monteagle was convinced 
that Cadurcis was not a marrying man, and per- 
suaded herself that this was a fancy which must 
evaporate. Moreover, Monteagle House still con- 
tinued his spot of most constant resort ; for his op- 
portunities of being with Venetia were, with all his 
exertions, very limited, and he had no other resource 
which pleased him so much as the conversation and 
circle of the bright goddess of his party. After 
some fiery scenes therefore with the divinity, which 
only led to his prolonged absence, for the profound 
and fervent genius of Cadurcis revolted from the 
base sentiment and mock emotions of society, the 
lady reconciled herself to her lot, still believing her- 
self tlie most envied woman in London, and often 
ashamed of being jealous of a country girl._ 

The general result of the fortnight which elapsed 
since Cadurcis renewed his acquaintance with his 
Cherbury friends, was, that he had become con- 
vinced of his inability of i)ropitiating Lady Anna- 
bel, was devotedly attached to Venetia, though he 
had seldom an opportunity of intimating feelings, 
which the cordial manner in which she ever con- 
ducted herself to him gave him no reason to con- 
clude desperate ; at the same time that he had 
contrived that a day should seldom elapse, which 
did not, under some circumstances, however unfa-< 
vourable, bring them together, wlrile her intimate 
friends and the circles in which she passed most 
of her life always witnessed his presence with 
favour. 



V E N E T I A. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Wk must, however, endeavour to be more inti- 
mately acquainted with the heart and mind of 
V'enetia in her present situation, so strongly con- 
trasting with the serene simplicity of her former 
life, than the limited and constrained opportunities 
of conversuig with the companion of his childhood 
enjoyed by Lord Cadurcis could possibly enable 
him to become. Let us recur to her on the night 
when she returned home, after having met with 
Piantagenet at her uncle's, and having pursued a 
conversation with him, so unexpected, so strange, 
and so affecting ! She had been very silent in the 
carriage, and retired to her room immediately. She 
retired to ponder. The voice of Cadurcis lingered 
in her ear ; his tearful eye still caught her vision. 
She leaned her head upon her hand, and sighed ! 
Why did she sigh 1 ViHiat at this instant was her 
uppermost thought 1 Ker mother's dislike of Ca- 
durcis. " Your mother hates me." These had 
been his words ; these were the words' she repeated 
to herself, and on whose fearful sounds she dwelt. 
" Your mother hates me." If by some means she 
had learned a month ago at Weymouth, that her 
mother hated Cadurcis, that his general conduct 
had been such as to excite Lady Annabel's odium, 
Venetia might have for a moment been shocked 
that her old companion, in whom she had once 
been so interested, had by his irregular behaviour 
incurred the dislike of her mother, by whom he had 
once been so loved. But it would have been a 
very transient emotion. She might have mused 
over past feelings and past hopes in a solitary ram- 
ble on the sea-shore ; she might even have shed a 
tear over the misfortunes or infelicity of one who 
had once been to her a brother ; but, perhaps, nay 
probably, on the morrow the remembrance of Pian- 
tagenet would scarcely have occurred to her. Long 
years had elapsed since their ancient fondness ; a 
very considerable interval since even his name had 
met her ear. She had heard nothing of him that 
could for a moment arrest her notice or command 
her attention. 

But now the irresistible impression that her mo- 
ther disliked this very individual filled her with 
intolerable grief. What occasioned this change in 
her feelings, this extraordinary difference in her 
emotions ? There was, apparently, but one cause. 
She had met Cadurcis. Could then a glance, 
could even the tender intonations of that unrivalled 
voice, and the dark passion of that speaking eye, 
Vfork in an instant such marvels 1 Could they re- 
vive the past so vividly, that Piantagenet in a mo- 
ment resumed his ancient place in her affections. 
No, it was not that : it was less the tenderness of 
the past that made Venetia mom-n her mother's 
sternness to Cadurcis, than the feelings of the 
future. For now she felt that her mother's heart 
was not more changed towards this personage than 
was her own. In truth, she loved him, and no 
longer as a brother. 

It seemed to Venetia that even before they met, 
from the very moment that his name had so strange- 
ly caught her eye in the volume on the first even- 
ing she had visited her relations, that her spirit 
suddenly turned to him. She had never heard that 
name mentioned since without a fluttering of the 
heart which she could not repress, and an emotion 
she could ill conceal. She loved to hear others 
ta^Jc of him, and yet scarcely dared speak of him 



herself. She recalled her emotion at unexpectedly 
seeing his portrait when with her aunt, and her 
mortification when her mother deprived her of the 
poem which she sighed to read. Day after day 
something seemed to have occun'ed to fix her 
brooding thoughts with fonder earnestness on his 
image. At length they met. Her emotion when 
she first recognised him at Eanelagh and felt him 
approaching her, was one of those tumults of the 
heart that form almost a crisis in our sensations. 
With what difficulty had she maintained herself! 
Doubtful whether he would even formally acknow- 
ledge her presence, her vision as if by fascination 
had nevertheless met his, and grew dizzy as ho 
passed. In the interval that had elapsed between 
his first passing and then joining her, what a chaos 
was her mind ! What a wild blending of all the 
scenes and incidents of her life ! What random 
answers had she made to those with whom she had 
been before conversing with ease and animation ! 
And then, when she unexpectedly found Cadurcis 
at her side, and" listened to the sound of that familiar 
voice, familiar and yet changed, expressing so much 
tenderness in its tones, and in its words such de- 
ference and delicate respect — existence felt to her 
that moment affluent with a blissful excitement of 
which she had never dreamed ! 

Her life was a revery until they met again, in 
which she only mused over his fame, and the strange 
relations of their careers. She had watched the 
conduct of her mother to him at dinner with poig 
nant sorrow ; she scarcely believed that she should 
have an opportunity of expressing to him her sym 
path}'. And then what had followed ] A conver- 
sation, every word of which had touched her heart, 
a conversation that would have entirely controlled 
her feelings even if he had not already subjected 
them. The tone in which he so suddenly had pro- 
nounced " Venetia," was the sweetest music to 
which she had ever listened. His allusion to her 
father had drawn tears, which could not be restrained 
even in a crowded saloon. Now she wept plen 
teously. It was so generous, so noble, so kind, so 
affectionate ! Dear, dear Cadurcis, is it wonderful 
that you should be loved ! 

Then falling into a revery of sweet and unbroken 
stillness, with her eyes fixed in abstraction on the 
fire, Venetia reviewed her life from the moment 
she had known Piantagenet. Not an incident that 
had ever occurred to them that did not rise obedient 
to her magical bidding. She loved to dwell upon 
the time when she was the consolation of his sor- 
rows, and when Cherbury was to him a pleasant 
refuge ! O ! she felt sure her mother must remem- 
ber those fond days, and love him as she once did ! 
She pictured to herself the little Piantagenet of hei- 
childhood, so serious and so pensive when alone or 
with others, yet with her at times so gay, and wild, 
and sarcastic : forebodings of all that deep and bril- 
liant spirit, which had since stirred up tlie heart of 
a great nation, and dazzled the fancy of an admiring 
world. The change too in their mutual lots was 
also, to a degree, not free from that sympathy that 
had ever bound them together. A train of strange 
accidents had brought Venetia from her spell-bound 
seclusion, placed her suddenly in the most brilliant 
circle of civilization, and classed her among not the 
least admired of its favoured members. And whom 
had she come to meet 1 Whom did she find in this 
new and splendid life the most courted and con- 
sidered of its community ; crowned as it were with 



780 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



garlands, and perfumed with the incense of a thou- 
sand altars 1 Her own Plantagenet. It was pass- 
ing strange. 

The morrow brought the verses from Cadurcis. 
They greatly aficcted her. The picture of their 
childhood, and of the singular sympathy of their 
mutual situations, and the description of her father, 
called forth her tears ; she murmured, however, at 
Jhe allusion to her other parent. It was not just, 
it could not be true. These verses wrere not, of 
course, shown to Lady Annabel. Would they 
have been shown, even if they had not contained 
the allusion] The question is not perplexing. 
Venetia had her secret, and a far deeper one than 
the mere rerej)tion of a poem ; all confidence be- 
tween her and her mother had expired. Love had 
Btepped in, and before his magic touch, the discipline 
of a life expired in an instant. 

Such is a slight sketch of the state and progress 
ofVenetia's feelings; and from this, however weak, 
the reader may form an idea of the mood in which, 
during the fortnight liefore alluded to, she was in 
the habit of meeting Ijord Cadurcis. During this 
period not the slightest conversation respecting him 
had occurred between her mother and herself. 
Lady Annabel never mentioned him, and her brow 
clouded when his name, as was often the case, was 
mtroduced. At the end of this fortnight, it hap- 
pened that her aunt and mother were out together 
m the carriage, and had left her in the course of 
the morning at her uncle's house. During this 
mterval, Lord Cadurcis called, and having ascer- 
tained, through a garrulous servant, that, though 
liis mistress was out. Miss Herbert was in the 
drawing-room, he immediately took the opportu- 
nity of being introduced. Venetia was not a little 
surprised at his appearance, and, conscious of her 
mother's feelings upon the subject, for a moment 
a little agitated, yet, it must be confessed, as much 
pleased. She seized this occasion of speaking to 
him about his verses, for hitherto she had only been 
able to acknowledge the receipt of them by a word. 
While she expressed without affectation the emo- 
tions they had occasioned her, she complained of 
his injustice to her mother : this was the cause of 
an interesting conversation of which her father was 
the subject, and for which she had long sighed. 
With what deep, unbroken attention she listened 
to her companion's enthusiastic delineation of his 
character and career ! What multiplied questions 
did she not ask him, and how eagerly, how amply, 
how affccti-onately he satisfied her just and natural 
curiosity ! Hours flew away while they indulged 
in this rare communion. 

" O ! that I could see him !" sighed Venetia. 

" You will," replied Plantagenet, "your destiny 
requires it. *You will see him as surely as you be- 
held that portrait that it was the labour of a life to 
jjievent you beholding." 

Venetia shook her head ; " And yet," she added 
musingly, " my mother loves him." 

" Her life proves it," said Cadurcis, bitterly. 

" I think it docs," replied Venetia, sincerely. 

"I pretend not to understand her heart," he an- 
swered, " it is an enigma that I cannot solve. I 
ought not to believe that she is without one ; but, 
at any rate, her pride is deeper than her love." 

"They were ill-suited," said Venetia, mourn- 
fully ; " and yet it is one of my dreams that they 
may yet meet." 

" Ah ! Venetia," he exclaimed in a voice of great 



softness, " they had not known each other from theii 
childhood, like us. They met, and they parted, 
alike in haste." 

Venetia made no reply ; her eyes were fixed in 
abstraction on a hand-screen, which she was uncon- 
scious that she held. 

" Tell me," said Cadurcis, drawing his chair 
close to hers ; " tell me, Venetia, if — " 

At this moment a thundering knock at the do^^r 
announced the return of the countess and her sister- 
in-law. Cadurcis rose from his seat, but his chair, 
which still remained close to that on which Vene- 
tia was sitting, did not escape the quick glance of 
her mortified mother. The countess welcomed Ca- 
durcis with extreme cordiality ; Lady Annabel only 
returned his very courteous bow. 

" Stop and dine with us, my dear lord," said 
the countess. '• We are only ourselves, and Lady 
Annabel and Venetia," 

" I thank you, Clara," said Lady Annabel, "but 
we cannot stop to-day." 

"O!" exclaimed her sister. "It will be such a 
disappointment to Philip. Indeed you must stay," 
she added, in a coaxing tone. " We shall be such 
an agreeable little party, with Lord Cadurcis." 

" I cannot, indeed, my dear Clara," replied Lady 
Annabel ; " not to-day, indeed not to-day. Come 
Venetia, we must be going." 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Ladt Annabel was particularly kind to Vene- 
tia on their return to their hotel, otherwise her 
daughter might have fancied that she had offended 
her, for she was very silent. Venetia did not doubt 
that the presence of Lord Cadurcis was the reason 
that her mother would not remain and dine at her 
uncle's. This conviction grieved Venetia, but she 
did not repme ; she indulged the fond hojie that 
time would remove the strong prejudice which 
Lady Annabel now so singularly entertained against 
one in whose welfare she was originally so deeply 
interested. During their simple and short repast 
Venetia was occupied in a revery, in which, it must 
be owned, Cadurcis greatly figured, and answered 
the occasional though very kind remarks of her mo- 
ther with an absent air. 

After dinner. Lady Annabel drew her chair to- 
wards the fire — for, although May, the weather was 
chill — and said, " A quiet evening at home, Vene- 
tia, will be a relief after all this gayety." Venetia 
assented to her mother's observation, and nearly a 
quarter of an hour elapsed without another word 
being spoken. Venetia had taken up a book, and 
Lady Annabel was apparently lost in her reflections. 
At length she said, somewhat abruptly, " It is more 
than three years, I think, since Lord Cadurcis left 
Cherbury ?" 

" Yes ; it is more than three years," replied Ve- 
netia. 

" He quitted us .suddenly." 

" Very suddenly," agreed Venetia. 

" I never asked you whether you knew the cause, 
Venetia," continued her mother, " but I always con- 
cluded that you did, I suppose I was not in 
error?" 

This was not a very agreeable inquiry. Vene- 
tia did not reply to it with her previous readiness 
and indifference. That, indeed, was impossible, 



VENETIA. 



781 



bai. with her accustomed frankness, after a mo- 
ment's hesitation, she answered, " Lord Cadurcis 
never specifically stated the cause to me, mamma. 
Indeed I was myself surprised at his departure, but 
Bome conversation had occurred between us on the 
very morning he quitted Cadurcis, which, on reflec- 
tion, I could not doubt occasioned that departure." 

" Lord Cadurcis preferred his suit to you, Vene- 
tia, and you rejected him 1" said Lady Annabel. 

" It is as you believe," replied Venetia, not a little 
agitated. 

" You did wisely, my child, and I was a fool ever 
to have regretted your conduct." 

'' Why should you think so, dearest mamma?" 

" Whatever may have been the cause that im- 
pelled your conduct then," said Lady Annabel, " I 
shall ever esteem your, decision as a signal interpo- 
sition of Providence in your favour. Except his 
extreme youth, there was apparently no reason 
which should not have induced you to adopt a very 
different decision. I tremble when I think what 
might have been the consequences." 

"Tremble I dearest mother?" 

"Tremble, Venetia. My only thought in this 
life is the happiness of my child. It was in peril." 

" Nay, I trust not that, mamma : you are preju- 
diced against Plantagenet. It makes me very un- 
happy, and him also." 

"He is again your suitor?" said Lady Annabel, 
with a scrutinizing glance. 

" Indeed he is not." 

" He will be," said Lady Annabel. " Prepare 
yourself Tell me, then, are your feelings the same 
towards him as when he last quitted us ^" 

" Feehngs, mamma !" said Venetia, echoing her 
mother's words ; for, indeed, the question was one 
■very difficult to answer, " I ever loved Plantagenet ; 
I love him still." 

" But do you love him now as then ? Then 
you looked upon him as a brother. He has no soul 
now for sisterly affections. I beseech you tell me, 
my child — me, your mother, your friend, your best, 
your only friend — tell me, have you for a moment 
repented that you ever refused to extend to him 
any other affection ?" 

" I have not thought of the subject, mamma ; I 
have not wished to think of the subject; I have had 
no occasion to think of it. Lord Cadurcis is not 
my suitor now." 

" Venetia !" said Lady Annabel, " I cannot doubt 
you love me." 

" Dearest mother !" exclaimed Venetia, in a tone 
of mingled fondness and reproach, and she rose 
from her seat and embraced Lady Annabel, 

" My happiness is an object to you, Venetia?" 
continued Lady Annabel. 

" Mother, mother," said Venetia, in a depreca- 
tory tone. " Do not ask such cruel questions ! 
Whom should I love but you, the best, the dearest 
mother that ever existed ! And what object can I 
have in life that for a moment can be placed in 
competition with your happiness?" 

" Then, Venetia, I tell you," said Lady Annabel, 
in a solemn, yet excited voice, " that that happi- 
ness is gone forever, nay, my very life will be the 
forfeit, if I ever live to see you the bride of Lord 
Cadurcis." 

" I have no thought of being the bride of any 
one," said Venetia. " I am happy with you. I wish 
never to leave you." 

" My child, the fulfilment of such a wish is not 



in. the nature of things," replied Lady Annabel. 
" The day will come when we must part; I am 
prepared for the event, — nay, T look forward to it 
not only with resignation, but delight, when I think 
it may increase your happiness ; but were that 
step to destroy it — ! then, then I could live no 
more. I can endure my own sorrows, I can strug- 
gle with my own bitter lot, I have some sources of 
consolation which enable me to endure my own 
misery without repining, but yours, yours, Venetia, 
I could not bear. No ! if once I were to behold 
you lingering in life as your mother, with blighted 
hopes and with a heart broken, if hearts can break, 
I should not survive the spectcale ; I know myself, 
Venetia, I could not survive it." 

"But why anticipate such misery? Why in- 
dulge in such gloomy forebodings? Am T not hap- 
py now ? Do you not love me ?" 

Venetia had drawn her chair close to that of 
her mother ; she sat by her side and held her 
hand. 

" Venetia," said Lady Annabel, after a pause of 
some minutes, and in a low voice, " I must speak 
to you on a subject on which we have never con- 
versed. I must speak to you," and here liad)' 
Annabel's voice dropped lower and lower, but still 
its tones were very distinct, although she express- 
ed herself with evident effort — " I must sjpeak to 
you about — your father." 

Venetia uttered a faint cry, she clenched her 
mother's hand with a convulsive grasp, and sank 
upon her bosom. She struggled to maintain her- 
self, but the first sound of that name from her mo- 
ther's hps, and all the long-suppressed emotions that 
it conjured up, overpowered her. The blood seem- 
ed to desert her heart, still she did not faint ; she 
clung to Lady Annabel, pallid and shivering. 

Her mother tenderly embraced her, she whisper- 
ed to her words of great affection. She attempted 
to comfort and console her. Venetia murmured. 
" This is very foolish of me, mother ; but speak, 

I speak of what I have so long desired to hear." 
"Not now, Venetia!" 

" Now, mother ! yes, now ! I am quite composed. 

1 could not bear the postponement of what you are 
about to say. I could not sleep, dear mother, if you 
did not speak to me. It was only for a moment 
I was overcome. See I I am quite composed." 
And indeed she spoke in a calm and steady voice, 
but her pale and suflfering countenance expressed 
the painful struggle which it cost her to command 
herself 

" Venetia," said Lady Annabel, " it has been one 
of the objects of my life, that you should not share 
my sorrows." 

Venetia pressed her mother's hand, but made no 
other reply. 

" I concealed from you for years," continued 
Lady Annabel, " a circumstance in which, indeed, 
you were deeply interested, but the knowledge of 
which could only bring you unhappiness. Yet it 
was destined that my sohcitude should eventually 
be baffled. I know that it is not from my lips that 
you learn for the first time that you have a father 
— a father living." 

" Mother, let me tell you all !" said Venetia ea- 
gerly. 

" I know all," said Lady Annabel. 

" But, mother, there is something that yoxi do not 
know ; and now I would ODufess it." 

" 'I'here is nothing that you can confess with 
3 U 



782 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



which I am not acquainted, Venetia ; and I feel 
assured, I have ever felt assured, that your only 
reason for concealment was a desire to save me 
pain." 

"That, indeed, has ever been my only motive," 
replied Venetia, " for having a secret from my mo- 
ther." 

" In my absence from Cherbury, you entered 
the chamber," said Lady Annabel, very calmly. 
" In the delirium of your fever, I became acquaint- 
ed with a circumstance which so nearly proved fatal 
to you." 

Venetia's cheek turned scarlet. 
" In that chamber you beheld the portrait of your 
father," continued Lady Annabel. " From our 
friend you learned that father was still living. 
That is all ?" said Lady Annabel, inquiringly. 

" No, not all, dear mother ; not all. Lord Ca- 
durcis reproached me at Cherbury with — with — 
with having such a father," she added, in a hesitat- 
ing voice. " It was then I learned his misfortunes, 
mother ; his misery." 

" I thought that misfortunes, that misery, were 
the lot of your other parent," replied Lady Anna- 
bel, somewhat coldly. 

" Not with my love," said Venetia, eagerly ; 
" not with my love, mother. You have forgotten 
your misery in my love. Say so, say so, dearest 
mother." And Venetia threw herself on her knees 
before Lady Annabel, and looked up with earnest- 
ness in her face. 

The expression of that countenance had been 
for a moment stern, but it relaxed into fondness, 
as Lady Annabel gently bowed her head, and press- 
ed her lips to her daughter's forehead. " Ah ! Ve- 
netia," she said, " all depends upon you. I can en- 
dure, nay, I can forget the past, if my child be 
faithful to me. There are no misfortunes, there is 
no misery, if the being to whom I have consecrated 
the devotion of my life will only be dutiful, will 
only be guided by my advice, will only profit by 
my sad experience." 

*' Mother, I repeat I have no thought but for 
you," said Venetia. " My own dearest mother, if 
my duty, if my devotion can content you, you 
shall be happy. But wherein have I failed 1" 

" In nothing, love. Your life has hitherto been 
one tnibroken course of affectionate obedience." 

" And ever shall be," said Venetia. " But you 
were speaking, mother, you were speaking of — of 
my — my father I" 

" Of him !" said Lady Annabel, thoughtfully. 
" You have seen his picture ?" 
Venetia kissed her mother's hand. 
" Was he less beautiful than Cadurcrs 1 Was 
he less gifted 1" exclaimed Lady Annabel, with 
animation. " He could whisper in tones as sweet, 
and pour out his vows as fervently. Yet what am I ! 
" O my child," continued Lady Annabel, " be- 
ware of such beings ! They bear within them a 
spirit on which all the devotion of our sex is la- 
vished in vain. A year — no ! not a year, not one 
short year !— -and all my hopes were blighted ! O ! 
Venetia, if your future should be like my bitter 
past ! — and it might have been, and I might have 
contributed to the fulfilment ! — can you wonder 
that J should look upon Cadurciswith aversion 1" 
" JJut, mother, dearest mother, we have known 
Plantagenet from his childhood ! You ever loved 
him ; you ever gave hini credit for a heart — most 
tender and aflectionate." 



" He has no heart." 
" Mother !" 

" He cannot have a heart. Spirits like him are 
heartless. It is another impulse that sways their 
existence. It is imagination ; it is vanity ; it w 
self, disguised with glittering qualities that dazzle 
our weak senses, but selfishness, the most entire, 
the most concentrated. We knew him as a child, 
— ah ! what can women know ! We are born to 
love, and to be deceived. We saw him young, 
helpless, and abandoned ; he moved our pity. We 
knew not his nature; then he was ignorant of it 
himself. But the young tiger, though cradled at 
our hearths and fed on milk, will in good time re- 
tire to its jungle and prey on blood. You cannot 
change its nature ; and the very hand that fostered 
it will be its first victim." 

" How often have we parted !" said Venetia, in 
a deprecating tone ; " how long have we been se- 
parated ! and yet we find him ever the same ; h^ 
loves you now, the same as in old days. If you 
had seen him, as I have seen him, weep when he 
recalled your promise to be a parent to him, and 
then contrasted with such sweet hopes your present 
reserve, ! you would believe he had a heart, you 
would, indeed I" 

" Weep I" exclaimed Lady Annabel, bitterly, 
" ay ! they can weep. Sensibility is a luxury 
which they love to indulge. Their very suscepti- 
bility is our bane. They can weep ; they can play 
upon our feelings ; and our emotion, so easily ex- 
cited, is an homage to their own power, in wliich 
they glory. 

" Look at Cadurcis," she suddenly resumed , 
" bred with so much care ; the soundest princi- 
ples instilled into him with such sedulousness; 
imbibuig them apparently with so much intelli- 
gence, ardour, and sincerity, with all that fervour, 
indeed, with which men of his temperament for 
the moment pursue every object; but a few years 
back, pious, dutiful, and moral, viewing perhaps 
with intolerance too youthful all that differed from 
the opinions and the conduct he had been educated 
to admire and follow. And what is he now 1 The 
most lawless of the wild ; casting to the winds 
every salutary principle of restraint and social dis- 
cipline, and glorying only in the abandoned energy 
of self. Three years ago, you yourself confess to 
me, he reproached you with your father's conduct; 
now he emulates it. There is a career which such 
men must nm, and from which no influence can 
divert them ; it is in their blood. To-day Cad.ir- 
cis may vow to you eternal devotion ; but, if the 
world speaks truth, Venetia, a month ago he was 
equally enamoured of another — and one, too, who 
cannot be his. But grant that his sentiments to- 
wards you are for the moment sincere ; his imagi- 
nation broods upon your idea, it transfigures it 
with a halo which exists only to his vision. Yield 
to him ; become his bride ; and you will have the 
mortification of finding, that before six months 
have elapsed, his restless spirit is already occupied 
with objects which may excite your mortification, 
your disgust, even your horror !" 

" Ah ! mother, it is not with Plantagenet as with 
my father ; Plantagenet could not forget Cherbury, 
he could not forget our childhood," said Venetia. 

" On the contrary, while you lived together these 
recollections would be wearisome, commonplace 
to him; when you had separated, indeed, mellowed 
bv distance, and the comparative vagueness with 



VENETIA. 



783 



which your ahsence would invest them, they would 
Deconie the objects of his muse, and he would in- 
sult you by making the public the confidant of all 
your most dehcate domestic feelings." 

Lady Annabel rose from her seat, and walked 
up and down the room, speaking with an excite- 
ment very unusual with her. " To have all the 
soft secrets of your life revealed to the coarse won- 
der of the gloating multitude; to find yourself the 
object of the world's curiosity — still worse, their 
pitv, their sympathy ; to have the sacred conduct 
of y^our hearth canvassed in every circle, and be 
the grand subject of the pros and cons of every 
paltry journal, — ah! Venetia, you know not, you 
cannot understand, it is impossible you can com- 
prehend, the bitterness of such a lot." 

" My beloved mother !" said Venetia, with 
streaming ej^es, " you cannot have a feeling that 
I do not share." 

" Venetia, you know not what I had to endure !" 
exclaimed Lady Annabel, in a tone of extreme 
bitterness. " There is no degree of wretchedness 
that you can conceive equal to what has been the 
life of your mother. And what has sustained me 
— what, throughout all my tumultuous troubles, 
has been the star on which I have ever gazed 1 — 
My child ! And am I to lose her now, after all 
my sufferings, all my hopes that she at least might 
be spared my miserable doom ! Am I to witness 
her also a victim !" Lady Annabel clasped her 
hands in passionate grief. 

" Mother ! mother!" exclaimed Venetia, in agony, 
" spare yourself, spare me !" 

" Venetia, you know how I have doted upon 
you; you know how I have watched and tended 
you from your infancy. Have I had a thought, a 
wish, a hope, a plan ! — has there been the slightest 
action of my life, of which you have not been the 
object 1 All mothers feel, but none ever felt like 
me : you were my solitary joy." 

Venetia leaned her face upon the table at which 
she was sitting, and sobbed aloud. 

" My love was baffled," Lady Annabel con- 
tinued. " I fled, for both our sakes, from the 
world in which my family were honoured ; — I 
sacrificed without a sigh, in the veiy prime of my 
youth, every pursuit which interests woman ; but 
I had my child I I had my child !" 

"And you have her still!" exclaimed the mise- 
rable Venetia. " Mother, you have her still !" 

" I have schooled my mind," continued Lady 
Annabel, still pacing the room with agitated steps ; 
" I have disciplined my emotions ; I have felt at 
my heart the constant, the undying pang, and yet 

I have smiled, that you might be happy. But I 
can struggle against my fate no longer. No longer 
can I suffer my unparalleled, — yes, my unjust doom. 
What have I done to merit these afflictions ? — 
Now, then, let me struggle no more ; let me die !" 

Venetia tried to rise ; her limbs refused their 
office; she tottered; she fell again into her seat 
with an hysteric cry. 

" Alas ! alas !" exclaimed Lady Annabel, " to 

II mother, a child is every thing ; but to a child, a 
parent is only a link in the chain of her existence, 
it was weakness, it was folly, it was madness to 
itake every thing on a source which must fail me. 
I feel it now, but I feci it too late." 

Venetia held forth her arms; she could not 
«peak ; she was stifled with her emotion. 
■'Tint was it wonderful that I was so weak?" 



continued her mother, as it were communing only 
with herself. " What child was like mme 1 O ! 
the joy, the bliss, the hours of rapture that I have 
passed, in gazing upon my treasure, and dreaming 
of all her beauty and her rare qualities ! I was so 
happy ! — I was so proud ! Ah ! Venetia, you 
know not how I have loved you !" 

Venetia sprang from her scat ; she rushed forward 
with convulsive energy ; she clung to her mother, 
threw her arms round her neck, and buried her 
passionate wo in Lady Annabel's bosom. 

Lady Annabel stood for some minutes supporting 
her speechless and agitated child ; then, as her sobs 
became fainter, and the tumult of her gi-ief gra- 
dually died away, she bore her to the sofa, and seated 
herself by her side, holding Venetia's hand in her 
own, and ever and anon soothing her with soft 
embraces, and still softer words. 

At length, in a faint voice, Venetia said, " Mother, 
what can I do to restore the past] How can wc 
be to each other as we were, for this I cannot 
bear?" 

" Love me, my Venetia, as I love you ; be faith- 
ful to your mother ; do not disregard her counsel ; 
profit by her errors." 

" I will in all things obey you," said Venetia, in 
a low voice ; " there is no sacrifice I am not pre- 
pared to make for your happiness." 

" Let us not talk of sacrifices, my darling child ; 
it is not a sacrifice that I require. I wish only t» 
prevent your everlasting misery." 

" What, then, shall I do ?" 

" Make me only one promise ; whatever pledge 
you give I feel assured that no influence, Venetia, 
will ever induce you to forfeit it." 

" Name it, mother." 

" Promise me never to marry Lord Cadurcis," 
said Lady Anabel,^in a whisper, but a whisper of 
which not a word was lost by the person to whom 
it was addressed. 

" I promise never to marry, but with your appro- 
bation," said Venetia, in a solemn voice, and utter- 
ing the words with great distinctness. 

The countenance of Lady Annabel instantly 
brightened ; she embraced her child with extreme 
fondness, and breathed the softest and the sweetest 
expressions of gratitude and love. 



CHAPTER XV. 

When Lady Monteagle discovered that of whicfi 
her good-natured friends took care she should not 
long remain ignorant, — that Venetia Herliert had 
been the companion of Lord Cadurcis' childhood, 
and that the most intimate relations had once sulv 
sistcd between the two families, — she became the 
prey of the most violent jealousy ; and the bitter- 
ness of her feelings was not a little increased, when 
she felt that she had not only been abandoned, but 
duped ; and that the new beauty, out of his fancy 
for whom she had flattered herself she had so tri- 
umphantly ralUed him, was an old friend, whom 
he had always admired. She seized the first occa- 
sion, after this discovery, of relieving her feelings, 
by a scene so violent, that Cadurcis had never 
again entered Monteagle House ; and then repent- 
ing of this mortifying result, which she had her- 
self precipitated, she overwhelmed liini with letters. 



784 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



which, next to scenes, were the very things which 
Lord Cadurcis most heartily abhorred. These, — 
now indignant, now passionate, now loading him 
with reproaches, now appealing to liis love, and 
now to his pity, — daily arrived at his residence, 
and were greeted at first only with short and sar- 
castic replies, and finally by silence. Then the 
lady solicited a final interview, and Lord Cadurcis 
having made an appointment to quiet her, went 
out of town the day before to Richmond, to a villa 
belonging to Venetia's uncle, and where, among 
other guests, he was of course to meet Lady Anna- 
bel and her daughter. 

The party was a most agreeable one, and as- 
sumed an additional interest with Cadurcis, who 
had resolved to seize this favourable opportunity to 
bring his as])irations to Venetia to a crisis. The 
day after the last conversation with her, which we 
have noticed, he had indeed boldly called upon the 
Herberts at their hotel for that purpose, but with- 
out success, as they were again absent from home. 
He had been since almost daily in the society of 
Venetia ; but Loudon, to a lover who is not smiled 
upon by the domestic circle of his mistress, is a 
ver}' unfavourable spot for confidential conversations. 
A villa life, with its easy, unembarrassed habits, 
its gardens and lounging walks, to .say nothing of 
the increased opportunities resulting from being 
together at all hours, and living under the same 
roof, was more promising; and here he flattered 
himself he might defy even the Argus eye and 
ceaseless vigilance of his intended mother-in-law, 
his enemy, whom he could not propitiate, and 
whom he now fairly hated. 

His cousin George, too, was a guest, and his 
cousin George was the confidant of his love. Upon 
this kind relation devolved the duty — far from a 
disagreeable one — of amusing the mother ; and as 
Lady Aimabcl, though she relaxed not a jot of the 
grim courtesy which she ever extended to Lord Ca- 
durcis, was no longer seriously uneasy as to his in- 
fluence after the promise she had extracted from 
ner daughter, it would seem that circumstances 
combined to prevent Lord Cadurcis from being dis- 
appointed at least in the first object which he 
■wished to obtain — an opportunity. 

And yet several days elapsed before this offered 
itself, — passed by Cadurcis, however, very plea- 
santly in the presence of the being he loved, and 
very judiciously too, for no one coukl possibly be 
more amiable and ingratiating than our friend. 
Every one present, except Lady Annabel, ap- 
peared to entertain for him as much affection as 
admiration : those who had only met him in throngs 
were quite surprised how their superficial observa- 
vation and the delusive reports of the world had 
misled them. As for his hostess, whom it had ever 
been his study to please, he had long won her 
heart ; and, as she could not be blind to his pro- 
jects and pretensions, she heartily wished him suc- 
cess, assisted him with all her efforts, and desired 
nothing more sincerely than that her niece should 
achieve such a conquest, and she obtain so distin- 
guished a nephew. 

Notwithstanding her promise to her mother, 
Venetia felt justified in making no alteration in her 
conduct to one whom she still sincerely loved ; and, 
under the immediate influence of his fascination, 
it was often, when she was alone, that she mourned 
with a sorrowing heart over the opinion which her 



mother entertained of him. Could it indeed be 
possible that Plantagenet, — the same Plantagenet 
she had known so early and so long, to her invari- 
ably so tender and so devoted, — could entail on her, 
by their union, such unspeakable and inevitable 
misery 1 Whatever might be tlie view adopted 
by her mother of her conduct, Venetia felt every 
hour more keenly that it was a sacrifice, and the 
greatest; and she still indulged in a vague yet de- 
licious dream, that Lady Annabel might ultimately 
withdraw the harsh and perhaps heart-breaking 
interdict she had so rigidly decreed. 

" Cadurcis," said his cousin to him one morning, 
" we are all going to Hampton Court. Now is 
your time; Lady Annabel, the Vcrnons, and my- 
self, will fill one carriage; I have arranged that. 
Look out, and something may be done. Speak to 
the countess." 

Accordingly Lord Cadurcis hastened to make a 
suggestion to a friend always flattered by his notice. 
" My dear friend," he said, in his softest tone, " let 
you, Venetia, and myself, manage to be together ; 
it will be so delightful ; we shall quite enjoy our- 
selves.^' 

The countess did not require this animating 
compliment to effect the object which Cadurcis did 
not express. She had gradually fallen into the 
unacknowledged conspiracy against her sister-in- 
lavv', whose prejudice against her friend she had 
long discovered, and had now ceased to combat. 
Two carriages, and one filled as George had ar- 
ranged, accordingly drove gay ly away ; and Venetia, 
and her aunt, and Lord Cadurcis, were to follow 
them on horseback. They rode with delight 
through the splendid avenues of Bushey, and Ca- 
durcis was never in a lighter or happier mood. 

The month of May was in its decline, and the 
cloudless sky, and the balmy air such as suited so 
agreeable a season. The London season was ap- 
proaching its close ; for the royal birthday was, at 
the period of our histoiy, generally the signal of 
preparation for country quarters. . The carriages 
arrived long before the riding party, for they had 
walked their steeds, and they found a messenger 
who lequested them to join their friends in the 
apartments which they were visiting. 

" For my part," said Cadurcis, " I love the sun 
that rarely shines in this land. I feel no inclination 
to lose the golden hours in these gloomy rooms. 
What say you, ladies fair, to a stroll in the gardens 1 
It will be doubly charming after our ride." 

His companions cheerfully assented, and they 
walked away, congratulating themselves on their 
escape from the wearisome amusement of palace- 
hunting, straining their eyes to see pictures hung 
at a gigantic height, and solemnly wandering 
through formal apartments full of state beds, and 
massy cabinets, and modern armour. 

Taking their way along the terrace, they struck 
at length into a less formal path. At length the 
countess seated herself on a bench. " I must rest," 
she said, " but yon young people may roam about; 
only do not lose me." 

" Come, Venetia !" said Lord Cadurcis. 

Venetia was hesitating ; she did not like to leave 
her aunt alone, but the countess encouraged her. 
" If you will not go, you will only make me con- 
tinue walking," she said. So Venetia proceeded, 
and for the first time since her visit was alone with 
Plantagenet. 



VENETIA. 



785 



" I quite love your aunt," said Lord Cadurcis. 

" It is difficult indeed not to love her," said 
Venetia. 

" Ah ! Venetia, I wish your mother was like 
your aunt," he continued. It was an observation 
which was not heard without some emotion by his 
companion, though it was imperceptible. " Vene- 
tia," said Cadurcis, " when I recollect old days, 
how strange it seems that we now never should be 
alone, but by some mere accident, like this, for in- 
stance." 

" It is of no use thinking of old days," said 
Venetia." 

" No use !" said Cadurcis. " I do not like to 
hear you say that, Venetia. Those are some of 
the least agreeable words that were ever uttered by 
that mouth. I cling to old days ; they are my 
only joy and my only hope." 

" They are gone," said Venetia. 

•' But may they not return?" said Cadurcis. 

'' ]\ever," said Venetia, mournfully. 

The)- had walked on to a marble fountain of 
gigantic proportions and elaborate workmanship, an 
assemblage of divinities and genii, all spouting 
water in fantastic attitudes. 

" Old days," said Plantagenet, " are like the old 
fountain at Cadurcis, dearer to me than all this 
modern splendour." 

" The old fountain at Cadurcis," said Venetia, 
musingly, and gazing on the water with an ab- 
stracted air, " I loved it well !" 

"Venetia," said her companion, in a tone of 
extreme tenderness, yet not untouched with melan- 
choly, " dear Venetia, let us return, and return 
together, to that old fountain and those old days !" 

Venetia shook her head. " Ah ! Plantagenet," 
she exclaimed, in a mournful voice, " we must not 
speak of these things." 

" Why not, Venetia ?" exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, 
eagerly. " Why should we be estranged from each 
other 1 I love you ; I love only you ; never have I 
loved another. And you — have you forgotten all 
our youthful aflection ? . You cannot, Venetia. 
Our childhood can never be a blank." 

" I told you, when first we met, my heart was 
unchanged," said Venetia, in a very serious tone. 

" Remember the vows I made to you, when last 
at Cherbury," said Cadurcis. " Years have flown 
©n, Venetia ; but they find me urging the same. At 
anj rate, now I know myself; at any rate I am not 
now an obscure boy ; yet vyhat is manhood, and 
what is fame, without the charm of my infancy 
and my youth. Yes, Venetia, you must — you will 
be mine 1" 

"Plantagenet," she replied, in a solemn tone, 
" yours I never can be." 

" You do not, then, love me V said Cadurcis, 
reproachfully, and in a voice of great feeling. 

" It is impossible for you to be loved more than 
I love you," said Venetia. 

" My own Venetia !" said Cadurcis; "Venetia 
that I dote on ! what does this meani Why, then, 
will you not be mine 1" 

" I cannot ; there is an obstacle — an insuperable 
obstacle." 

" Tell it me," said Cadurcis, eagerly ; " I will 
overcome it." 

" I have promised never to marry without the 
approbation of my mother; her approbation you 
never can obtain." 

99 



Cadurcis' countenance fell ; this was an obstacle 
which he felt that even he could not overcome. 

" I told you your mother hated me, Venetia." 
And then, as she did not reply ,Jie continued. " You 
confess it, I see you confess it. \pnce you flattered 
me I was mistaken ; but now, nov*?' you confess it." 

" Hatred is a word which I cannot understand," 
replied Venetia. " My mother has reasons for 
disapproving my union with you ; not founded on 
the circumstances of your life, and therefore re- 
movable — for I know what the world says, Plan- 
tagenet, of you — but I have confidence in your 
love, and that is nothing but founded on your 
character, on your nature; they may be unjust, 
but they are insuperable, and I must yield to them." 

" You have another parent, Venetia," said Ca- 
durcis, in a tone of almost irresistible softness, " the 
best and greatest of men ! Once you told me that 
his sanction was necessary to your marriage. I will 
obtain it. O ! Venetia, be mine, and we will join 
him ; join that ill-fated and illustrious being, who 
loves you with a passion second only to mine ; him, 
who has addressed you in language whicli rests on 
every lip and has thrilled many a heart that you 
even can never know. My ad(3red Venetia, picture 
to yourself for one moment, a life with him ; resting 
on my bosom, consecrated by his paternal love ! 
Let us quit this mean and miserable existence, 
which we now pursue, which never could have 
suited us ; let us shun forever this dull and degrad- 
ing life, that is not life, if life be what I deem it ; let 
us fly to those beautiful solitudes, where he com- 
munes with an inspiring nature ; let us — let us be 
happy !" 

He uttered these last words in a tone of melting 
tenderness ; he leaned forward his head, and his 
gaze caught hers which was fixed upon the water. 
Her hand was pressed suddenly in his ; his eye 
glittered, his lip seemed still speaking ; he awaited 
his doom. 

The countenance of Venetia was quite pale, but 
it was disturbed. You might see as it were the 
shadowy progress of thought, and mark the tumultu- 
ous passage of conflicting passions. Her mind for 
a moment was indeed a chaos. There was a terri- 
ble conflict between love and duty. At length a 
tear, one solitary tear, burst from her burning eye- 
ball, and stole slowly down her cheek; it relieved 
her pain. She pressed Cadurcis' hand, and speak 
ing in a hollow voice, and with a look vague and 
painful, she said, " I am a victim, but I am resolved. 
I never will desert her who devoted herself to me." 

Cadurcis quitted her hand rather abruptly, and 
began walking up and down on the turf that sur- 
rounded the fountain. 

" Devoted herself to you !" he exclaimed, with a 
fiendish laugh, and speaking, as was his custom, 
between his teeth, " Commend me to such devotion. 
Not content with depriving you of a father, now 
forsooth she must bereave you of a lover too ! And 
this is a mother, a devoted mother ! The cold- 
blooded, sullen, selfish, inexorable tyrant !" 

" Plantagenet !" exclaimed Venetia, with great 
aninvation. 

" Nay, I will speak. Victim indeed ! You have 
ever been her slave. She a devoted mother ! Ay ! 
as devoted as a mother as she was dutiful as a wife ! 
She has no heart; she never had a feeling. And 
she cajoles you with her love, her devotion — the 
stem hypocrite !" 

3U2 



786 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" I must leave you," said Venetia; "I cannot 
Dear this." 

" O ! the truth, the truth is precious," said Ca- 
durcis, taking her hand and preventing her from 
moving. " Your mother, your devoted mother, has 
driven one man of genius from her bosom, and his 
country. Yet there is another. Deny me what I 
ask, and to-morrow's sun shall light me to another 
land; to this I will never return ; I will blend my 
tears with your father's, and I will publish to 
Europe the double infamy of your mother. I swear 
it solemnly. Still I stand here, Venetia ; prepared, 
if you will but smile upon me, to be her son, her 
dutiful son. Nay ! her slave, like you. She shall 
not murmur. I will be dutiful ; she shall be devoted ; 
we will all be happy," he added, in a softer tone. 
" Now, now, Venetia, my happiness is on the stake, 
now, now." 

" I have spoken," said Venetia. " My heart may 
break, but my purpose shall not falter." 

" Then my curse upon your mother's head !" 
aid Cadurcis, with terrible vehemency. "May 
Heaven rain all its plagues upon her ! The He- 
aite !" 

" I will listen no more," exclaimed Venetia, in- 
dignantly, and she moved away. She had pro- 
ceeded some little distance when she paused and 
looked back ; Cadurcis was still at the fountain, but 
he did not observe her. She remembered his sudden 
departure from Cherbury, she did not doubt that, 
in the present instance, he would leave them as 
abruptly, and that he would keep his word, so 
solemnly given. Her heai't was nearly breaking, 
but she could not bear the idea of parting in bitter- 
ness with the being whom perhaps she loved best in 
the world. She stopped, she called his name in a 
voice low indeed, but in that silent spot it reached 
him. He joined her immediately, but with a slow 
step. When he had reached her, he said, without 
any animation, and in a frigid tone, "I believe you 
called me V 

Venetia burst into tears. " I cannot bear to part 
in anger, Plantagenet. I wished to say farewell in 
kindness. I shall always pray for your happiness. 
God bless you, Plantagenet !" 

Lord Cadurcis made no reply, though for a mo- 
ment he seemed about to speak ; he bowed, and as 
Venetia approached her amit, he turned his steps 
in a different direction. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Vr.NETiA stopped for a moment to collect her- 
self before she joined her aunt, but it was impossi- 
ble to conceal her agitation from the countess. 
They had not, however, been long together before 
they observed their friends in the distance, who had 
now quitted the palace. A'^enetia made the utmost 
efforts to compose herself, and not unsuccessful 
ones. She was sufficiently calm on their arrival, to 
listen, if not to converse. The countess, with all 
the tact of a woman, covered her niece's cojifusion 
by her animated description of their agreeable ride, 
and their still more pleasant promenade ; and in afew 
minutes the whole party were walking back to their 
carriages. When they had arrived at the inn, they 
found Lord Cadurcis, to whose temporary absence 
tlie countess had alluded with some casual observa- 



tion which she flattered herself was very satisfac- 
tory. Cadurcis appeared rather sullen, and the 
countess, with feminine quickness, suddenly dis- 
covered that both herself and her niece were ex- 
tremely fatigued, and that they had better return in 
the carriages. There was one vacant place, and 
some of the gentlemen must ride outside. Lord 
Cadurcis, however, said that he should return as he 
came, and the grooms might lead back the ladies' 
horses : and so in a few minutes the carriages had 
driven off. 

Our solitary equestrian, however, was no sooner 
mounted than he put his horse to its speed, and 
never drew in his rein, until he reached Hyde Park 
Corner. The rapid motion accorded with his tu- 
multuous mood. He was soon at home, gave his 
horse to a servant, for he had left his groom behind, 
rushed into his library, tore up a letter of Lady 
Montcagle's with a demoniac glance, and rang his 
bell with such force that it broke. His valet, not 
unused to such ebullitions, immediately appeared. 

"Has any thing happened, Spalding 1" said his 
lordship. 

" Nothing particular, my lord. Her ladyship 
sent every day, and called herself twice, but I told 
her your lordship was in Yorkshire." 

" That was right : I saw a letter from her. When 
did it cornel" 

" It has been here several days, my lord." 

" Mind, I am at home to nobody ; I am not in 
town." 

The valet bowed and disappeared. Cadurcis 
threw himself into an easy chair, stretched his legs, 
sighed, and then swore ; then suddenly starting up, 
he seized a mass of letters that were lying on the 
table, and hurled them to the other end of the apart- 
ment, dashed several books to the ground, kicked 
down several chairs that were in his way, and began 
pacing the room with his usual troubled step ; and 
so he continued until the shades of twilight entered 
his apartment. Then he pulled down the other 
bellrope, and Mr. Spalding again appeared. 

" Order post-horses for to-morrow," said his lord- 
ship. 

" Where to, my lord?" 

" I don't know ; order the horses." 

Mr. Spalding again bowed and disappeared. 

In a few minutes he heard a great stamping and 
confusion in his master's apartment, and presently 
the door opened, and his master's voice was heard 
calling him repeatedly in a very irritable tone. 

" Why are there no bells in this cursed room V 
inquired Lord Cadurcis. 

" The ropes are broken, my lord." 

"Why are they broken 1" 

" I can't say, my lord." 

" I cannot leave this house for a day but I find 
every thing in confusion. Bring me some Bur- 
gundy." 

" Yes, my lord ; there is a young lad, my lord, 
called a few minutes back, and asked for your lord- 
ship. He says he has something very particular to 
say to your lordship. I told him your lordship was 
out of town. He said your lordship would wish 
very much to see him, and that he had come from 
the Abbey." 

" The Abbey !" said Cadurcis, in a tone of curi- 
osity. " Why did you not show him in?" 

"Your lordship said you we:e not ? home to 
anybody." 

" Idiot ! Is this anybody ? Of cof; /se I would 



VENETIA. 



787 



have seen him. What the devil do I keep you for, 
sir ] You seem to me to have lost your head." 

Mr. Spalding retired, 

" The Abbey ! that is droll," said Cadurcis. " I 
ovre some duties to the poor Abbey. I should not 
like to quit England, and leave anybody in trouble 
at the Abbey. I wish I had seen the lad. Some 
son of a tenant who has written to me, and I have 
never opened his letters. I am sorry." 

In a few minutes Mr. Spalding again entered the 
room. " The young lad has called again, my lord. 
He says he thinks your lordship has come to town, 
and he wishes to see your lordship very much." 

" Bring lights and show him up. Show him up 
first." 

Accordingly, a country lad was ushered into the 
room, although it was so du.^ky that Cadurcis could 
only observe his figure standing at the door. 

" Well, my good fellow," said Cadurcis, " what 
do you want ? Are you in any trouble 1" 

The boy hesitated. 

" Speak out, my good fellow ; do not be alarmed. 
If I can serve you, or any one at the Abbey, I will 
do it." 

Here Mr. Spalding entered with the lights. The 
lad held a cotton hancJkerchief to his face ; he ap- 
peared to be weeping; all that was seen of his head 
were his locks of red hair. He seemed a country 
lad, dressed in a long green coat with silver but- 
tons, and he twirled in his disengaged hand a pea- 
sant's white hat. 

" That will do, Spalding," said Lord Cadurcis. 
" Leave the room. Now, my good fellow, my 
time is precious ! but speak out, and do not be 
afraid." 

" Cadurcis !" said the lad, in a sweet and trem- 
bling voice. 

" Gertrude, by G — d !" exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, 
starting. " What infernal masquerade is this V 

" Is it a greater disguise than I have to bear every 
hour of my lifel" exclaimed Lady Monteagle, ad- 
vancing. " Have I not to beau a smihng face with 
a breaking heart!" 

" By Jove ! a scene," exclaimed Cadurcis, in a 
piteous tone. 

" A scene !" exclaimed Lady Monteagle, bursting 
into a flood of indignant tears. " Is this the way 
the expression of my feelings is ever to be stigma- 
tized ! Barbarous man !" 

Cadurcis stood with his back to the fireplace, 
with his lips compressed, and his hands under his 
coat-tails. He was resolved that nothing should 
induce him to utter a word. He looked the picture 
of dogged indifference. 

" I know where you have been," continued Lady 
Monteagle. " You have been to Richmond ; you 
have been with Miss Herbert. Yes ! I know all. 
I am a victim, but I will not be a dupe. Yorkshire, 
indeed ! Paltry coward !" 

Cadurcis hummed an air. 

" And this is Lord Cadurcis !" continued tlie 
lady. " The sublime, ethereal Lord Cadurcis, con- 
descending to the last refuge of the meanest, most 
commonplace mind, a vulgar, wretched lie ! What 
could have been expected from such a mind 1 You 
may delude the world, but I know you. Yes, sir ; 
I know you. And I will let everybody know you. 
I will tear away the veil of charlatanism with which 
you have enveloped yourself. The world shall at 
length discover the nature of the idol they have 
worshipped. All your meanness, all your falsehood, 



all your selfishness, all your baseness, shall be re- 
vealed. I may be spurned, but at any rate I will 
be revenged !" 

Lord Cadurcis yawned. 

" Insulting, pitiful wretch !" continued the lady 
" And you think that I wish to hear you speak ! 
You think the sound of that deceitful voice has any 
charm for me ! Y'^ou are mistaken, sir. I have listened 
to you too long. It was not to remonstrate with 
you that 1 resolved to see you. The tones of your 
voice can only excite my disgust. I am here to 
speak myself; to express to you the contempt, the 
detestation, the aversion, the scorn, the hatred, 
whicli I entertain for you !" 

Lord Cadurcis whistled. 

The lady paused ; she had effected the professed 
purpose of her visit ; she ought now to have retired, 
and Cadurcis would most willingly have opened 
the door for her, and bowed her out of his apart- 
ment. But her conduct did not exactly accord with 
her speech. She intimated no intention of moving. 
Her courteous friend retained his position, and ad- 
liered to his policy of silence. Here was a dead 
pause, and then Lady Monteagle, throwing herself 
into a chair, went into violent hysterics. 

Lord Cadurcis, following her example, also seated 
himself, took up a book, and began to read. 

The hysterics became fainter and fainter ; they 
experienced all those gradations of convulsive voice 
with which Lord Cadurcis was so well acquainted ; 
at length they subsided into sobs and sighs. Finally, 
there was again silence, now only disturbed by the 
sound of a page turned by Lord Cadurcis. 

Suddenly the lady sprang from her seat, and 
firmly grasping the arm of Cadurcis, threw her- 
self on her knees at his side. 

" Cadurcis !" she exclaimed in a tender tone, " do 
you love me 1" 

" My dear Gertrude," said Lord Cadurcis, coolly, 
but rather regretting he had quitted his original and 
less assailable posture. " You know I like quiet 
women." 

" Cadurcis, forgive me !" murmured the lady. 
" Pity me ! Think only how miserable I am !" 

" Your misery is one of your own making," said 
Lord Cadurcis. " What occasion is there for any 
of these extraordinary proceedings 7 I have told 
you a thousand times that I cannot endure scenes. 
Female society is a relaxation to me ; you convert 
it into torture. I like to sail upon a summer sea ; 
and you always will insist upon a white squall." 

'• But you have deserted me !" 

" I never desert any one," replied Cadurcis, very 
calmly, raising her from her supplicating attitude, 
and leading her to a seat. " The last time we met, 
you banished me your presence, and told me never 
to speak to you again. Well, I obeyed your orders, 
as I always do." 

" But I did not mean what I said," said Lady 
Monteagle. 

"How should I know thati" said Lord Ca- 
durcis. 

" Your heart ought to have assured you," said 
the lady. 

" The tongue is a less deceptive organ than the 
heart," said her companion. 

" Cadurcis," said the lady, looking at her sUange 
disguise, " what do you advise me to do 1" 

" To go home ; and if you like I will order my- 
vis-a-vis for you directly," and he rose from his seat 
to give the order. 



788 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



" Ah ! you are sighing to get rid of me," said 
the lady, in a reproachful, but still very subdued 
tone, 

" Why, the fact is, Gertrude, I prefer calling 
upon you, to your calling upon me. When I am 
fitted for your society, I seek it ; and, when you 
are good-tempered, always with pleasure : when I 
am not in the mood for it, I stay away. And when 
I am at home I wish to see no one ; — I have 
business now, and not very agreeable business. I 
am disturbed by many causes, and yon could not 
have taken a step which could have given me 
greater annoyance than the strange one you have 
adopted this evening." 

" I am sorry for it now," said the lady, weeping. 
" When shall I see you again?" 

" I will call upon you to-morrow, and pray re- 
ceive me with smiles." 

" I ever will," said the lady, weeping plenteously. 
" It is all my fault; you are ever too good. There 
is not in the world a kinder and more gentle being 
than yourself. I shall never forgive myself for this 
exposure." 

" Would you like to take any thing?" said Lord 
Cadurcis; "I am sure you must feel exhausted. 
You see I am drinking wine; it is my only dinner 
to-day, but I dare say there is some sal-volatile in 
the house : I dare say, when my maids go into 
hysterics, they have it !" 

" Ah ! mocker," said Lady Monteagle, " but I 
can pardon every thing, if you will only let me see 
you." 

"Au revoir! then," said his lordship; "I am 
sure the carriage must be ready. I hear it. Come, 
Mr. Gertrude, settle your wig, — it is quite awry. 
By Jove ! we might as well go to the Pantheon, as 
you are ready dressed. I have a domino." And 
so saying. Lord Cadurcis handed the lady to his 
carriage, and pressed her lightly by the hand, as he 
reiterated his promise of calling at Monteagle House 
the next da}'. 



CHAPTER XVIL 

Lorh Cadurcis — unhappy at home, and wearied 
of the commonplace resources of society — had 
passed the night in every species of dissipation ; 
his principal companion being that same young 
nobleman in whose company he had been when he 
first met Venetia at Ranelagh. The morn was 
nearly breaking when Cadurcis and his friend ar- 
rived at his door. They had settled to welcome 
the dawn with a beaker of burnt Burgundy. 

" Now, my dear Scrope," said Cadurcis, " now 
for quiet and philosophy. The laughter of those 
infernal women, the rattle of those cursed dice, 
and the oaths of those ruffians, are still ringing in 
my ears. Let us compose ourselves and moralize." 

Accustomed to their master's habits — who gene- 
rally turn night into day — the household were 
f.U on the alert ; a blazing fire greeted them, and 
his lordship ordered instantly a devil and the burnt 
Burgundy. 

" Sit you down here, my Scrope ; that is the seat 
of honour, and you shall have it. What is this — a 
letter ? and marked ' urgent' — and in a man's hand. 
It must be read. Some good fellow nabbed by a 
bailiff; or planted by his mistress. Signals of dis- 
tiess ! We must assist our friends." 

The flame of the fire fell upon Lord Cadurcis' 



face as he read the letter; he was still standing, 
while his friend was stretched out in his easy 
chair, and inwardly congratulating himself on 
his comfortable prospects. The countenance of 
Cadurcis did not change, but he bit his lip, and 
read the letter twice, and turned it over, but with a 
careless air ; and then he asked what o'clock 
it was. The servant informed him, and left the 
room. 

" Scrope," said Lord Cadurcis, very quietly, and 
still standing, " are you very dnmk ?" 

" My dear fellow, I am as fresh as possible, yoii 
will see what justice I shall do to the Burgundy." 

" ' Burgundy to-morrow,' as the Greek proverb 
saith," observed Lord Cadurcis. " Read that." 

His companion had the pleasure of perusing a 
challenge from Lord Monteagle, couched in no 
gentle terms, and requesting an immediate meeting. 
" Well, I never heard any thing more ridiculous 
in my life," said Lord Scrope. " Does he want 
satisfaction because you have planted her?" 

" D — n her !" said Lord Cadurcis. " She has 
occasioned me a thousand annoyances, and now 
she has spoiled our supper. I don't know, though ; 
he wants to fight quickly, — let us fight at once. I 
will send him a cartel now, and then we can have 
our Burgundy. You will go out with me of course ? 
Hyde Park, six o'clock, and short swords." 

Lord Cadurcis accordingly sat down, wrote his 
letter, and despatched it by Mr. Spalding to Mont- 
eagle House, with peremptory instructions to bring 
back an answer. The companions then turned to 
their devil. 

" This is a bore, Cadurcis," said Lord Scrope. 
" It is. I cannot say I am very valorous in a 
bad cause. I do not like to fight * upon compulsion,' 
I confess. If I had time to screw my courage up, I 
dare say I should do it very well, for instance, if 
ever I am publicly executed, I shall die game." 

" God forbid," said Lord Scrope. " I say, Ca- 
durcis, I would not drink any Burgundy if I were 
you. I shall take a glass of cold water." 

" Ah ! you are only a second, and so you want 
to cool your valour," said Cadurcis. " You have all 
the fun." 

" But how came this blow-up ?" inquired Lord 
Scrope. " Letters discovered — eh ? Because I 
thought you never saw her now ?" 

" By Jove ! my dear fellow, she has been the 
whole evening here, masquerading it like a very 
vixen, as she is ; and now she has committed 
us both. I have burnt her letters, without reading 
them, for the last month. Now I call that ho- 
nourable ; because, as I had no longer any claim on 
her heart, I would not think of trenching on her 
correspondence. But honour, what is honour in 
these dishonourable days ? This is my reward. 
She contrived to enter my house this evening, 
dressed like a farmer's boy, and you may imagine 
what ensued ; rage, hysterics, and repentance. I 
am sure if Monteagle had seen me, he would not 
have been jealous. I never opened my mouth, but, 
like a fool, sent her home in my carriage ; and now 
I am going to be run through the body for my po- 
liteness." 

In this light strain, — blended, however, with more 
decorous feeling on the part of Lord Scrope, — the 
young men conversed until the messenger returned, 
with Lord Monteagle's answer. In Hyde Park, in 
the course of an hour, himself and Lord Cadv rcis, 
attended by their friends, were to meet. 



VENETIA. 



789 



" Well, there is nothing; like havins^ these affairs 
over," said Cadurcis, " and, to confess the truth, my 
dear Scrope, I should not much care if Monteagle 
were to despatch me to my fathers ; for, in tlie 
whole course of my miserable life, — and miserable, 
whatever the world may think, it has been, — I 
never felt much more wretched than I have during 
the last four-and-twenty hours. By Jove ! do you 
know I was going to leave England this morning, 
and I have ordered my horses too." 
" Leave England !" 

" Yes, leave England ; and where I never in- 
tended to return." 

" Well you are the oddest person I ever knew, 
Cadurcis. I should have thousjht you the happiest 
person that ever existed. Everybody admires, 
evers'body envies you. You seem to have every 
thing that man can desire. Your life is a perpetual 
ti'iumph." 

" Ah ! my dear Scrope, there is a skeleton in 
every house. If you knew all, you would not envy 
me." 

" Well, we have not much time," said Lord 
Scrope, " have you any arrangements to make ]" 

" None. My property goes to George, who is 
my only relative, without the necessity of a will, 
otherwise I should leave every thing to him, for he 
is a good fellow, and my blood is in his veins. 
Just you remember, Scrope, that I will be buried 
with my mother. That is all ; and now let us get 
ready." 

The sun had just risen when the young men 
went forth, and the day promised to be as brilliant 
as the preceding one. Not a soul was stirring in 
the courtly quarter in which Cadurcis resided ; 
even the last watchman had stolen to repose. They 
called a hackney coach at the first stand they 
reached, and were soon at the destined spot. They 
were indeed before their time, and strolling by the 
side of the Serpentine, Cadurcis said, " Yesterday 
morning was one of the happiest of my life, Scrope, 
and I was in hopes that an event would have oc- 
curred in the coursp of the day, that might have 
been my salvation. If it had, by-the-by, I should 
not have returned to town, and got into this cursed 
scrape. However, the gods were against me, and 
now I am reckless." 

Now Lord Monteagle and his friend, who was 
Mr. KForace Pole, appeared. Cadurcis advanced, 
and bowed : Lord Monteagle returned his bow, 
stiffly, but did not speak. The seconds chose their 
ground, the champions disembarrassed themselves 
of their coats, and their swords crossed. It was a 
brief affair. After a few passes, Cadurcis received 
a slight wound in his arm, while his weapon 
pierced his antagonist hi the breast. Lord Mont- 
eagle dropped his sword, and fell. 

" You had better fly. Lord Cadurcis," said Mr. 
Horace Pole. " This is a bad business, I fear : we 
have a surgeon at hand, and he can help us to the 
coach that is waiting close by." 

" I thank you, sir, I never fly," said Lord Ca- 
durcis ; " and I shall wait here until I see your prin- 
cipal safely deposited in his carriage ; he will have 
no objection to my friend, Lord Scrope, assisting 
him, who, by his presence to-day, has only ful- 
filled one of the painful duties that society imposes 
upon us." 

The surgeon gave a very unfavourable report 
of the wound, which he dressed on the field. Lord 
Monteagle was then borne to his carriage, which 



was at hand, and Lord Scrope, the moment he had 
seen the equipage move slowly off, returned to his 
friend. 

" Well, Cadurcis," he exclaimed, in an anxious 
voice, " I hope you have not killed him. "What will 
you do now V 

" I shall go home, and await the result, my dear 
Scrope. I am sorry for you, for this may get you 
into trouble. For myself, I care nothing." 

" You bleed !" said Lord Scrope. 

" A scratch. I almost wish our lots had been 
the reverse. Come, Scrope, help me on with my 
coat. Yesterday I lost my heart, last night I lost 
my money, and perhaps to-morrow I shall lose my 
arm. It seems we are not in luck." 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

It has been well observed, tliat no spectacle is so 
ridiculous as the British public, in one of its periodi- 
cal fits of morality.. In general, elopements, di- 
vorces, and family quarrels, pass with Utile notice. 
We read the scandal, talk about it for a day, and 
forget it. But once in six or seven years, our virtue 
liecomes outrageous. We cannot sulTer the laws 
of religion and decency to be violated. We must 
make a stand against vice. We must teach liber- 
tines that the English people appreciate the impor- 
tance of domestic ties. Accordingly, some unfortu- 
nate man, in no respect more depraved than hun- 
dreds whose offences have been treated with lenity, 
is singled out as an expiatory sacrifice. If he has 
cliildren, they are to be taken from him. If he has 
a profession, lie is to be driven from it. He is cut 
liy the higher orders, aiid hissed by the lower. He 
is, in truth, a sort of whipping boy, by whose vica- 
rious agonies all the other transgressors of the same 
class are, it is supposed, sufficiently chastised. We 
reflect very complacently on our own severity, and 
compare, with great pride, the high standard of 
morals established in England, with the Parisian 
laxity. At length, our anger is satiated — our victim 
is ruined, and heart-broken — and our virtue goes 
quietly to sleep for seven years more. 

Thus it happened to Lord Cadurcis ; he was the 
periodical victim, the scape-goat of English morality, 
sent into the wilderness with all the crimes and 
curses of the multitude on his head. Lord Cadurcis 
had certainly committed a great crime : not his in- 
trigue with Lady Monteagle, for that surely was 
not an unprecedented offence ; nor his duel with 
her husband, for after all it was a duel in self-de- 
fence ; and, at all events, divorces and duels, under 
any circumstances, would scarcely have excited, or 
authorised the storm which was now about to bin-st 
over the late spoiled child of society. But Lord 
Cadurcis had been guilty of the offence which, of 
all offences, is punished most severely: — Lord 
Cadurcis had been overpraised. He had excited too 
warm an interest; and the pubhc, with its usual 
justice, was resolved to chastise him for its own 
folly. 

There are no fits of caprice so hasty and so vio- 
lent as those of society. Society, indeed, is all pas- 
sions and no heart. Cadurcis, in allusion to his 
sudden and singular success, had been in the habit 
of saying to his intimates, that he " woke one morn- 
ing and found himself famous." He might now 



790 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



observe, " I woke one morning and found myself 
infamous." Before twentj-'four hours had passed 
over his duel with liOrd Monteagle, he found him- 
self branded by every journal in London, as an un- 
principled and unparalleled reprobate. The public, 
without waiting to think or even to inquire after the 
truth, instantly selected as genuine the most false 
and the most flagrant of the fifty libellous narratives 
that were circulated of the transaction. Stories, 
Inconsistent with themselves, were all alike eagerly 
believed, and what evidence there might be for any 
one of them, the virtuous people, by whom they 
were repeated, neither cared nor knew. The pubUc, 
in short, fell into a passion with their darling, and, 
ashamed of their past idolatiy, nothing would satisfy 
them but knocking the divinity on the head. 

Until Lord Monteagle, to the great regret of so- 
ciety, who really wished him to die in order that 
his antagonist might commit murder, was declared 
out of clanger. Lord Cadurcis never quitted his 
house, and he was not a little surprised that scarcely 
a human being called upon him except his cousin, 
who immediately flew to his succour. George, in- 
deed, would gladly have spared Cadurcis any know- 
ledge of the storm that was raging against him, and 
which he flattered himself would blow over before 
Cadurcis was again abroad, but he was so much 
with his cousin, and Cadurcis was so extremely 
acute and naturally so suspicious, that this was im- 
possible. Moreover, his absolute desertion by his 
friends, and the invectives and the lampoons with 
which the newspapers abounded, and of which he 
was the subject, rendered anj' concealment out of 
the question, and poor George passed his life in 
running about contradicting falsehoods, stating 
truth, fighting his cousin's battles, and then report- 
ing to him, in the course of the day, the state of the 
campaign. 

Cadurcis, being a man of infinite sensibility, suf- 
fered tortures. He had been so habituated to 
panegj'ric, that the slightest criticism ruffled him, 
and now his works had suddenly become the subject 
of universal and outrageous attack; having lived 
only in a cloud of incense, he suddenly found him- 
self in a pilloi-y of moral indignation; his writings, 
his habits, his temper, his person, were all alike 
ridiculed and vilified. In a word, Cadurcis, the 
petted, idolized, spoiled Cadurcis, was enduring 
that charming vicissitude in a prosperous existence, 
styled a reaction ; and a conqueror, who deemed 
himself invincible, suddenly vanquished, could 
scarcely be more thunderstruck, or feel more impo- 
tently desperate. 

The tortures of his mind, however, which this 
sudden change in his position and in the opinions 
of society, were of themselves competent to occasion 
to one of so impetuous and irritable a temperament, 
and who ever magnilied both miserj' and delight 
with all the creative power of a brooding imagina- 
tion, were excited in his case even to the liveliest 
agony, when he reminded himself of the situation 
m which he was now placed with Venetia. All 
nope of ever obtaining her hand had now certainly 
vanished, and he doubted whether even her love 
could survive the quick occurrence, after his ardent 
vows, of this degrading and mortifying catastrophe. 
He execrated Lady Monteagle with the most heart- 
felt rage, and when he remembered that all this 
tmie the world believed him the devoted admirer of 
this vixen, his brain was stimulated almost to the 
verge of insanity. His only hope of the truth 



reaching Venetia was through the medium of his 
cousin, and he impressed daily upon Captahi 
Cadurcis tSe infinite consolation it would prove to 
him, if he could contrive to make her aware of the 
real facts of the case. According to the public 
voice. Lady Monteagle at his solicitation had fled to 
his house and remained there, and her husband 
forced his entrance into the mansion in the middle 
of the night, while his wife escaped disguised in 
Lord Cadurcis' clothes. She did not, however, 
reach Monteagle House in time enough to escape 
detection by her lord, who had instantly sought and 
obtained satisfaction from his treacherous friend. 
All the monstrous inventions of the first week had 
now subsided into this circumstantial and undoubted 
narrative ; at least this was the version believed by 
those who had been Cadurcis' friends. They cir- 
culated the authentic tale with the most considerate 
assiduity, and shook their heads, and said it was too 
bad, and that he must not be countenanced. 

The moment Lord Monteagle was declared out 
of danger. Lord Cadurcis made his appearance in 
public. He walked into Brookes's, and everybody 
seemed suddenly so deeply interested in the news- 
paper, that you might have supposed they had 
brought intelligence of a great battle, or a revolu- 
tion, or a change of ministry at the least. One or 
two men spoke to him, who had never presumed 
to address him at any other time, and he received a 
faint bow from a very distinguished nobleman, who 
had ever professed for him the greatest considera- 
tion and esteem. 

Cadurcis mounted his horse and rode down to 
the House of Lords. There was a debate of some 
public interest, and a considerable crowd was col- 
lected round the Peers' entrance. The moment 
Lord Cadurcis was recognised the multitude began 
hooting. He was agitated, and grinned a ghastly 
smile at the rabble. But he dismounted, without 
further annoyance, and took his seat. Not a single 
peer of his own party spoke to him. The leader 
of the opposition, indeed, bowed to him, and, in the 
course of the evening, he received, from one or two 
more of his party, some fonrial evidences of frigid 
courtesy. The tone of his reception by his friends 
could not be concealed from the ministerial party. 
It was soon detected, and generally whispei-ed, that 
Lord Cadurcis was cut. Nevertheless, he sat out 
the debate and voted. The house broke u,p. He 

felt lonely ; his old friend, the Bishop of , who 

had observed all that had occurred, and who might 
easily have avoided him, came forward, however 
in the most marked manner, and, in a tone which 
everybody heard, said, " How do you do, Lord 
Cadurcis 1 I am very glad to see you," shaking 
his hand most cordially. This made a great im- 
pression. Several of the tory lords, among them 
Venetia's uncle, now advanced and saluted him. 
He received their advances with a haughty, but not 
disdainful courtesy ; but when his whig friends, 
very confused, now hurried to encumber him with 
their assistance, he treated them with the scorn 
which they well deserved. 

" Will you take a seat in my carriage home, 
Lord Cadurcis ?" said his leader, for it was noto- 
rious that Cadurcis had been mobbed on his arrival. 

" Thank you, my lord," said Cadurcis, speaking 
very audibly, " I prefer returning as I came. We 
are really both of us such very unpopular person- 
ages, that your kindness would scarcely be pru- 
dent." 



VENETIA. 



791 



The house had been very fiill ; there was a great 
scuffle and confusion as the peers were departing ; 
the mob, now very considerable, were prepared tor 
the appearance of Lord Cadurcis, and their de- 
meanour was very menacing. Some shouted out 
his name ; then it %vas repeated with the most 
odious and vindictive epithets, followed by fero- 
cious yells. A great many peers collected round 
Cadurcis, and entreated him not to return on horse- 
back. It must be confessed that very genuine and 
considerable feeling was now shown by men of all 
parties. And indeed to witness this young, and 
noble, and gifted creature, but a few days back the 
idol of the nation, and from whom a word, a glance 
even, was deemed the greatest and most gratifying 
distinction — whom all orders, classes, and conditions 
of men had combined to stimulate with multiplied 
adulation, — with all the glory and ravishing delights 
of the world, as it were, forced upon him — to see 
him thus assailed with the savage execrations of all 
those vile things who exult in the fall of every 
thing that is great, and the abasement of every 
thing that is noble, was indeed a spectacle wliich 
might have silenced malice and satisfied envy ! 

" My carriage is most heartily at your service. 
Lord Cadurcis," said the noble leader of the govern- 
ment, in the Upper House ; " you can enter it with- 
out the slightest suspicion by these rufTians." — 
"Lord Cadurcis; my dear lord ; my good lord — for 
our sakes, if not for your own — Cadurcis, dear 
Cadurcis, my good Cadurcis, it is madness, folly, 
insanity — a mob will do any thing, and an English 
mob is viler than all — for Heaven's sake !" Such 
were a few of the varied exclamations which re- 
sounded on all sides, but which produced on the 
person to whom they were addressed only the 
result of his desiring the attendant to call for his 
horses. 

The lobby was yet full ; it was a fine thing in the 
light of the archway to see Cadurcis spring into his 
saddle. Instantly there was a horrible yell. Yet, 
in spite of all their menaces, the mob were for a 
time awed by his courage ; they made way for him ; 
he might even have rode quickly on for some few 
yards, but he would not ; he reined his fiery steed 
into a slow but stately pace, and, with a counte- 
nance scornful and composed, he continued his 
progress, apparently unconscious of impediment. 
Meanwhile, the hooting continued without abate- 
ment, increasing, indeed, after the first comparative 
pause, in violence and menace. At length a bolder 
ruffian, excited by the uproar, rushed forward and 
seized Cadurcis' bridle. ' Cadurcis struck the man 
over the eyes with his whip, and at the same time 
touched his horse with his spur, and the assailant 
was dashed to the ground. This seemed a signal 
for a general assault. It commenced with the most 
hideous yells. His friends at the House, who had 
watched every thing with the keenest interest, im- 
mediately directed all the constables who were at 
hand to rush to his succour; hitherto they had 
restrainedjthe police, lest their interference might 
stimulate rather than repress the mob. The charge 
of the constables was well-timed ; they laid about 
them with their staves ; _you might have heard the 
echo of many a broken crown. Nevertheless, 
though they dispersed the mass, they could not 
penetrate the immediate barrier that surrounded 
Lord Cadurcis, whose only defence indeed, for they 
had cut off his groom, was the terrors of his horse's 
heels, and whose managed motions he regulated 



with admirable skill — now rearing, now prancing, 
now kicking behind, and now turning round with a 
quick yet sweeping motion, before which the mob 
retreated. Off his horse, however, they seemed 
resolved to drag him ; and it was not difficult to 
conceive, if they succeeded, what must be his 
eventual fate. They were indeed infuriate, but his 
contact with his assailants fortunately prevented 
their comates from hurling stones at him from the 
fear of endangering their own friends. 

A messenger to the Horse Guards had been 
sent from the House of Lords ; but, before the 
military could arrive, and fortunately — for, with 
their utmost expedition, they must have been too 
late — a rumour of the attack got current in the 
House of Commons. Captain Cadurcis, Lord 
Scrope, and a few other young men instantly 
rushed out ; and ascertaining the truth, armed 
with good cudgels and such other effective weapons 
as they could instantly obtain, they mounted their 
horses and charged the nearly triumphant populace, 
dealing such vigorous blows that their eftbrts soon 
made a visible diversion in Lord Cadurcis' favour. 
It is very difficult, indeed, to convey an idea of the 
exertions and achievements of Captain Cadurcis ; 
no Paladin of chivalry ever executed such marvels 
in a swarm of Paynim slaves; and many a bloody 
coxcomb and broken limb bore witness in Petty 
France that night to his achievements. Still the 
mob struggled and were not daunted by the delay 
in immolating their victim. As long as they had 
only to fight against men in plain clothes, they 
were valorous and obstinate enough ; but the mo- 
ment that the crests of a company of Horse Guards 
were seen trotting down Parliament Street, eveiy- 
body ran a».'ay, and in a few minutes all Palace 
Yard was as still as if the genius of the place 
rendered a riot impossible. 

liord Cadurcis thanked his friends, who were 
profuse in their compliments to his pluck. His 
manner, usually playful with his intimates of his 
own standing, was, however, rather grave at pre- 
sent, though very cordial. He asked them home 
to dine with him ; but they were obliged to decline 
his invitation, as a division was expected ; so say- 
ing " Good-b'ye, George, perhaps I shall see you to- 
night," Cadurcis rode rapidly off. 

With Cadurcis there was but one step from the 
most exquisite sensitiveness to the most violent de- 
fiance. The experience of this day had entirely 
cured him of his previous nervous deference to the 
feelings of society. Society had outraged him, and 
now he resolved to outrage society. He owed so- 
ciety nothing ; his reception in the House of Lords 
and the riot in Palace Yard, had alike cleared his 
accounts with all orders of men, from the highest 
to the lowest. He had experienced, indeed, some 
kindness that he could not forget, but only from 
his own kin, and those who with his associations 
were the same as kin. His memory dwelt with 
gratification on his cousin's courageous zeal, and 
still more on the demonstration which ?yTasham 
had made in his favour, which, if possible, argued 
still greater boldness and sincere regard. That was 
a trial of true aftection and an instance of moral 
courage, which Cadurcis honoured, and which he 
never could forget. He was anxious about Vene- 
tia ; he wished to stand as well with her as he de- 
served ; no better ; but he was grieved to think 
she could believe all those infamous tales at present 
current respecting himself. But for the rest of the 



792 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



world, he delivered them all to the most absolute 
contempt, disgust, and execration ; he resolved, 
from this time, nothing should ever induce, him 
again to enter society, or admit the advances of a 
single civilized ruflian Vt'ho aflected to be social. 
The country, the people, their habits, laws, man- 
ners, customs, ojnnions, and every thing con- 
nected with them were viewed with the same jaun- 
diced eye ; and his only object now was to quit 
England, to which he resolved never to return. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

In the mean time we must not forget Venetia, 
who was perhaps not quite so surprised as the 
rest of her friends, when, on their return to Rich- 
mond, Lord Cadurcis was not again seen. She 
was very unhappy ; she recalled the scene in the 
garden at Oherbuiy some years back ; and with 
her knowledge of the impetuosity of his temper, she 
believed she should never see him again. Poor 
Plantagenet, who loved her so much, and whose 
love she so fully returned ! why might they not be 
happy 1 She neither doubted the constancy of his 
affection, nor their permanent felicity if they were 
united. She shared none of her mother's appre- 
hensions or her prejudices, but she was the victim 
of duty and her vow. In the course of four-and- 
twenty hours strange rumours were afloat respect- 
ing Lord Cadurcis ; and the newspapers on the 
ensuing morning told the truth, and more than the 
truth. Venetia could not doubt as to the duel or 
the elopement; but instead of feeling indignation, 
she attributed what had occurred to the desperation 
of his mortified mind ; and she visited on herself 
all the fatal consequences that had happened. At 
present, however, all her emotions were quickly ab- 
sorbed in the one terrible fear, that Lord Montcagle 
would die. In that dreadful and urgent appre- 
hension, every other sentiment merged. It was 
impossible to conceal her misery, and she entreated 
her mother to return to town. 

Very differently, however, was the catastrophe 
viewed by Lady Annabel. She, on the contrary, 
triumphed in her sagacity and her prudence. She 
hourly congratulated herself on being the saviour 
of her daughter; and though she refrained from 
indulging in any open exultation over Venetia's 
escape and her own profound discretion, it was 
nevertheless impossible for her to conceal from her 
daughter her infinite satisfaction and selt-congratu- 
lation. While Venetia was half broken-hearted, 
her mother silently returned thanks to Providence 
for the merciful dispensation which had exempted 
her child from so much miseiy. 

The day after their return to town, Captain Ca- 
durcis called upon them. Lady Annabel never 
mentioned the name of his cousin ; but George, 
finding no opportunity of conversing with Venetia 
alone, and being indeed to© much excited to speak 
on any other subject, plunged at once into the full 
narrative ; defended Lord Cadurcis, abused the 
Monteaglcs and the slanderous world, and in spite 
of Lady Annabel's ill-concealed dissatisfaction, fa- 
voured her with an exact and circumstantial ac- 
count of every thing that had happened ; how it 
liappened, when it happened, and where it hap- 
pened; concluding by a declaration that Cadurcis 
was tlie best fellow tliat ever lived, the most un- 



fortunate, and the most ill-used : and that, if he 
were to be hunted down for an afiliir like this, over 
which he had no control, there was not a man in 
London who could be safe for ten minutes. All 
that George effected by his zeal, was to convince 
Lady Annabel that his cousin had entirely cor- 
rupted him ; she looked upon her former favourite 
as another victim ; but Venetia listened in silence, 
and not without solace. 

Two or three days after the riot at the House of 
Lords, Captain Cadurcis burst into his cousin's 
roonj with a triumphant countenance. " Well, 
Plantagenet I" he exclaimed, " I have done it ; I 
have seen her alone ; and I have put you as right 
as possible. Nothing can be better." 

" Tell me, my dear fellow," said Lord Cadurcis, 
eagerly. 

" Well, you know, I have called half a dozen 
times," said George; "but either Lady Annabel 
was there, or they were not at home, or something 
always occurred to prevent any private communi- 
cation. But I met her to-day with her aunt ; I joined 
them immediately, and kept with them the whole 
morning. I am sorry to say, she, I mean Venetia, is 
devilish ill ; she is mj^lced. However, her aunt now is 
quite on your side, and very kind, I can tell you that. 
I put her right at first, and she has fought our bat- 
tle bravely. Well, they stopped to call somewhere, 
and Venetia was so unwell, that she would not get 
out, and I was left alone in the carriage with her. 
Time was precious, and I opened at once. I told 
her how wretched you were, and that the only 
tiling that made you miserable was about her, be- 
cause you were afraid she would think you so pro- 
fligate, and all that. I went through it all; told 
her the exact truth, which indeed she had before 
heard ; but now I assured her on my honour, that 
it was exactly what had happened ; and she said 
she did not doubt it, and could not, from some con- 
versation which you had together the day we were 
all at Hampton Court, and that she felt that no- 
thing could have been premeditated, and fully be- 
lieved that every thing had occurred as I said ; and, 
however she deplored it, she felt the same for you 
as ever, and prayed for your happiness. Then she 
told me what misery the danger of Lord Monfeagle 
had occasioned her; that she thought his death 
must have been the forerunner of her own, but the 
moment he was declared out of danger, seemed the 
happiest hour of her life. I told her you were 
going to leave England, ai»d asked her whether she 
had any message for y©« ; and she said, 'Tell him 
he is the same to me that he has always been.' So 
when her aunt returned, I jumped out and ran on 
to you at once." 

" You are the best fellow that ever lived, 
George," said Lord Cadurcis; "and now the 
world may go to the devil !" 

This message from Venetia acted upon Lord 
Cadurcis like a charm. It instantly cleared his 
mind. He shut himself up in his house for a 
week, and wrote a farewell to England, gerhaps the 
most masterly effusion of his powerful spirit. It 
abounded in passages of overwhelming passion, and 
almost Satanic sarcasm. ^ Its composition entirely 
relieved his long-brooding brain. It contained, 
however, a veiled address to Venetia, — delicate, 
tender, and irresistibly affecting. He aj)pended 
also to the publication, the verses he had previously 
addressed to her. 

This volume, which was purchased with an 



VENETIA. 



793 



avidity exceeding even the eagerness with which his 
former productions had heen received, exercised the 
most extraordinary influence on public opinion. 
It enlisted the feelings of the nation on his side in 
a struggle with a coterie. It was suddenly dis- 
covered that Lord Cadurcis was the most injured 
of mortals, and far more interesting than ever. The 
address to the unknown object of his adoration, and 
the verses to Venetia, mystified everj'body. Lady 
Monteagle was universally abused, and all sympa- 
thized with the long-treasured and baffled affection 
of the unhappy poet. Cadurcis, however, was not 
to be conciliated. He left his native shores in a 
blaze of glory, but with the accents of scorn still 
quivering on Iris lip. 



BOOK V. 



CHAPTER L 

The still waters of the broad and winding lake 
reflected the lustre of the cloudless sky. The 
gentle declinations of the green hills that immedi- 
ately bordered the lake, with an undulating margin 
that now retired into bays of the most picturesque 
form, now jutted forth into woody promontories, 
and then opened into valleys of sequestered beauty, 
which the eye delighted to pursue, were studded 
with white villas, and cottages scarcely less grace- 
ful, and occasionally with villages, and even towns ; 
here and there rose a solitary chapel ; and, scarcely 
less conspicuous, the black spire of some cypr^ess 
strikingly contrasting with the fair buildings or the 
radiant foliage that in general surrounded them. 
A rampart of azure mountains raised their huge 
forms behind the nearer hills ; and occasionally 
peering over these, like spectres on some brilliant 
festival, were the ghastly visages of the Alpine 
glaciers. 

It was within an hour of sunset, and the long 
shadows had fallen upon the waters ; a broad boat, 
with a variegated awning, rowed by two men, ap- 
proached the steps of a marble terrace. The mo- 
ment they had reached their point of destination, 
and had fastened the boat to its moorings, the men 
landed their oars, and immediately commenced 
singing a simple yet touching melody, wherewith 
it was their custom to apprise their employers of 
their arrival. 

" Will they come forth this evening, think you, 
Vittoriol" said one boatman to the other. 

" By our holy mother ! I hope so," replied his 
comrade, " for this light air that is now rising 
will do the young signora more good than fifty 
doctors." 

" They are good people," said Vittorio. " It 
gives me more pleasure to row them than any per- 
Mon who ever hired us." 

" Ay, ay !" said his comrade, " it was a lucky 
day when we first put an oar in the lake for them, 
heretics though they be." 

" But they may be converted yet," said his com- 
panion ; " for, as I was saying to Father Francisco 
last night, if the young signoi-a dies, it is a sad 
thing to thiidv what will become of her." 

'' And what said the good Father?" 

"He shook his head," said Vittorio. 
100 



" When Father Francisco shakes his head, he 
means a great deal," said his companion. 

At this moment a servant appeared on the ter- 
race, to say the ladies were at hand ; and very 
shortly afterwards Lady Annabel Herbert, with her 
daughter leaning on her arm, descended the steps, 
and entered the boat. The countenances of the 
boatmen brightened when they saw them, and they 
both made their inquiries after the health of A^e- 
netia with tenderness and feeling. 

" Indeed, my good friends," said Venetia, " I 
think you are right, and the lake will cure me 
after all." 

" The blessings of the lake be upon you, sig- 
nora," said the boatmen, crossing themselves. 

Just as they were moving off, came running 
Mistress Pauncefort, quite breathless. " Miss Her- 
bert's fur cloak, my lady ; you told me to remem- 
ber, my lady, and I cannot think how I forgot it. 
But I really have been so very hot all day, that 
such a thing as furs never entered my head. And 
for my part, until I travelled, I always thought furs 
were only worn in Russia. But live and learn, as 
I say." 

They were now fairly floating on the calm, clear 
waters, and the rising breeze was as grateful to 
Venetia as the boatmen had imagined. 

A return of those symptoms which had before so 
disquieted Lady Annabel for her daughter, and 
which were formerly the cause of their residence 
at Weymmith, had induced her, in compliance with 
the advice of her physicians, to visit Italy ; but the 
fatigue of travel had exhausted the energies of 
Venetia — for in those days the Alps were not 
passed in luxurious travelling carriages — on the 
very threshold of the promised land ; and Lady 
Annaliel had been prevailed upon to take a villa on 
the Lago Maggiore, where Venetia had passed two 
months, still suffering indeed from great debility, 
but not without advantage. 

There are few spots more favoured by nature 
than the Italian lakes and their vicinity, combining, 
as they do, the most sublime features of mountain- 
ous scenery with all the softer beauties and the 
varied luxuriance of the plain. As the still, bright 
lake is to the rushing and troubled cataract, is Italy 
to Switzerland and Savoy. Emerging from the 
chaotic ravines and tl'io wild gorges of the Alps, the 
happy land breaks upon us like a beautiful vision. 
We revel in the sunny light, after the unearthly 
glare of eternal snow. Our sight seems renovated 
as we throw our eager glance over those golden 
plains, clothed with such picturesque trees, spark- 
ling with such graceful villages, watered by such 
noble rivers, and crowned with such magnificent ' 
cities; and all bathed and beaming in an atmos- 
phere so soft and radiant ! Every isolated object 
charms us with its beautiful novelty : for the first 
time we gaze on palaces ; the garden, the terrace, 
and the statue, recall our dreams beneath a colder 
sky ; and we turn from these to catch the hallovv-eJ 
form of some cupolaed convent, crowning the gen- 
tle elevation of some green hill, and flanked by the 
cypress or pine. 

The influence of all these delightful objects and 
of this benign atmosphere on the frame and mind 
of Venetia had been considerable. After the ex- 
citement of the last year of her life, and the harass- 
ing and agitating scenes with which it closed, she 
found a fine solace in this fair land and this soft 
sky, which the sad perhaps can alone experience 
3X 



794 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



(ts repose alone afforded a consolatory contrast to 
the ttubulent pleasure of the great world. She 
looked back upon those glittering and noisy scenes 
with an aversion which was only modified by her 
self-congratulation at her escape from their exhaust- 
ing and contaminating sphere. Here she recurred, 
— but with all the advantages of a change of scene, 
and a scene so rich in novel and interesting associ- 
ations, — to the calm tenor of those days, when not 
a thought ever seemed to escape from Cherbury 
and its spell-bound seclusion. Her books, her 
drawings, her easel, and her harp, were now again 
her chief pursuits ; pursuits, however, influenced 
by the genius of the land in which she lived, and 
therefore invested with a novel interest ; for the 
literature and the history of the country naturally 
attracted her attention ; and its fair aspects and 
sweet sounds, alike inspired her pencil and her 
voice. She had, in the society of her mother, in- 
deed, the advantage of communing with a mind not 
less relined and cultivated than her own. Lady 
Annabel was a companion whose conversation from 
reading and reflection was eminently suggestive ; 
and their hours, though they lived in solitude, 
never hung heavy. They were always employed, 
and always cheerful. But Venetia was not more 
than cheerful. Still very young, and gifted with 
an imaginative, and, therefore, sanguine mind, the 
course of circumstances, however, had checked her 
native spirit, and shaded a brow which at her time 
of life, and with her temperament, should have 
been rather fanciful than pensive. If Venetia, sup- 
ported by the disciplined energies of a strong mind. 
Lad schooled herself into not looking back to the 
past with grief, her future was certainly not tinged 
with the Iris pencil of Hope. It seemed to her 
that it was her fate that life should bring her no 
happier hours than those she now enjoyed. They 
did not amount to exquisite bliss. That was a con- 
viction which, by no process of reflection, however 
ingenious, could she delude herself to credit. Ve- 
netia struggled to take refuge in content, a mood 
of mind perhaps less natural than it should be to 
one so young, so gifted, and so fair ! 

Their villa was surrounded by a garden in the 
ornate and artiflcial style of the country. A marble 
terrace overlooked the lake, crowned with many a 
statue, and vase that held the aloe. The laurel and 
the cactus, the cypress and the pine, filled the air 
with their fragrance, or charmed the eye with their 
rarity and beauty : the walks were festooned with 
the vine, and they could raise their hands and 
pluck the glowing fruit which screened them from 
the beam by which it was ripened. In this en- 
I chanted domain Venetia might be often seen — a 
form even fairer than the sculptured nymphs among 
which she glided — catching the gentle breeze that 
played upon the surflice of the lake, or watching 
the white sail that glittered in the sun as it floated 
over its purple bosom. 

Yet this beautiful retreat Venetia was soon to 
quit, and she thought of her departure with a sigh. 
Her mother had been warned to avoid the neigh- 
bourhood of the mountains in the winter, and the 
autumn was approaching its close. If Venetia 
could endure the .passage of the Apennines, it was 
the intention of Lady Annabel to pass the winter 
iin the coast of the Mediterranean ; otherwise to 
settle in one of the Lombard cities. At all events, 
in the course of a few weeks they were to quit 
their villa on the lake. 



CHAPTER II. 

A VERT few days after that excursion on the 
lake with which this volume of our history opened, 
Lady Annabel and her daughter were both sur- 
prised and pleased with a visit from a friend whose 
appearance was certainly very unexpected : this 
was Captain Cadurcis. On his way from Switzer- 
land to Sicily he had heard of their residence in 
the neighbourhood, and had crossed over from 
Arona to visit them. 

I'he name of Cadurcis was still dear to Venetia, 
and George had displayed such gallantry and de- 
votion in all his cousin's troubles, that she was 
personally attached to him ; he had always been a 
favourite of her mother ; his arrival, therefore, was 
welcomed by each of the ladies with great cordiality. 
He accepted the hospitality which Lady Annabel 
offered him, and remained with them a week, a 
period which they spent in visiting the most beau- 
tiful and interesting spots of the lake, with which 
they were already sufficiently familiar to allow 
them to prove guides as able as they were agreea- 
ble. These excursions, indeed, contributed to the 
pleasure and happiness of tlie whole party. There 
was about Captain Cadurcis a natural cheerfulness 
which animated every one in his society ; a gay 
simplicity, difficult to define, but very charming, 
and which, without eflort, often produced deeper 
impressions than more brilliant and subtle qualities. 
Left alone in the world, and without a single ad- 
vantage save those that nature had conferred upon 
him, it had often been remarked, that in whatever 
circle he moved, George Cadurcis always became 
the favourite, and everywhere made friends. His 
svxeet and engaging temper had perhaps as much 
contributed to his professional success as his dis- 
tinguished gallantry and skill. Other officers, no 
doubt, were as brave and able as Captain Cadurcis, 
but his commanders always signalled him out for 
favourable notice ; and strange to say, his success, 
instead of exciting envy and ill-will, pleased even 
his less fortunate competitors. However hard 
another might feel his own lot, it was soothed by 
the reflection that George Cadurcis was at least 
more fortunate. His popularity, however, was no 
confined to his profession. His cousin's noblo 
guardian, whom George had never seen until he 
ventured to call upon his lordship on his return to 
England, now looked upon him almost as a son, 
and omitted no opportunity of advancing his inte- 
rests in the world. Of all the members of tho 
House of Commons he was perhaps the only one 
that every body praised, and his success in the 
world of fashion had been as remarkable as in his 
profession. These great revolutions in his life and 
future prospects had, however, not produced the 
slightest change in his mind and manners ; and 
this was perhaps the secret spell of his prosperity. 
Though we are most of us the creatures of affecta- 
tion, simplicity has a great charm, especially when 
attended, as in the present instance, with many 
agreeable, and some noble qualities. In spite of 
the rough fortunes of his youth, the breeding of 
Captain Cadurcis was very high ; the recollection 
of the race to which he belonged had never been 
forgotten by him. He was proud of his family 
He had one of those light hearts, too, which enable 
their possessors to acquire accomplishments with 
facility : he had a sweet voice, a quick ear, a rapid 
eye. He acquired a language as some men Jeara 



V E N E T 1 A. 



795 



\n air. Then his temper was imperturbable, and 
although the most obliging and kindest-hearted 
creature that ever lived, there was a native dignity 
about him which prevented his good nature from 
being abused. No sense of interest either could 
ever induce him to act contrary to the dictates of 
his judgment and his heart. 'At the risk of offend- 
ing his patron, he sided with his cousin, although 
he had deeply offended his guardian, and althougli 
the whole world was against him. Indeed, the 
strong affection that Lord Cadurcis instantly en- 
tertained for George, is not the least remarkable 
instance of the singular, though silent, influence 
that Captain Cadurcis everywhere acquired. Lord 
Cadurcis had fixed upon him for his friend ■ from 
the first moment of their acquaintance, and though 
apparently there could not be two characters more 
dissimilar, there were at bottom some striking 
points of sympathy and some strong bonds of union, 
in the generosity and courage that distinguished 
both, and in the mutual blood that filled their veins. 

There seemed to be a tacit understanding be- 
tween the several members of our party that the 
name of Lord Cadurcis was not to be mentiontd. 
Lady Annabel made no inquiry after him ; Venetia 
was unwilling to hazard a question which would 
annoy her mother, and of which the answer could 
not bring her much satisfaction ; and Captain Ca- 
durcis did not think fit himself to originate any 
conversation on tlie subject. Nevertheless, Venetia 
could not help sometimes fancying when her eyes 
met his, that their mutual thoughts were the same, 
and both dwelling on one who was absent, and of 
whom her companion would have willingly con- 
versed. To confess the truth, indeed, George Ca- 
durcis was on his way to join his cousin, who had 
crossed over from Spain to Barbary, and journeyed 
along the African coast from Tangiers to Tripoli. 
Their point of .reunion was to be Sicily or Malta. 
Hearing of the residence of the Herberts on the 
lake, he thought it would be but kind to Plantage- 
net to visit them ; and perhaps to bear to him some 
message from Venetia. There was nothing, fndecd, 
on which Captain Cadurcis was more intent than 
to effect the union between his cousin and Miss 
Herbert. He was deeply impressed with the sin- 
cerity of Plantagenct's passion, and he himself en- 
tertained for the lady the greatest affection and 
admiration. He thought she was the only person 
whom he had ever known, who was really worthy 
to be his cousin's bride. And, independent of her 
personal charms and undoubted talents, she had 
displayed during the outcry against Lord Cadurcis, 
so much good sense, such a fine spirit, and such 
modest yet sincere affection for the victim, that 
George Cadurcis had almost lost his own heart to 
her, when he was endeavouring to induce her not 
utterly to reject that of another ; and it became one 
of the dreams of his life, that in a little time, when 
all, as he fondly anticipated, had ended as it should, 
and as he wished it, he should be able to find an 
occasional home at Cadurcis Abbey, and enjoy the 
charming society of one whom he had already 
taught himself to consider as a sister. 

" And to-night you must indeed go 1" said 
Venetia, as tney were walking together on the ter- 
race. It was the only time that they had been 
alone together during his visit. 

" I must start from Arena at day-break," replied 
George; " and I must travel quickly; for in -less 
than a month I must be in Sicily." 



" Sicily ! Why are you going to Sicily V 

Captain Cadurcis smiled. " I am going to join 
a friend of ours," he answered. 

" Plantagenet 1" she said. 

Captain Cadurcis nodded assent. 

" Poor Plantagenet !" said Venetia. " Here we 
have been a week together, and no one has ever 
mentioned his name. He seems quite proscribed.' 

" His name has been on my lips several times,' 
said George. 

" I am sure of that," said Venetia. " Is he 

wein" ..." 

" He writes to me in fair spirits," said Captain 
Cadurcis. " He has been travelling in Spain, and 
now he is somewhere in Africa ; we are to meet in 
Sicily or Malta. I think travel has greatly bene- 
fited him. He seems quite delighted with his 
glimpse of oriental manners ; and I should scarcely 
be surprised if he were now to stretch on to Con- 
stantinople." 

" I wonder if he will ever return to England," 
said Venetia thoughtfully. 

" There is only one event that would induce him," 
said Captain Cadurcis. And then after a pause he 
added, " You will not ask me what it is V 

" I wish he were in England, and were happy," 
said Venetia. 

" It is in your power to effect both results," said 
her companion. 

" It is useless to recur to that subject," said 
Venetia. " Plantagenet knows my feelings towards 
him, but fate has forbidden our destinies to be com- 
bined." 

"Then he will never return to England, and 
never be happy. Ah ! Venetia, what shall I tell 
him when we meet ] What message am I to hear 
him from you 1" 

" Those regards which he ever possessed, and 
has never forfeited," said Venetia. 

" Poor Cadurcis !" said his cousin, shaking his 
head, " if any man ever had reason to be miserable, 
it is he." 

" We are none of us very happy, I think," said 
Venetia mournfully. "I am sure, when I look 
back to the last few years of my life, it seems to me 
that there is some curse hanging over our families. 
I cannot penetrate it ; it baffles me." 

" I am sure," said Captain Cadurcis with great 
animation : " Nay, I would pledge my existence 
cheerfully on the venture, that if Lady Annabel 
would only relent towards Cadurcis, we should all 
be the happiest people in the world." 

" Heigho !" said Venetia. " There are other 
cares in our house besides our unfortunate acquaint- 
ance with your cousin. We were the last people 
in the world with whom he should ever have be- 
cpme connected." 

" And yet it was an intimacy that commenced 
auspiciously," said her friend. " I am sure I have 
sat with Cadurcis, and listened to him by the hour, 
while he has told me of all the happy days at Cher- 
bury when you were both children ; the only haj)py 
days according to him, that he ever knew." 

" Yes ! they were happy days," said Venetia. 

" And what connexion could have offered a more 
rational basis for felicity than your union V he con- 
tinued. " Whatever the world may think, I, who 
know Cadurcis from the very bottom of his heart, 
feel assured that you never would have repente<l for 
an instant becoming the sharer of his life ; your 
families were of equal rank, your estates joined. 



r96 



^'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



he felt foi your mother the affection of a son. There 
seemed every element that could have contributed 
to earthly bliss. As for his late career, you who 
know a]\ have already, have always indeed, viewed 
it with charity. Placed in his position, who could 
have acted otherwise? I know very well that his 
genius, which might recommend him to another 
woman, is viewed by your mother, with more than 
apprehension. It is true that a man of his exquisite 
sensibility requires sympathies as refined to com- 
mand his nature. It is no common mind that could 
maintain its hold over Cadurcis, and his spirit could 
not yield but to rare and transcendant qualities. 
Pie found them, Venetia, he found them in her, 
whom he had known longest and most intimately, 
and loved from his boyhood. Talk of constancy, 
indeed ! who has been so constant as my cousin 1 
No, Venetia, you may think fit to bow to the feel- 
ings of your mother, and it would be impertinence 
in me to doubt for an instant the propriety of your 
conduct : I do not doubt it ; I admire it ; I admire 
you, and everything you have done ; none can view 
your behaviour throughout all these painful trans- 
actions with more admiration, I might even say 
with more reverence, than myself; but, Venetia, 
you never can persuade me, you have never at- 
temi)ted to persuade me, that you yourself are in- 
credulous of the strength and permanancy of my 
cousin's love." 

" Ah ! George, you are our friend !" said Venetia, 
a tear stealing down her cheek. " But indeed, we 
must not talk of these things. As for myself, I 
think not of happiness. I am certain I am not 
born to be hajjpy. I wish only to live calmly, con- 
tentedly I would say ; but that, perhaps, is too 
much. My feelings have been so harrowed, my 
mind so harrassed, during these last few years, and 
so many causes of pain and misery seem ever 
hovering round my existence, that I do assure you, 
my dear friend, I have grown oW belbre my time. 
Ah ! you may smile, George, but my heart is hca\'y ; 
it is indeed." 

" I wish I could lighten it," said Captain Cadur- 
cis. " I fear I am somewhat selfish in wishing you 
to marry my cousin, for then you know, I should 
have a [lermanent and authentic claim to your re- 
gard. But no one, at least I think so, can feel more 
deeply interested in your welfare, than I do. I 
never knew any one like you, and I always tell 
Cadurcis so, and that I think makes him worse, but 
I cannot help it." 

Venetia could not refrain from smiling at the 
simplicity of tliis confession. 

" Well," continued her companion, " every 
thing, after all, is for the best. You and Plantagc- 
net are both very young ; I live in hoj)es that I 
shall yet see you Lady Cadurcis." 

Venetia shook her head, but was not sorry that 
their somewhat melancholy conversation should 
end in a livelier vein. So they entered the villa. 

The hour of parting was painful ; and the 
natural gaycty of Captain Cadurcis deserted him. 
He had become greatly attached to the Herberts. 
Without any female relatives 'of his own, their 
former intimacy and probable connexion with his 
liousin had taught him to look upon them in some 
degree in the light of kindred. He had originally 
indeed become acquainted with them in all the 
blaze of London society, not very calculated to 
bring out the softer tints and more subdued tones 
of our character, but even thei^ the dignified grace 



of Lady Anrabel and the radiant beauty of Venc 
tia, had captivated him, and he had cultivated their 
society with assiduity and extreme pleasure. The 
grand crisis of his cousin's fortunes had enabled 
him to become intimate with the more secret and 
serious qualities of Vfnetia, and from that moment 
he had taken the deepest interest in every thing 
connected with her. His happy and unexpected 
meeting in Italy had completed the spell ; and now 
that he was about to leave them, uncertain even if 
they should ever meet again, his soft heart trembled, 
and he could scarcely refram from tears as he 
pressed their hands, and bade them his sincere 
adieus. 

The moon had risen ere he entered his boat, and 
flung a ri}ipling line of glittering light on the bosom 
of the lake. The sky was without a cloud, save a 
few thin fleecy vapours that hovered over the azure 
brow of a distant mountain. The shores of the 
lake were sufl'used with the serene effulgence, and 
every object was so distinct, that the eye vi'as pained 
by the lights of the villages, that, every instant, be- 
came more numerous and vivid. The bell of a 
small chapel on the opposite shore, and the distant 
chant of some fishermen still working at their nets, 
were the only sounds that broke the silence, which 
they did not disturb. Reclined in his boat, George 
Cadurcis watched the vanishing villa of the Her- 
berts, until the light in the principal chamber was 
the only sign that assured him of its site. That 
chamber held Venetia ; the unhappy Venetia ! He 
covered his face with his hand when even the light 
of her chamber vanished, and, full of thoughts ten- 
der and disconsolate, he at length arrived at Arona. 



CHAPTER III. . 

PuKsuANT to their plans, the Herberts left the 
Lago Maggiore towards the end of October, and 
proceeded by gentle journeys to the Apennines. 
Before they crossed this barrier, they were to rest 
awhile in one of the Lombard cities; and now they 
were on the point of reaching Arqua, which Vene- 
tia had expressed a strong desire to visit. 

At the latter part of the last century, the race of 
tourists, the offspring of a long peace, and the rapid 
fortunes made during the war, did not exist. Tra- 
velling was then confined to the aristjcracy, and 
though the English, when opportunity >>Tered, have 
ever been a restless people, the gentle t jsom of the 
Euganean Hills was then rarely disturbed amid its 
green and sequestered valleys. 

There is not perhaps in all the Italian region, 
fertile as it is in interesting associations and pictu 
resque beauty, a spot that tradition and nature have 
so complet*?ly combined to hallow, as the last resi- 
dence of Petrarch. It seems, indeed, to have been 
formed for the retirement of a pensive and poetic 
spirit. It recedes from the world by a succession 
of dcUcate acclivities clothed with vineyards and 
orchards, until winding within these hills, the moun- 
tain hamlet is at length discovered, enclosed by two 
ridges that slope towards each other, and seem to 
shut out all the passions of a troubled race. The 
houses are scattered at intervals on the steep sides 
of these summits, and on a little knoll is the man- 
sion of the poet, built by himself, and commanding 
a rich and extensive view, that ends indeed only 
with tlie shores of the Adriatic sea. His tomb, a 



V E N E T I A. 



797 



sarcophagus of red marble, supported by pillars, 
doubtless familiar to the reader, is at hand ; and 
placed on an elevated site, gives a solemn impres- 
sion to a scene, of which the character would other- 
wise be serenely cheerful. 

Our travellers were surprised to find, that the 
house of the poet was inhabited by a very dilferent 
tenant to the rustic occupier they had anticipated. 
They heard that a German gentleman had within 
the last year fixed upon it as the residence of him- 
self and his wife. The peasants were profuse in 
their panegyrics of this visiter, whose arrival had 
|)roved quite an era in the history of their village. 
According to them, a kinder and more charitable 
gentlemen never breathed ; his whole life was spent 
in studying and contributing to the happiness of 
tliose around him. The sick, the sorrowful, and 
the needy, were ever sure of finding a friend in 
him, and merit a generous patron. From him came 
portions to the portionless ; no village maiden need 
despair of being united to her betrothed, while he 
could assist her ; and at his own cost he had sent 
to the academy of Bologna, a youth whom his fa- 
ther would have made a cowherd, but whom nature 
predisposed to be a painter. The inhabitants be- 
lieved this benevolent and generous person was a 
physician, for he attended the sick, prescribed for 
their complaints, and had once even performed an 
operation with great success. It seemed, that since 
Petrarch no one had ever been so popular at Arqua 
as this kind German. Lady Annabel and Venetia 
were interested with the animated narratives of the 
ever active beneficence of this good man, and Lady 
Annabel especially regretted that his absence de- 
prived her of the gratification of becoming acquaint- 
ed with a character so rare and so invaluable. 
In the meantime, thoy availed themselves of the 
offer of his servants to view the house of Petrarch, 
for their master had left orders, that his absence 
should never deprive a pilgrim from paying his ho- 
mage to the shrine of genius. 

The house, consisting of two floors, had recently 
been repaired by the present occupier. It was sim- 
ply furnished. The ground floor was allotted to 
the servants. The upper story contained five rooms, 
three of which were of good size, and two closets, 
in one of these were the traditionary chair and ta- 
ble of Petrarch, and here, according to their guides, 
the master of the house passed a great portion of his 
time in study, to which, by their account, he seemed 
devoted. The adjoining chamber was his library ; 
its windows opened on a balcony looking on two 
lofty and conical hills, one topped with a convent, 
while the valley opened on the side and spread into 
a calm and veryjjleasant view. Of the other apart- 
ments, one served as a saloon, but there was no- 
thing in it remarkable, except an admirably painted 
portrtgt of a very beautiful woman, which the ser- 
vant informed them was their mistress. 

" But that surelj' is not a German physiog- 
nomy V said Lady Annabel. 

" The mistress is an Italian," replied the servant. 

" She is very handsome, of whatever nation she 
may be," replied Lady Annabel. 

" ! how I should have liked to have met these 
happy people, mamma," said Venetia, " for happy 
they surely must be." 

" They seemed to be good people," said Lady 
A.nnabel. " It really lightened my heart to hear 
of all this gentleman's kind deeds." 

"Ah! if the signora only knew the master," 



said their guide, " she would indeed know a good 
man !" 

They descended to the garden, which certainly 
was not like the garden of their villa ; it had been 
but lately a wilderness of laurels, but there were 
evidences that the eye and hand of taste were com- 
mencing its restoration with effect. 

" The master did this," said their guide. " He 
will allow no one to work in the garden but himself. 
It is a week since he went to Bologna, to see our 
Paulo. He gained a prize at the academy, and his 
father begged the master to be present when it was 
conferred on him ; he said it would do his son so 
much good ! So the master went, though it is the 
only time he has quitted Qua since he came to re- 
side here." 

" And how long has he resided here 1" inquired 
Venetia. 

" 'Tis the second autumn," said the guide, "and 
he came in the spring. If the signora would only 
wait, we expect the master home to-night or to- 
morrow, and he would be glad to see her." 

" We cannot wait, my friend," said Lady Anna- 
bel, rewarding the guide; "but you will thank 
your master in our names, for the kindness we have 
experienced. You are all happy in such a friend." 

" I must write my name in Petrarch's house," 
said Venetia. "Adieu! happy Arqua! Adieu! 
happy dwellers in this happy valley !" 



CHAPTER IV. 

JtJST as the Herberts arrived at Rovigo, one of 
those sudden and violent storms that occasionally 
occur at the termination of an Italian autumn raged 
with irresistible fury. The wind roared with a 
noise that overpowered even the thunder; then 
came a rattling shower of hail, with stones as big 
as pigeon's eggs, succeeded by rain, not in showers, 
but literally in cataracts. The only thing to«which 
a tempest of rain in Italy can be compared, is the 
bursting of a water spout. Venetia could scarcely 
believe that this could be the same day of which the 
golden morning had found her among the sunny 
hills of Arqua. This unexpected vicissitude in- 
duced Lady Annabel to alter her plans, and she 
resolved to rest at Rovigo, where she was glad to 
find that they could be sheltered in a very commo- 
dious inn. 

The building had originally been a palace, and 
in its halls and galleries, and the vast octagonal 
vestibule on which the principal apartments opened, 
it retained many noble indications of the purposes 
to which it was formerly destined. At present, a 
lazy innkeeper, who did nothing; his bustling wife, 
who seemed equally at home in the saloon, the 
kitchen, and even the stable ; and a solitary waiter, 
were the only inmates, except the Herberts, and a 
travelling party, who had arrived shortly after 
them, and who, like them, had been driven by stress 
of weather to seek refuge at a place where other- 
wise they had not intended to remain. 

A blazing fire of pine wood soon gave cheerful- 
ness to the vast and somewhat desolate apartment 
in which the Herberts had been ushered ; their 
sleeping-room was adjoining, but separated. In 
spite of the lamentations of Pauncefort, who had 
been drenched to the skin, and who required much 
more waiting upon than her mistress, Lady Anna 
3x2 



798 



D'ISRAELl'S NOVELS. 



bel and Venetia at length produced some degree of 
comfort. They drew the table near the fire ; they 
<?nsconced themselves behind an old screen ; and, 
producing their books and work, notwithstanding 
the tempest, they contrived to domesticate them- 
selves at Rovigo. 

" I cannot help thinking of Arqua and its happy 
tenants, mamma," said Venetia. 

" And yet perhaps they may have their secret 
sorrows," said Lady Annabel. " I know not why, 
I always associate seclusion with unhappiness." 

Venetia remembered Cherbury. Their life at 
Chcrbury was like the life of the German at ArquS. 
A chance visiter to Cherbury in their absence, 
viewing the beautiful residence and the -fair domain, 
and listening to the tales which they well might 
hear of all her mother's grace and goodness, might 
perhaps too envy its happy occupiers. But were 
they happy 1 Had they no secret sorrows 1 Was 
their seclusion associated with unhappiness 1 These 
were reflections that made Venetia grave ; but she 
opened her journal, and describing the adventures 
and feelings of the morning, she dissipated some 
mournful reminiscences. 

The storm still raged, Venetia had quitted the sa- 
loon in which her mother and herself had been sitting, 
and had repaired to the adjoining chamber to fetch a 
book. The door of this room opened, as all the 
other entrances of the different apartments, on to the 
octagonal vestibule. Just as she was quitting the 
room, and about to return to her mother, the door 
of the opposite chamber opened, and there came 
forward a gentleman in a Venetian dress of black 
velvet. His stature was considerably above the 
middle height, though his figure, which was remark- 
ably slender, was bowed — not by years certainly, 
for his countenance, though singularly emaciated, 
still retained traces of youth. His hair, which he 
wore very long, descended over his shoulders, and 
must originally have been of a light golden colour, 
but now was severely touched with gray. His 
countenance was very pallid, so colourless indeed 
that its aspect was almost unearthly ; but his large 
blue eyes, that were deeply set in his majestic brow, 
still glittered with fire, and their expression alone 
gave life to a visage, which, though singularly heau- 
tifulin its outline, from its faded and attenuated cha- 
racter seemed rather the countenance of a corpse 
than of a breathing being. 

The glance of the stranger caught that of Vene- 
tia, and seemed to fascinate her. She suddenly 
became motionless ; wildly she stared at the stranger, 
who, in his turn, seemed arrested in his progress, 
and stood still as a statue, with his eyes fixed with 
aosorbing interest on the beautiful apparition before 
him. An expression of perplexity and pain flitted 
over the amazed features of Venetia ; and then it 
seemed that, by some almost supernatural effort, 
confusion amounting to stupefaction suddenly 
brightened and expanded into keen and over- 
whelming intelligence. Exclaiming in a frenzied 
tone " My father !" Venetia sprang forward, and 
fell senseless on the stranger's breast. 

Such, after so much mystery, so many aspira- 
tions, so much anxiety, and so much suffering, 
such was the first meeting of Venetia Herbert with 
Wer father ! 

Marmion Herbert, himself trembling and speech- 
less, bore the apparently lifeless Venetia into his 
apartment. Not permitting her for a moment to 
quit his embrace, he seated himself, and gazed 



silently on the inanimate and unknown form .le 
held so strangely within his arms. Those Ups, 
now closed as if in death, had uttered however one 
word which thrilled to his heart, and still echoed, 
like a supernatural annunciation within his ear. 
He examined with an eye of agitated scrutiny the 
fair features no longer sensible of his presence. He 
gazed upon that transparent brow, as if he would 
read some secret in its ptUucid veins ; and touched 
those long locks of golden hair, with a trembling 
finger, that seemed to be wildly seeking for some 
vague and miraculous proof of inexpressible identity. 
The fair creature had called him " Father !" His 
dreaming reveries had never pictured a being half 
so beautiful ! She called him " Father !" The 
word had touched his brain, as lightning cuts a 
tree. He looked around him with a distracted air, 
then gazed on the tranced form he held with a 
glance which would have penetrated her soul, and 
murmured unconsciously the wild word she had 
uttered. She called him " Father !" He dared 
not think whom she might be. His thoughts were 
wandering in a distant land; visions of another 
life, another country, rose before him, troubled and 
obscure. Bafiied aspirations, and hopes blighted 
in the bud, and the cherished secrets of his lorn 
existence, clustered like clouds upon his perplexed, 
yet creative brain. She called him " Father !" It 
was a word to make him mad. " Father !" 
This beautiful being had called him " Father," and 
seemed to have expired, as it were, in the irresisti- 
ble expression. His heart yearned to her ; he had 
met her embrace with an inexplicable sympathy ; 
her devotion had seemed, as it were, her duty and 
his right. Yet who was she 1 He was a fathet 
It was a fact — a fact alike full of solace and mor- 
tification — the consciousness of which never deserted 
him. But he was the father of an unknown child 
— to him the child of his poetic dreams, rather 
than his reality. And now there came this radiant 
creature, and called him " Father !" Was he 
awake, and in the harsh busy world : or was 
it the apparition of an over-excited imagination, 
broodmg too constantly on one fond idea, on which 
he now gazed so fixedly 1 Was this some spirit 1 
Would that she would speak again ! Would that 
those scaled lips would part and utter but one 
word — would but again call him " Father," and he 
asked no more ! 

" F.ather !" — to be called " Father" by one whom 
he could not name, by one over whom he mused 
in soUtude, by one to whom he had poured forth 
all the passion of his desolate soul ; to be called 
" Father" by this being was the aspiring secret of 
his life. He had painted her to himself in his 
loneliness, he had conjured up dreams of ineffable 
loveliness and inexpressible love ; he had led with 
her an imaginary life of thrilling tenderness; he 
had indulged in a delicious fancy of mutual inter- 
change of the most exquisite offices of our nature ; 
and then, when he had sometimes looked around 
him, and found no daughter there, no beaming 
countenance of purity to greet him with his con- 
stant smile, and receive the quick and ceaseless 
tribute of his vigilant affection, the tears had stolen 
down his lately excited features, all the consoling 
beauty of his visions had vanished into air, he had 
felt the deep curse of his desolation, and had ana- 
thematised the cunning brain that made his misery 
a thousand-fold keener by the mockery of its trans- 
porting illusions. 



VENETIA. 



799 



And now there came this transcendent creature, 
with a form more glowing than all his dreams ; a 
voice more musical than a seraphic chorus, though 
it had uttered but one thrilling word : there came 
this transcendent creature, beaming with grace, 
beauty, and love, and had fallen upon his heart, 
and called him " Father !" 

Herbert looked up to heaven as if waiting for 
some fresh miracle to terminate the harrowing sus- 
pense of his tortured mind ; Herbert looked down 
upon his mysterious companion ; the rose was 
gradually returning to her cheek, her lips seemed 
to tremble with reviving breath. There was only 
one word more strange to his ear than that which 
she had uttered, but an irresistible impulse sent 
forth the sound. 

" Venetia !" he exclaimed. 

The eyes of the maiden slowly opened ; she 
stared around her with a vague glance of perplexity, 
not unmingled with pain; she looked up; she 
caught the rapt gaze of her father, bending over 
her with fondness yet with fear ; his lips moved, 
for a moment they refused to articulate, yet at 
length they again uttered — " Venetia !" And the 
only response she made was to cling to him with 
nervous energy, and hide her face in his bo- 
som. 

Herbert pressed her to his heart. Yet even now 
he hesitated to credit the incredible union. Again 
he called her by her name, but added with rising 
confidence, " My Venetia!" 

" Your child, your child," she murmured. " Your 
own Venetia." 

He pressed his lips to hers, which it then seemed 
they would never again quit ; he breathed over her 
a thousand blessings ; she felt his tears trickling 
- on her neck. 

At length Venetia looked up and sighed ; she 
was exhausted by the violence of her emotions ; 
her father relaxed his grasp with infinite tenderness, 
and watching her with the most delicate solicitude, 
rested her on his knee ; she leaned her arm upon 
his shoulder, and sat with downcast eyes. 

Herbert gently took her disengaged hand, and 
pressed it to his lips. " I am as in a dream," mur- 
mured Venetia. 

" The daughter of my heart has found her sire," 
said Herbert in an impassioned voice. " The 
father who has long lived upon her fancied image ; 
the father, I fear, she has been bred up to hate." 

" O ! no, no," said Venetia, speaking rapidly 
and with a slight shiver, " not hate ; it was a secret, 
his being was a secret, his name was never men- 
tioned ; it was unknown." 

" A secret ! My existence a secret from my 
child, my beautiful, fond child !" exclaimed Herbert 
in a tone even more desolate than bitter. " Why 
did they not let you at least hate rne ]" 

" My father !" said Venetia, in a firmer voice, 
and with returning animation, yet gazing around 
her with a still distracted air. "Am I with my 
father 1 The clouds clear from my brain. I re- 
member that we met. Where was it! Was it at 
Arqua 1 In the garden 1 I am with my father!" 
she continued, in a rapid tone, and with a wild 
smile, " O ! let me look at him!" and she turned 
round, and gazed upon Herbert with a serious scru- 
tiny. " Are you my father V she continued, in a 
still small voice. "Your hair has grown gray 
since last I saw you; it was golden then like mine. 
I know you are my fatlier." she added, after a 



pause, and in a tone almost of gayety, " You 
cannot deceive me. I know your name. They 
did not tell it me ; I found it out myself, but it 
made me very ill, very ; and I do not thinlc I have 
ever been well since, quite. You are IVlarmion 
Herbert. My mother had a dog called Marmion, 
when I was a little girl, but I did not know I had 
a father then." 

" Venetia !" exclaimed Herbert, with streaming 
eyes, as he listened with anguish to these inco- 
herent sentences. "My Venetia loves me!" 

" ! she always loved you," replied Venetia ; 
always, always. Before she knew her father she 
loved him. I dare say you think I do not love you 
because I am not used to speak to a father. Every- 
thing must be learned, you know," she said, with 
a faint, sad smile ; " and then it was so sudden ! 
I do not think my mother knows it yet. And after 
all, though I found you out in a moment, still, I 
know not why, I thought it was a picture. But I 
read your verses, and I knew them by heart at 
once ; but now my memoiy has worn out, for I am 
ill, and every thing has gone cross with me. And 
all because my father wrote me verses. 'Tis very 
strange, is not if!" 

" Sweet lamb of my affections," exclaimed Her- 
bert to himself, " I fear me much this sudden meet- 
ing with one from whose bosom you ought never 
to have been estranged, has been for the moment 
too great a trial for this delicate brain." 

" I will not tell my mother," said Venetia; "she 
will be angry." 

" Your mother, darling, where is your mother ?" 
said Herbert, looking, if possible, paler than ne 
was wont. 

" She was at Arqua with me, and on the lake 
for months, but where we are now I cannot say. 
If I could only remember where we are now," she 
added, with earnestness, and with a struggle to col- 
lect herself, " I should know every thing." 

" This is Ro\igo, my child, the inn of Rovigo. 
You are travelling with your mother. Is it not so ?" 

" Yes ! and we came this morning, and it rained. 
Now I know every thing," said Venetia, with an 
animated and even cheerful air. 

" And we met in the vestibule, my sweet," con- 
tinued Herbert, in a soothing voice ; " we came out 
of opposite chambers, and you knew me ; my Ve- 
netia knew me. Try to tell me, my darling," he 
added, in a tone of coaxing fondness, " try to re- 
member how Venetia knew her father." 

" He was so like his picture at Cherbury," re- 
plied Venetia. 

" Cherbury !" exclaimed Herbert, with a deep 
drawn sigh. 

" Only your hair has grown gray, dear father ; 
but it is long, quite as long as in your picture." 

" Her dog called Mannion !" murmured Her- 
bert to himself, " and my portrait, too ! You saw 
your father's portrait, then, every day, love V 

" O, no !" said Venetia, shaking her head, "only 
once, only once. And I never told mamma. It was 
where no one could go, but I went there one day. It 
was in a room that no one ever entered except mam- 
ma, but I entered it. I stole the key, and had a fever, 
and in my fever I confessed all. But I never knew 
it. Mamma never told me I confessed it, until 
many, many years afterwards. It was the first, 
the only time she ever mentioned to me your name, 
my father." 

" And she told you to shun me, to hate lue 1 



800 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



She told you I was a villain, a profligate, a demon 1 
eh ] eh I Was it not so, Venetia 1" 

•' She told me that you had broken her heart," 
said Venetia ; " and she prayed to God that her 
child might not be so miserable." 

" ! my Venetia," exclaimed Herbert, pressing 
her to his breast, and in a voice stifled with emo- 
tion, "I feel, now, we might have been happy 1" 

In the meantime, the prolonged absence of her 
daughter surprised Lady Annabel. At length she 
rose, and walked into their adjoining apartment, 
but, to her surprise, Venetia was not there. Re- 
turning to her saloon, she found Pauncefort and 
the waiter arranging the table for dinner. 

'• Where is Miss Herbert, Pauncefort V inquired 
Lady Annabel. 

" I am sure, my lady, I cannot say. I have no 
doubt she is in the other room." 

" She is not there, for I have just quitted it," re- 
plied Lady Annabel. "How very strange ! You 
have not seen the signoral" inquired Lady Anna- 
bel of the waiter. 

" The signora is in the room with the gentleman." 

"The gentleman!" exclaimed Lady Annabel. 
" Tell me, good man, what do you mean 1 I am 
inquiring for my daughter !" 

"I know well the signora is talking of her 
daughter," replied the waiter. 

"But do you know my daughter by sight 1 
Surely you must mean some one else." 

"Do I know the signora's daughter?" said the 
waiter. " The beautiful young lady, with hair like 
Santa Marguerita in the church of the Holy Tri- 
nity? I tell the signora, I saw her carried into 
numero 4, in the arms of the Signer Forestiere, 
who arrived this morning." 

" Venetia is ill," said Lady Annabel. " Show 
me to the room, my friend." 

Lady Annabel accordingly, with a hurried step, 
following her guide, quitted the chamber. Paunce- 
fort remained fixed to the earth, the very picture 
of perplexity. 

"Well, to be sure!" she exclaimed, "was any 
thing ever so strange ? In the arms of Signor 
Forestiere! Forestiere! An English name. There 
is no person of the name of Forest that I know. 
And in his arms, too ! I should not wonder if it 
was my lord after all. Well, I should be glad if 
he were to come to light again ; for, after all, my 
lady may say what she likes, but if Miss Venetia 
don't marry Lord Cadurcis, I must say marriages 
were never made in heaven !" 



CHAPTER V. 

The waiter threw open the door of Mr. Herbert's 
chamber, and Lady Annabel swept in with a ma- 
jesty which she generally assumed when about to 
meet strangers. The first thing she beheld was her 
daughter in the arms of a man, whose head was 
bent, and who was embracing her. Notwithstand- 
ing this astounding spectacle. Lady Annabel nei- 
ther started nor screamed — she only said, in an 
audible tone, and one rather expressing astonish- 
ment than agitation, "Venetia!" 

Immediately the stranger looked up, and Lady 
Annabel beheld her husband ! 

She was rooted to the earth. She turned deadly 
\>ale — for a moment her countenance expressed only 
.firror, but the terror quickly changed into aversion. 



Suddenly she rushed forward, and exclaimed, in a 
tone in which decision conquered dismay, '' Restore 
me my child !" 

The moment Herbert had recognised his wife, 
he had dexterously disengaged himself from the 
grasp of Venetia, whom he left on the chair, and 
meeting Lady Annabel with extended arms, that 
seemed to deprecate her wrath, he said, " I seek 
not to deprive you of her; she is yours, and she is 
worthy of you ; but respect for a few moments the 
feelings of a father who has met his only child in a 
manner so unforeseen." 

The presence of her mother instantaneously re- 
stored Venetia to herself. Her mind was in a mo- 
ment cleared and settled. Her past and peculiar 
life, and all its incidents, recurred to her with their 
accustomed order, vividness, and truth. She tho- 
roughly comprehended her present situation. Ac- 
tuated by long cherished feelings and the necessity 
of the occasion, she rose and threw herself at her 
mother's feet, and exclaimed, " O ! mother, he is 
my father — love him !" 

Lady Annabel stood with an averted counte- 
nance, Venetia clinging to her hand, which she had 
caught when she rushed forward, and which now 
fell passive by Lady Annabel's side, giving no sign, 
by any pressure or motion, of the slightest sympa- 
thy with her daughter, or feeling for the strange 
and agonizing situation in which they were both 
placed. 

" Annabel," said Herbert, in a voice that trem- 
bled, though the speaker struggled to appear calm, 
" be charitable ! I have never intruded upon your 
privacy — I will not now outrage it. Accident, or 
some diviner motive, has brought us together this 
day. If you will not treat me with kindness, look 
not upon me with aversion before our child." 

Still she was silent and motionless, her counte- 
nance hidden from her husband and her daughter, 
but her erect and haughty form betokening her in- 
exorable mind. " Armabel," said Herbert, who had 
now withdrawn to some distance, and leaned 
against a pillar, " will not then nearly twenty years 
of desolation purchase one moment of intercourse ? 
I have injured you. Be it so. This is not the 
moment I will defend myself. But have I not suf- 
fered ? Is not this meeting a punishment deeper 
even than your vengeance could devise ? Is it no- 
thing to behold this beautiful child, and feel that 
she is only yours ? Annabel, look on me — look on 
me only one moment ! My frame is bowed, my 
hair is gray, my heart is withered ; the principle 
of existence waxes faint and slack in this attenuated 
frame. I am no longer that Herbert on whom you 
once smiled, but a man stricken with many sor- 
rows. The odious conviction of my life cannot 
long haunt you — yet a little while, and my memory 
will alone remain. Think of this, Annabel — I be- 
seech you, think of it. O ! believe me, when the 
speedy hour arrives that will consign me to the 
grave, where I shall at least find peace, it will not 
be utterly without satisfaction that you will remem- 
ber that we met if even by accident, and parted at 
least not with harshness !" 

" Mother, dearest mother !" murmured Venetia, 
" speak to him, look on him !" 

" Venetia," said her mother, without turning her 
head, but in a calm, firm tone, " your father has 
seen you, has conversed with you. Between your 
father and myself there can be nothing to com«nu- 
nicate, either of fact or feeling. Now let us depart." 



V E N E T I A. 



801 



"No, no, not depart!" said Venetia, franticly. 
" V^ou did not say depart, dear mother! I can- 
not go," she added in a low and half hysterical 
voice, 

'• Desert me then," said the mother. "A fitting 
consequence of your private communications with 
your father," she" added, in a tone of bitter scorn ; 
and Lady Annabel moved to depart, but Venetia, 
atill kneeling, clung to her convulsively. 

" Mother, mother, you shall not go ; you shall 
)iot leave me ; we will never part, mother," con- 
tinued Venetia, in a tone almost of violence, as she 
perceived her mother give no indication of yielding 
to her wish. "Are my feelings then nothing 1" 
she then exclaimed. " Is this your sense of my 
fidelity 1 Am I for ever to be a victim !" She 
loosened her hold of her mother's hand— her mo- 
ther moved on. Venetia fell upon her forehead, 
and uttered a faint scream. The heart of Lady 
Annabel relented when she fancied her daughter 
suffered physical pam, however slight; she hesi- 
tated, she turned, she hastened to her child ; her 
husband had simultaneously advanced; in the 
rapid movement and confusion her hand touched 
that of Herbert. 

"I yield her to you, Annabel," said Herbert, 
placing Venetia in her mother's arms. " You mis- 
take me, as you have often mistaken me, if you 
think I seek to practise on the feelings of this 
angelic child. She is yours ; may she compensate 
to you for the misery I have caused you, but never 
sought to occasion." 

" I am not hurt, dear mother," said Venetia, as 
her mother tenderly examined her forehead. " Dear, 
dear mother, why did you reproach me 1" 

" Forget it," said Lady Annabel, in a softened 
tone, " for indeed you are irreproachable." 

" ! Annabel," said Herbert, " may not this 
child be some atonement — this child, of whom I 
solemnly declare I would not deprive you, though 
I would wilhngly forfeit my life for a year of her 
affection ; and your— your sufferance," he added. 

'• Mother ' speak to him," said Venetia, with her 
head on her mother's bosom, who still, however, 
remained rigidly standing. But Lady Annabel 
was silent. 

" Your mother was ever stern and cold, Vene- 
tia," said Herbert, the bitterness of his heart at 
length expressing itself. 

"Never," said Venetia, with great energy, 
"never; you know not my mother. Was she 
stern and cold when she visited each night in 
secret your portrait 1" said Venetia, looking round 
upon her astonished father with her bright gray 
eve. " Was she stern and cold when she wept 
over your poems — those poems whose characters 
your own hand had traced 1 Was she stern and 
cold when she hung a withered wreath on your 
bridal bed— the bed to which I owe my miserable 
being? 0! no, my father; sad was the hour of 
separation for my mother and yourself. It may 
have dimmed the lustre of her eye, and shaded 
your locks with premature gray, but whatever may 
have been its inscrutable cause, there was one vic- 
tim of that dark hour, less thought of than your- 
selves, and yet a greater sufferer than both, the 
being in whose heart you implanted affections 
whose unfulfilled tenderness has made that wretch- 
ed thing they call your daughter." 

"Annabel!" exclaimed Herbert, rapidly ad- 
vancing, with an imploring gesture, and speaking 
101 



in a tone of infinite anguish, " Annabel, Annabel, 
even now we can be happy !" 

The countenance of his wife was troubled, but 
its stern expression had disappeared. The long 
concealed, yet at length irrepressible emotion of 
Venetia, had touched her heart. In the conflict 
of affection between the claims of her two parents, 
Lady Annabel had observed with a sentiment of 
sweet emotion, in spite of all the fearfulness of the 
meeting, that Venetia had not faltered in her devo- 
tion to her mother. The mental torture of hei 
child touched her to the quick. In the excitement 
of her anguish, Venetia had expressed a profound 
sentiment, the irresistible truth of which Lady An- 
nabel could no longer withstand. She had too 
long and too fondly schooled herself to look upon 
the outraged wife as the only victim. There was 
then, at length it appeared even to this stern- 
minded woman, another. She had laboured in the 
flattering delusion, that the devotion of a mother's 
love might compensate to Venetia for the loss of 
that other parent which, in some degree, I^ady 
Annabel had occasioned her; for the worthless 
husband, had she chosen to tolerate the degrading 
connexion, might nevertheless have proved a tender 
father. But nature, it seemed, had shrunk from 
the vain effort of the isolated mother. The seeds 
of affection for the father of her being were mysti- 
cally implanted in the bosom of his child. Lady 
Annabel recalled the harrowing hours that this 
attempt by her to curb and control the natural 
course and rising sympathies of filial love, had cost 
her child, on whom she had so vigilantly practised 
it. She recalled her strange aspirations, her in- 
spired curiosity, her brooding reveries, her fitful 
melancholy, her terrible illness, her resignation, her 
fidelity, her sacrifices — there came across the mind 
of Laily Annabel a mortifying conviction that the 
devotion to her child, on which she had so rated 
herself, might after all only prove a subtle form of 
profound selfishness; and that Venetia, instead of 
being the idol of her love, might eventually be the 
martyr of her pride. And, thinking of these thuigs, 
she wept. 

This evidence of emotion, which in such a spirit 
Herbert knew how to estimate, emboldened him to 
advance ; he fell on one knee before her and her 
daughter; gently he stole her hand, pressed it to 
his lips. It was not withdrawn, and Venetia laid 
her hand upon theirs, and would have bound them 
together, had her mother been relentless. It seemed ■ 
to Venetia that she was at length happy, but she 
would not speak, but she would not disturb the still 
and silent bliss of the impending reconciliation. 
Was it then indeed at hand 7 In truth the deport- 
ment of Herbert throughout the whole interview, 
so delicate, so subdued, so studiously avoiding the 
slightest rivalry with his wife in the affections of 
their child, and so carefully abstaining from at- 
tempting in the slightest degree to control the feel- 
ings of Venetia, had not been lost upon Lady An- 
nabel. And when she thought of him, so changed 
from what he had been, gray, bent, and careworn, 
with all the lustre that had once so fascinated her, 
faded, and talking of that impending fate which his 
wan though spiritual countenance too clearly inti 
mated, her heart melted. 

Suddenly the door burst open, and there stalked 
into the room, a woman of eminent but most grace- 
ful stature, and of a most sovereign and voluptuous 
beauty. She was habited in the Venetian drsss 



802 



D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



her dark eyes glittered with fire, her cheek was in- 
flamed with no amiable emotion, and her long black 
hair was disordered by the violence of her gesture. 

" And who are these ?" she exclaimed in a shrill 
voice. 

All started — Herbert sprang up from his position 
with a glance of withering rage. Venetia was per- 
plexed. Lady Annabel looked round, and recognised 
the identical face, however distorted by passion, that 
she had admired in the portrait at Arqua. 

"And who are these 1" exclaimed the intruder, 
advancing. " Perfidious Marmion ! to whom do 
3'ou dare to kneel 1" 

Lady Annabel drew herself up to a height that 
seemed to look down even upon this tall stranger. 
The expression of majestic scorn that she cast upon 
the intruder made her, in spite of all her violence 
and excitement, tremble and be silent ; she felt 
cowed she knew not why. 

" Come, Venetia," said Lady Annabel with all 
her usual composure " let me save my daughter at 
least from this profanation." 

" Annabel !" said Herbert, rushing after them. 
" Be charitable, be just !" He followed them to the 
threshold of the door ; Venetia was silent, for she 
was alarmed. 

" Adieu ! Marmion !" said Lady Annabel, look- 
ing over her shoulder with a bitter smile, but plac- 
ing her daughter before her, as if to guard her. 
"Adieu, Marmion, adieu forever !" 



CHAPTER VL 

The moon shone brightly on the house of Pe- 
trarch, and the hamlet slept in peace. Not a sound 
was heard, save the shrill voice of the grasshopper, 
so incessant that its monotony blended as it were, 
with the stillness. Over the green hills, and the 
far expanse of the sheeny plain, the beautiful light 
of heaven fell with all the magical repose of the 
serene hour — an hour that brought to one troubled 
breast, and one distracted spirit, in that still and 
simple village, no quietude. 

Herbert came forth into the balcony of his resi- 
dence, and leaning over the balustrade, revolved in his 
agitated mind the strange and stirring incidents of 
the day. His wife and his child had quitted the 
inn of Rovigo instantly after that mortifying ren- 
counter that had dashed so cruelly to the ground 
all his sweet and quickly rising hopes. As for his 
companion, she had by his peremptory desire re- 
turned to Arqua alone; he was not in a mood to 
endure her society, but he had conducted himself to 
her mildly, though with firmness ; he had promised 
to follow her, and in pursuance of his pledge, he 
rode home alone. 

He was greeted on his return by his servant, full 
of the visit of the morning. With an irresistible 
curiosity, Herbert had made him describe every 
incident that had occurred, and repeat a hundred 
times every word that the visiters had uttered. He 
listened with some consolation, however mournful, 
to his wife's praises of the unknown stranger's life; 
he gazed upon with witching interest the autograph 
of his daughter on the wall of his library. He had 
not confessed to his mistress the relation which the 
two strangers bore to him; yet he was influenced 
in concealing the real circumstances, only by an 
indefinite sentiment, that made him reluctant to 
acknowledge to her ties so pure. The feelings of 



the parent overpowered the principles of the philo- 
sopher. This lady indeed, although at the moment 
she had indulged in so violent an ebuUitictn of tem- 
per, possessed little influence over the mind of her 
companion. Herbert, however fond of solitude, 
required in his restricted world the graceful results 
of feminine superintendence. Time had stilled his 
passions, and cooled the fervour of his soul. The 
age of his illusions had long past. This was a 
connexion that had commenced in no extravagant 
or romantic mood, and perhaps for that reason had 
endured. He had become acquainted with her on 
his first unknown arrival in Italy, from America, 
now nearly two years back. It had been main- 
tained on his side by a temper naturally very sweet, 
and which, exhausted by years of violent emotion, 
now required only repose ; seeking, indeed, in a 
female friend, a form that should not outrage an 
eye ever musing on the beautiful, and a disposition 
that should contribute to his comfort, and never 
ruffle his feelings. Separated from his wife by her 
own act, whatever might have been its impulse, and 
for so long an interval, it was a connexion which 
the world in general must have looked upon with 
charity, which in her calmer hours one would im- 
agine even Lady Annabel might have glanced over 
without much bitterness. Certainly it was one 
which, under all the circumstances of the case, 
could scarcely be esteemed by her as an outrage oi 
an insult ; but even Herbert felt, with all his philo- 
sophy and proud freedom from prejudice, that the 
rencounter of the morning was one which no wo- 
man could at the moment tolerate, few eventually 
excuse, and which of all incidents was that which 
would most tend to confirm his wife in her stoical 
obduracy. Of his oflences towards her, whatever 
were their number or their quality, this surely was 
the least, and yet its results upon his life and for- 
tunes would in all probability only be equalled by 
the mysterious cause that had led to their original 
separation. But how much more bitter than that 
original separation was their present parting ! Mor- 
tifying and annoying as had been the original occur- 
rence, it was one that many causes and considerations 
combined to enable Herbert to support. He was 
then in the very prime of youth, very inexperienced, 
sanguine, restless, and adventurous, with the whole 
world and its unknown results before him, and 
freedom for which he ever sighed to compensate for 
the loss of that domestic joy that he was then un- 
able to appreciate. But now twenty years, which 
in the career of such a spirit were equal to a century 
of the existence of coarser clay, had elapsed ; he 
was bowed with thought and suffering, if not by 
time ; his conscience was light, but it was sad ; his 
illusions had all vanished ; he knew the world and 
all that the world could bring, and he disregarded 
them; and the result of all his profound study, 
lofty aspirations, and great conduct was, that he 
sighed for rest. The original catastrophe had been 
merely a separation between a husband and a wife : 
the one that had just happened, involved other feel- 
ings ; the father was also separated from his child 
— and a child of such surpassing qualities, that his 
brief acquaintance with her had alone sufficed to 
convert his dream of domestic repose into a vision 
of domestic bliss. 

Beautiful Venetia ! So fair and yet so dutiful ; 
with a bosom teeming with such exquisite sensi- 
bilities, and a mind bright with such acute and ele- 
vated intelligence ! An abstract conception of tht< 



VENETIA. 



803 



sentiments that might subsist between a father and 
a daughter, heightened by all the devices of a glow- 
ing imagination, had haunted indeed occasionally 
the solitary musings of Marmion Herbert ; but what 
was this creation of his poetic, brain, compared with 
the reality that now had touched his human heart 1 
Vainly had he believed that repose was the only 
eolace that remained for his exhausted spirit. He 
found that a new passion now swayed his soul ; a 
passion, too, that he had never proved ; of a nature 
most peculiar ; pure, gentle, refined, yet ravishing 
and irresistible, compared with which all former 
transports, no matter how violent, tumultuous, and 
exciting, seemed evanescent and superficial : they 
were indeed the wind, the fire, and the tempest 
that had gone before, but this was the still small 
voice that followed, excelled, and survived their 
might and majesty, unearthly and eternal ! 

His heart melted to his daughter, nor did he care 
to live without her love and presence. His philo- 
sophical theories all vanished. He felt how de- 
pendent we are in this world on our natural ties, 
and how limited, with all his arrogance, is the 
sphere of man. Dreaming of philanthropy, he had 
broken his wife's heart, and bruised, perhaps irre- 
parably, the spirit of his child ; he had rendered 
those miserable who depended on his love, and for 
whose atiection his heart now yearned to that de- 
gree, that he could not contemplate existence with- 
out their active sympathy. 

Was it then too late ] Was it then impossible 
to regain that Paradise he had forfeited so weakly, 
and of whose amaranthine bowers, but a few hours 
since he had caught such an entrancing glimpse, 
of which the gate for a moment seemed to reopen ? 
In spite of all, then, Annabel still loved him — 
loved him passionately, visited his picture, mused 
over the glowing expression of their loves, wept 
over the bridal bed so soon deserted ! She had a 
dog too when Venetia was a child, and called it 
Marmion. 

The recollection of this little trait, so trifling yet 
so touching, made him weep even with wildness. 
The tears poured down his cheeks in torrents, he 
sobbed convulsively, his very heart seemed to burst. 
For some minutes he leaned over the balustrade in 
a paroxysm of grief. 

He looked up. The convent hill rose before him, 
bright in the moon ; beneath was his garden ; 
around him the humble roofs that he made happy. 
It was not without an effort that he recalled the 
locality — that he remembered he was at Arqua. 
And who was sleeping within the house 1 Not his 
wife — Annabel was far away with their daughter. 
The vision of his whole life passed before him. 
Study and strife, and fame and love ; the pride of 
the philosopher, the rapture of the poet, the blaze 
of eloquence, the clash of arms, the vows of pas- 
sion, the execration and the applause of millions; 
both once alike welcome to his indomitable soul ! 
And what had they borne to him"? Misery. He 
called up the image of his wife, young, beautiful, 
and noble, with a mind capable of comprehending 
his loftiest and his finest moods, with a soul of 
matchless purity, and a temper whose winning ten- 
derness had only been equalled by her elevated 
sense of self-respect; a woman that might have 
figured in the days of chivalry, soft enough to be 
his slave, but too proud to be his victim. He called 
up her image in the castle of his fathers, exercising 
in a domain worthy of such a mistress, all those 



I sweet offices of life which, here in this hired roof 
1 in a strange land, and with his crippled means, he 
I had yet found solacing. He conjured before him a 
I bud by the side of that beauteous flower, sharing all 
her lustre and all her fragrance — his own Venetia ! 
What happiness might not have been his ! And 
for what had he forfeited it ? A dream, with no 
dream-like beauty ; a perturbed, and restless, and 
agitated dream, from which he had now woke shat- 
tered and exhausted. 

He had sacrificed his fortune, he had forfeited 
his country, he had alienated his wife, and he had 
lost his child : the home of his heroic ancestry, the 
ancient land whose fame and power they had crea- 
ted, the beauteous and gifted woman who would 
have clung for ever to his bosom, and her transcen- 
dent olfspring worthy of all their loves ! Profound 
philosopher ! 

The clock of the convent struck the second hour 
after midnight. Herbert started. And all this time 
where were Annabel and Venetia '! They still lived, 
they were in the same country, an hour ago they 
were under the same roof, in the same chamber; 
their hands had joined, their hearts had opened, for 
a moment he had dared to believe that all that he 
cared for might be regained. And why was it notl 
The cause — the cause 1 It recurred to him with 
associations of dislike, of disgust, of wrath, of hatred, 
of which one whose heart was so tender, and whose 
reason was so clear, could under the influence of no 
other feelings have been capable. The surround- 
ing scene, that had so often soothed his mournful 
soul, and connected it with the last hours of a spirit 
to whom he bore much resemblance, was now look- 
ed upon with aversion. To rid himself of ties, now 
so dreadful, was all his ambition. He entered the 
house quickly, and seating himself in his closet, 
he wrote these words : — 

" You beheld this morning my wife and cliild ; 
we can meet no more. All tliat I can effect to con- 
sole you under this sudden separation shall be done. 
My banker from Bologna will be here m two days; 
express to him all your wishes." 

It was written, sealed, directed, and left upon the 
table at which they had so often been seated. Her- 
bert descended into the garden, saddled his horse, 
and in a few minutes, in the heart of night, had 
quitted Arqua. 



CHAPTER Vn. 

We must now return to Lady Annabel and her 
unhappy daughter. The moment that the wife of 
Marmion Herbert re-entered her saloon, she sent for 
her courier, and ordered horses to her carriage in- 
stantly. Until they were announced as ready. Lady 
Annabel walked up and down the room with an 
impatient step, but was as completely silent as the 
miserable Venetia, who remained weeping on the 
sofa. The confusion and curiosity of Mistress 
Pauncefort were extraordinary. She still had a 
lurking suspicion that the gentleman was Lord Ca- 
durcis, and she seized the first opportunity of leav- 
ing the room, and flouncing "nto that of the stran- 
ger, as if by mistake, determined to catch a glimpse 
of him ; but all her notable skill was bafiled, for she 
had scarcely opened the door before she was met 
by the Italian lady, who received Mistress Paunce 
fort's ready-made apology, and bowed her away 



804 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



The faithful attendant then hurried down stairs to 
cross-examine the waiter, but, though she gained 
considerable information from that functionary, it 
was of a very perplexing nature ; for from him she 
only learned that the stranger lived at Arqua. 
" 'I'hc German gentleman !" soliloquized Mistress 
I'auncefort; and what could he have to say to 
Miss Veiietia ! And a married man too ! Well, to 
be sure there is nothing like travelling for adven- 
tures! And I must say, considering all that I know, 
\ .{] how I have held my tongue for nearly twenty 
real's, I think it is very strange indeed of my lady 
lO have any secrets from me. Secrets, indeed ! 
I'oh !" and Mistress Pouncefort flounced again into 
Lady Annabel's room, with a face of offended pride, 
knocking the books about, dashing down writing- 
cases, tossing about work, and making as much 
noise and disturbance as if she had a separate quar- 
rel with every single article under her superinten- 
dence. 

In the mean tune, the carriage was prepared, to 
which tlicy were obliged almost to carry Vcnetia; 
not, indeed, that she made any resistance to their 
departure — she appeared feeble and stupificd with 
grief. Uncertain of her course, but anxious in tlie 
jiresent state of her daughter, for rest and quiet. 
Lady Arniabel ordered the courier to jjroceed to 
Padua, at which city they arrived late at night, 
scarcely a word having been interchanged during 
the whole journey between Lady Annabel and her 
child, thovigh infinite were the soft and soothing at- 
tentions which the mother lavished upon her. 
Night, however, brought no rest to Vcnetia ; and 
the next day, her state appeared so alarming to ]ja- 
dy Annabel, that she would have instantly sum- 
moned medical assistance, had not it been for Ve- 
netia's strong objections ; " Indeed, dear mother," 
slie said, '' it is not physicians that I require. They 
cannot cure me. Let me be quiet." 

The same cause, indeed, which during the last 
five years had at intervals so seriously menaced the 
existence of this uniiappy girl, was now at work 
with renovated and even irresistible influence. Her 
frame could no longer endure the fatal action of 
lier over-excited nerves. Her first illness, however 
alarming, had been bafiled by time, skill, and prin- 
ci})ally by the vigour of an extremely youthful 
frame, then a stranger to any serious indisposition. 
At a later period, the change of life induced by 
their residence at Weymouth had permitted her 
again to rally. She had quitted England with nv 
newcd symptoms of her former attack, but a still 
more powerful change, not only of scene, but of 
climate and country, and the regular and peaceful 
life she had led on the Lago Maggiore, had again 
reassured the mind of her anxious mother. This 
last adventure at Rovigo, however, prostrated her. 
The strange surprise, the violent developement of 
feeling, the agonising doubts and hopes, the terrible 
suspense, the profound and bitter and overwhelm- 
ing disappointment, all combined to shake her 
mind to its very foundations. She felt for the first 
time, that she co"ild no longer bear up against the 
torture of her singular position. Her energy was 
f nlirely exhausted ; she was no longer capable of 
making the slightest exertion : she took refuge in 
that turbid resignation that results from utter hope- 
lessness. 

Lying on her sofa, with her eyes fixed in listless 
abstraction, the scene at Kovigo flitted unceasingly 
before her languid vision. At length she had seen 



that father, that unknown and mysterious fathe> 
whose idea had haunted her infancy as if by inspi- 
ration, to gain the slightest knowledge of 'nhom 
had cost her such long and acute sufTerinc ; and 
round whose image for so many years every thought 
of her intelligence, and every feeling of her heart, 
had clustered like spirits round some dim and mys- 
tical altar. At length she had beheld him ; she 
had gazed on that spiritual countenance ; she had 
listened to the tender accents of that musical voice; 
within his arms she had been folded with rapture, 
and pressed to a heart that seemed to beat only for 
her felicity. The blessing of her father, uttered by 
his long-loved lips, had descended on her brow, and 
been sealed with his passionate embrace. 

The entrance of her mother, — that terrible con- 
test of her lacerated heart, when her two parents, 
as it were, appealed to her love, which they would 
not share ; — the inspiration of her despair, that so 
suddenly had removed the barriers of long years, 
before whose irresistible pathos her father had been 
a penitent, and her mother's inexorable pride had 
melted, the ravishing bliss that for a moment had 
thrilled through her, being experienced too for the 
first time, when she felt that her parents were again 
united and bound by the sweet tic of her now hap- 
py existence — this was the drama acted before her 
with an almost ceaseless repetition of its transport- 
ing incidents ; and when she looked round, and be- 
held her mother sitting alone, and watching her 
with a countenance almost of anguish, it was indeed 
vi'ith exteme dilficulty that Vcnetia could persuade 
herself that all had not been a revery ; and she was 
only convinced of the contrary, by that heaviness 
of the heart which too quickly assures us of the 
reality of those sorrows, of which fancy for a mo- 
ment may cheat us into skepticism. 

Nor, indeed, was her mother scarcely less miser 
able. The sight of Herbert, so changed from tlio 
form that she remembered ; those tones of heart- 
rending sincerity, in which he had mournfully ap- 
pealed to the influence of time and sorrow on his 
life, still greatly affected her. She had indulged for 
a moment in a dream of domestic love, she had cast 
to the winds the inexorable determination of a life, 
and had mingled her tears with those of her hus- 
band and her child. And how had she been repaid 1 
By a degrading catastrophe, from whose revolting 
associations her mind recoiled with indignation and 
disgust. But her lingering feeling for her husband, 
her own mortification, were as nothing compared 
with the harrowing anxiety she now entertained for 
her daughter. To converse with Vcnetia on the 
recent occurrence, was impossible. It was a sub- 
ject which admitted of no discussion. They had 
passed a week at Padua, and the slightest allusion 
to what had happened had never been made by ei- 
ther Lady Annabel or her child. It was only by 
her lavish testimonies of afi'cction, that Lady An- 
nabel conveyed to Vcnetia how deeply she sympa- 
thised with her, and how unhappy she was herself. 
She had, indeed, never quitted for a moment the 
side of her daughter : and witnessed each day with 
renewed anguish, her deplorable condition. For 
Venetia continued in a state which, to those unac- 
quainted with her, might have been mistaken for 
insensibility, but her mother knew too well that it 
was despair. She never moved, she never sighed, 
or wept ; she took no notice of any thing that oc- 
curred ; she sought relief in no resources. Books, 
and drawings, and music were quite forgotten by 



VENETIA. 



SOI 



her ; nothing amused, and nothing annoyed her ; 
ehe was not even fretful; she had, indeed, appa- 
rently no physical ailment; she remained pale aod 
silent, plunged in an absorhing paroxysm of over- 
whelming wo. 

The unhappy Lady Annabel, at a loss how to 
act, yet anxious not to sink under these alHictions, 
at length thought it might be advisable to cross over 
to Venice. She felt assured now, that it would be 
a long time, if ever, before her child could again 
endure the fatigue of travel ; and she thought that 
for every reason, whether for domestic comfort or 
medical advice, or those multifarious considerations 
which interest the invalid, a capital was by far the 
most desirable residence for them. I'luuc was a 
time when a visit to the city that had given her a 
name, had been a favourite dream of Venctia; she 
had often sighed to be within 

" The sea-born city's walls ; the graceful lowers 
Loved by the bard—" 

Those lines of her father had long echoed in her 
ear ; but now the proposition called no light to her 
glazed eye, nor sunnnoned for an instant tlie colour 
back to her check. She listened to her mother's 
BUggestion, and expressed her willingness to do 
whatever she desired. Venice was to her now only 
a name ; for, without the presence and the united 
love of both her parents no spot on earth could in- 
terest and no combination of circumstances all'ect 
her. To Venice, however, the Herberts de()arted, 
having previously taken care that every arrange- 
ment should be made for their reception. The 
English ambassador at the ducal court was a re- 
lative of I/ady Annabel, and therefore, no means or 
exertions were spared to secure the convenience and 
accommodation of the invalid. The barge of the 
ambassador met them at Fusma ; and when Venc- 
tia beheld the towers and cupolas of Venice, sulfuscd 
with a golden light and rising out of the bright blue 
waters, for a moment her spirit seemed to lighten. 
It is indeed a spectacle as beautiful as rare, and one 
to which the world oilers few, if any, rivals. 
Gliding over the great Lagunc, the buildings, with 
which the pictures at Cherbury liad already made 
her familiar, gradually rose up before her; the 
mosque-like church of St. Marc, the tall Campanile 
red in the sun, the Moresco Palace of the doges, 
the deadly Bridge of Sighs, and the dark structure 
to which it leads. 

Venice had not then fallen. The gorgeous 
standards of the sovereign republic, and its tri- 
butary kingdoms, still waved in the Place of St. 
Marc ; the bucentaur was not rotting in the arsenal, 
and the warlike galleys of the state cruised without 
the Lagune ; a busy and picturesque population 
swarmed in all directions ; and the Venetian noble, 
the haughtiest of men, might still be seen proudly 
moving from the council of state, or stepping into 
B gondola amid a bowing crowd. All was stirring 
life, yet all was silent ; the fantastic architecture, 
the glowing sky, the flitting gondolas, and the 
Drilliant crowd gliding about with noiseless step 
— this city without sound — it seemed a dream ! 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Thf. ambassador had engaged for Lady Annabel 
a palace on the Grand Canal belonging to Count 



Manfrini. It was a structure of great size an 
magnificence, and rose out of the water with a flighl 
of marble steps. Within was a vast gallery, lined 
with statues and busts on tall pedestals; suites of 
spacious apartments, with marble floors and hung 
with satin; ceilings painted by 'J'iiitoretto and full 
of Turldsh trophies; furniture, alike sumijtuous 
and massy ; the gilding, although of two hundred 
years' duration, as bright and burnished as if it 
liad but yesterday been touched with the l)rush: 
sequin gold, as the Venetians tell you to this day 
with pride ; but even their old furniture will not 
soon be left to them, as palaces are now daily 
broken up like old ships, and their colossal spoils 
consigned to Hanway-yard and Bond-street, 
whence, rcburnishcd and vamped up, their Titantic 
proportions hi time appropriately figure in the bou- 
doirs of May Fair and the miniature saloons of 
St. James'. Many a fine lady now sits in a doge'3 
chair, and many a dandy listens to his doom from 
a couch that has already witnessed the less inexo- 
rable decrees of the Council of Ten. 

Amid all this splendour, however, one mournful 
idea alone pervaded the tortured consciousness of 
Lady Annabel Herbert. Daily the dark truth 
stole upon her with increased conviction, that 
Venctia had come hither only to die. There 
seemed, to the agitated ear of this distracted mother, 
a terrible omen even in the very name of her child; 
and she could not resist the persuasion that her 
liiial destiny would, in some degree, be connected 
with her fanciful appellation. The physicians, for, 
hopeless as Lady Annabel could not resist esteem- 
ing their interference, Venctia was now surrounded 
with iihysicians, shook their heads, prescribed dif- 
ferent remedies, and gave contrary opinions ; each 
day, however, their patient became more languid, 
thinner and more thin, vuitil she seemed like a 
beautiful spirit gliding into the saloon, leaning on 
her mother's arm, ant! followed by Pauncefort, who 
had now learned the fatal secret from her mistress, 
and whose heart was indeed almost broken at the 
pros[)ect of the calamity that was impending over 
them. 

At Padua Lady Annabel, in her mortified re- 
veries, outraged as she conceived by her husband, 
and anxious about her daughter, had schooled 
herself into visiting her fresh calamities on the 
head of the unhappy Herbert, to whose intrusion 
and irresistible influence she ascribed all the illness 
of her child ; but, as the indisposition of Venetia 
gradually, but surely, increased, until at length it 
assumed so alarming an aspect, that Lady Annabel, 
in the distraction of her mind, could no longer re 
train from contemplating the most fatal results, she 
had taught herself bitterly to regret the failure of 
that approaching reconciliation which now she 
could not but believe would, at least, have secured 
her the life of Venetia. Whatever might be the 
risk of again uniting herself with her husband, 
whatever might be the mortification and misery 
which it might ultimately, or even speedily, entail 
upon her, (here was no unhappiness that she could 
herself experience, which for one moment she 
could put into compethion with the existence ofhe» 
child. When that was the question, every feeling 
that had hitherto impelled her conduct assumed a 
totally dilli?rent complexion. That conduct, in her 
view, had been a systematic sacrifice of self to secure 
the happiness of her daughter : and the result of all 
her exertions was, that not.only her happiness was 



806 



U'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



destroyed, but her life fast vanishing away. To 
save Venetia, it now appeared to Lady Annabel, 
that there was no extremity which she would not 
endure ; and, if it came to a question, whether Ve- 
netia should survive, or whether she should even 
be separated from her mother, her maternal heart 
now assured her that she would not for an instant 
hesitate in preferring an eternal separation to the 
death of her child. Her terror, indeed, worked to 
such a degree upon her character, that she even, at 
times, half resolved to speak to Venetia upon the 
subject, and contrive some method of communi- 
cating her wishes to her father ; but pride, the ha- 
bitual repugnance of so many years to converse 
upon the topic, mingled also, as should be confessed, 
with an indefinite apprehension of the ill-con- 
sequences of a conversation of such a character on 
the nervous temperament of her daughter, restreiined 
her. 

" My love !" said Lady Annabel, one day to her 
daughter, " do you think you could go out ? The 
physicians think it of such great importance that 
you should attempt to exert yourself, however 
"slightly." 

" Dear mother, if any thing could annoy me 
from your lips, it would be to hear you quote these 
physicians," said Venetia. '• Their daily presence 
and inquiries irritate me. Let me be at peace. I 
wish to see no one but you." 

" But, Venetia," said Lady Annabel in a voice 
of great emotion, " Venetia — " and here she paused ; 
" think of my anxiety." 

"Dear mother, it would be ungrateful for me 
t-ver to forget that. But you, and you alone, know 
that my state, whatever it may be, and to whatever 
it may be, I am reconciled, is not produced by causes 
over which these physicians have any control, over 
which no one has control — now," added Venetia, in 
a tone of great moumfulness. 

For kere we must remark that so inexperienced 
was Venetia in the feelings of others, and so com- 
pletely did she judge of the strength and purity of 
their emotions from her own, that reflection, since 
the terrible adventure of Rovigo, had only con- 
vinced her that it was no longer in her mother's 
power to unite herself again with her other parent. 
She had taught herself to look upon her father's 
burst of feeling towards Lady Annabel as the mo- 
mentary and inevitable result of a meeting so unex- 
pected and overpowering, but she did not doubt 
that the stranger whose presence had ultimately so 
fatally clouded that interview of promise, possessed 
claims upon Marmion Herbertwhich he would nei- 
ther break, nor, upon reflection, be desirous to 
question. It was then the conviction that a recon- 
ciliation between her parents was now impossible, 
in which her despair originated, and she pictured 
to herself her father once more at Arqua, disturbed, 
perhaps for a day or two, as he naturally must be, 
by an interview so sudden and so harassing ; shed- 
cling a tear, perhaps, in secret to the wife whom he 
had injured, and the child whom he had scarcely 
seen : but relapsing alike from the force of habit 
and inclination into those previous and confirmed 
feelings, under whose influence, she was herself a 
witness, his life had been so serene, and even so 
laudable. She was confirmed in these opinions by 
the circumstance of their never having heard 
since from him. Placed in his situation, if indeed 
in irresistible influence were not controlling him. 
would he have hesitated for a moment to have pre- 



vented even their departure, or to have pursued 
them ; to have sought at any rate some means of 
communicating with theml He was plainly re- 
conciled to his present position, and felt that under 
these circumstances silence on his part was alike 
most discreet and kind. Venetia had ceased, 
therefore, to question the justice or the expediency, 
or even the al)stract propriety of her mother's con- 
duct. She viewed their condition how as the result 
of stern necessity. She pitied her mother, and for 
herself, she had no hope. 

There was then much meaning in that little 
monosyllable with which Venetia concluded her 
reply to her mother. She had no hope " now." 
Lady Annabel, however, ascribed it to a very dif- 
ferent meaning ; she only believed that her daughter 
was of opinion that nothing would induce her now 
to listen to the overtures of her father. Prepared 
for any sacrifice of self. Lady Annabel replied, 
" But there is hope, Venetia, when your life is in 
question, there is nothing that should not be 
done." 

" Nothing can be done," said Venetia, who, of 
course, could not dream of what was passing in her 
mother's mind. 

Lady Annabel rose from her seat and walked to 
the window ; apparently her eye watched only the 
passing gondolas, but indeed she saw them not : she 
saw only her child stretched perhaps on the couch 
of death. 

" We quitted, perhaps, Rovigo too hastily," said 
Lady Annabel, in a choking voice, and with a face 
of scarlet. It was a terrible struggle, but the words 
were uttered. 

" No, mother," said Venetia, to Lady Annabel's 
inexpressible surprise, " we did right to go." 

" Even my child, even Venetia, with all her de- 
votion to him, feels the absolute necessity of my 
conduct," thought Lady Annabel. Her pride re- 
turned ; she felt the impossibdity of making an 
overture to Herbert; she looked upon their daughter 
as the last victim of his fatal career. 



CHAPTER IX. 

How beautiful is night in Venice ! Then music 
and the moon reign supreme ; the glittering sky 
reflected on the waters, and every gondola gliding 
with sweet sounds ! Around on every side are 
palaces and temples, rising from the waves which 
they shadow with their solemn forms, their costly 
fronts rich with the spoils of kingdoms, and soften- 
ed with the magic of the midnight beam. The 
whole city too is poured forth for festival. The 
people lounge on the quays and cluster on the 
bridges; the light barks skim along in crowds, just 
touching the surface of the water, while their bright 
prows of polished iron gleam in the moonshine, and 
glitter in the rippling wave. Not a sound that is 
not graceful — the tinkle of guitars, the sighs of 
serenaders, and the responsive chorus of gondo- 
liers. Now and then a laugh, light, joyous, and 
yet musical, bursts forth from some illuminated cof- 
fee-house, before which a buffo disports, a tumbler 
stands on his head, or a juggler mystifies ; and all 
for a sequin ! 

The Place of St. Marc, at the period of our 
story, still presented the most brilliant spectacle of 
the kind in Europe. Not a spot was more dis 



VENETIA. 



.807 



tingufelied for elegance, luxury, and enjoyment. 
It was indeed the inner shrine of the temple of 
pleasure, and very strange and amusing would be 
the annals of its picturesque arcades. We must 
not however step behind their blue awnings, but 
content ovirselves with the exterior scene; and 
certainly the Place of St. Marc, with the variegated 
splendour of its Christian mosque, the ornate archi- 
tecture of its buildings, its diversified population, 
a tribute from every shore of the midland sea, and 
where the noble Venetian, in his robe of crimson 
silk and long white wig, might be jostled by the 
Sclavonian with his target, and the Albanian in 
his kilt, while the Turk sitting cross-legged on his 
Persian carpet, smoked his long chiboque with se- 
rene gravity, and the mild Armenian glided by him 
with a low reverence, presented an aspect, under a 
Venetian moon, such as we shall not easily find 
again in Christendom, and, in spite of the dying 
glory and the neighbouring vice, was pervaded with 
an air of romance and refinement, compared with 
which the glittering dissipation of I aris, even in its 
liveliest and most graceful hours, assumes a cha- 
racter alilve coarse and commonplace. 

It is the hour of love and of faro ; now is the 
hour to press your suit and to break a bank; to 
glide from the apartment of rapture into the cham- 
ber of chance. Thus a nohle Venetian contrived 
to pass the night, in alternations of excitement tliat 
in general left him sufficiently serious of the mor- 
row's council. For more vulgar tastes there was 
the minstrel, the conjurer, and the storyteller, gob- 
lets of Cypress wine, flasks of sherbet, and con- 
fectionary that dazzled like diamonds. And for 
every one, from the grave senator to the gay gon- 
dolier, there was an atmosphere in itself a spell, 
and which, after all, has more to do with human 
happiness than all the accidents of fortune and all 
the arts of government. 

Amid this gay and brilliant multitude, one human 
being stood alone. Muffled in his cloak, and lean- 
ing against a column in the portico of St. Marc, an 
expression of oppressive care and affliction was im- 
printed on his countenance, and ill accorded with 
the light and festive scene. Had he been crossed 
in love or had he lost at play ! Was it woman or 
gold to which his anxiety and sorrovsr were attri- 
butable, for under one or other of these categories, 
undoubtedly, all the miseries of man may range. 
Want of love, or want of money, lies at the bottom 
of all our griefs. 

The stranger came forward, and leaving the 
joyous throng, turned down the Piazzetta, and ap- 
proached the quay of the Lagune. A gondolier sa- 
luted him, and he entered his boat. 

" Whither, signor V said the gondolier. 

" To the Grand Canal," he replied. 

Over the moonlit wave tlie gondola swiftly 
skimmed! The scene was a marvellous contrast 
to the one which the stranger had Just quitted ; 
but it brought no serenity to his care-worn coun- 
tenance, though his eye for a moment kindled as 
he looked upon the moon, that was sailing in the 
cloudless heaven with a single star by her side. 

They had soon entered the Grand Canal, and 
the gondolier looked to his employer for instruc- 
tions. "Row opposite to the Manfrini palace," 
said the stranger, " and rest upon your oar." 

The blinds of the great window of the palace 
were withdrawn. Distinctly might be recognised 
a female figure bending over the recumbent form 



of a girl. An hour passed away and still the gon- 
dola was motionless, and still the silent stranger 
gazed on the inmates of the palace. A servant 
now came forward and closed the curtain of the 
chamber. The stranger sighed, and waving his 
hand to the gondolier, bade him repair to the La- 
gune. 



CHAPTER X. 

It is curious to recall our feelings at a moment 
wnen a great event is impending over us, and we 
are utterly unconscious of its probable occurrence. 
How often does it happen that a subject which 
almost unceasingly engages our mind, is least 
thought of at the very instant that the agitating 
suspense involved in its consideration is perhaps 
about to be terminated forever ! The very morn- 
ing after the mysterious gondola had rested so long 
before the Manfrini Palace, Venetia rose for the 
first time since the flight from Rovigo, refreshed by 
her slumbers and tranquil in her spirit. It was not 
in her power to recall her dreams ; but they had 
left a vague and yet serene impression. There 
seemed a lightness in her heart, that long had been 
unusual with her, and she greeted her mother with 
a smile, faint indeed, yet natural. 

Perhaps this beneficial change, slight, but still de- 
lightful, might be attributed to the softness and the 
splendour of the morn. Before the approach of winter, 
it seemed that the sun was resolved to remind the 
Venetians that they were his children ; and that, 
although his rays might be soon clouded for a 
season, they were not to believe that theii parent 
had deserted them. The sea was like glass, a 
golden haze suffused the horizon, and a breeze, not 
strong enough to disturb the waters, was wafted at 
intervals from the gardens of tlie Brenta, fitful and 
sweet. 

Venetia had yielded to the suggestion of her 
mother, and had agreed for the first time to leave 
the palace. They stepped into their gondola, and 
were wafted to an island in the Lagune where 
there was a convent, and, what in Venice was 
more rare and more delightful, a garden. Its 
scanty shrubberies sparkled in the sun ; and a 
cypress flanked by a pine-tree, offered to the eye 
unused to trees a novel and picturesque group. 
Beneath its shade they rested, watching on one 
side the distant city, and on the other the still and 
gleaming waters of the Adriatic. While they 
were thus sitting, renovated by the soft air and 
pleasant spectacle, a holy father, with a beard like 
a meteor, appeared and addressed them. 

" Welcome to St. Lazaro !" said the holy father, 
speaking in English; "and may the peace that 
reigns within its walls fill also your breasts !" 

" Indeed, holy father," said Lady Annabel to the 
Armenian monk, " I have long heard of your vir- 
tues and your happy life." 

" You know that Paradise was placed in ou» 
country," said the monk with a smile. " We 
have all lost Paradise, but the Armenian has lost 
his country too. Nevertheless, Vv^ith God's blessing, 
on this islet we have found an Eden, pure at least 
and tranquil." 

" For the pious. Paradise exists everywhere," 
said Lady Annabel. 

" You have been in England, holy father V saia 
Venetia. 



808 



^'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



" It has not been my good fortune," replied the 
monk. 

" Yet you speak our tongue with a facility and 
accent that surprise me." 

" I learned it in America, where I long resided," 
••ejoined the Armenian. 

" This is for your eye, lady," continued the 
monk, drawing a letter from his bosom. 

Lady Annabel felt not a little surprised ; but the 
idea immediately occurred to her that it was some 
conventual memorial, appealing to her charity. 
She took the paper from the monk, who imme- 
diately moved away ; but what was the agitation of 
Lady Annabel when she recognised the hand- 
writing of her husband ! Her first thought was to 
save Venetia from sharing that agitation. She 
rose quickly ; she commanded herself sufficiently 
to advise lier daughter in a calm tone, to remain 
seated, while for a moment she refreshed herself by 
a stroll. She had not quitted Venetia many paces, 
when she broke the seal and read these lines : — 

"Tremble not, Annabel, when you recognise 
this handwriting. It is that of one whose only 
aspiration is to contribute to your happiness; and, 
although the fulfilment of that fond desire may be 
denied him, it never shall be said, even by you, 
that any conduct of his should now occasion you 
annoyance. I am in Venice at the peril of my life, 
which I only mention because the difficulties in- 
separable from my position are the principal cause 
that you did not receive this communication imme- 
diately after our strange meeting. I have gazed at 
night upon your palace, and watched the forms of 
my wife and our child ; but one word from you, 
and I quit Venice for ever, and it shall not be my 
fault if you are ever again disturbed by the memory 
of the miserable Herbert. 

" But before I go, I will make this one appeal 
if not to your justice, at least to your mercy. After 
the fatal separation of a life, we have once more 
met ; you have looked upon me not with hatred ; 
my hand has once more pressed yours ; for a mo- 
ment I indulged the impossible hope, that this 
weary and exhausted spirit might at length be 
blessed. With agony I allude to the incident that 
dispelled the rapture of this vision. Sufficient for 
me most solemnly to assure you that four-and- 
twenty hours had not elapsed without that feeble 
and unhallowed tie being severed forever ! It 
vanished instantaneously before the presence of my 
wife and my child. However you decide, it can 
never again subsist: its utter and eternal dissolu- 
tion was the inevitable homage to your purity. 

" Whatefver may have been my errors, whatever 
my crimes — for I will not attempt to justify to you 
a single circumstance of my life — I humble myself 
in the dust before you, and solicit only mercy ; yet 
whatever may have been my career, ah ! Annabel, 
in the infinite softness of your soul was it not for a 
moment pardoned "? Am I indeed to suffer for that 
last lamentable intrusion? You are a woman, 
Annabel, with a brain as clear as your heart is 
pure. Judge me with calmness, Annabel; were 
there no circumstances in my situation to extenuate 
that deplorable connexion 1 I will not urge them ; 
I will not even intimate them ; but surely, Anna- 
bel, when I kneel before you full of deep repen- 
tance and long remorse, if you could pardon the 
past, it is not that incident, however mortifying to 
you, however disgraceful to myself, that should be 
on inij)assablc barrier to all my hopes ! 



" Once you loved me ; I ask you not to love 
me now. There is nothing about me now that 
can touch the heart of woman. I am old before 
my time ; bent with the blended influence of action 
and of thought, and of physical and moral suifer- 
ing. The play of my spirit has gone forever 
My passions have expired like my hopes. The 
remaining sands of my life are few. Once it was 
otherwise : you can recall a different picture of the 
Marmion on whom you smiled, and of whom you 
were the first love. O ! Annabel — gray, feeble, 
exhausted, penitent — let me stagger over your 
threshold, and die ! I ask no more ; I will not 
hope for your affection ; I will not even count upon 
your pity ; but endure my presence ; let your roof 
screen my last days !" 

It was read ; it was read again, dim as was the 
sight of Lady Annabel with fast-flowing tears. 
Still holding the letter, but with hands fallen, she 
gazed upon the shining waters before her in a fit 
of abstraction. It was the voice of her child that 
roused her. 

" Mother," said Venetia, in a tone of some de- 
cision, " you are troubled, and we have only one 
cause of trouble. That letter is from my father," 

Lady Annabel gave her the letter in silence, 

Venetia withdrew almost unconsciously a few 
paces from her mother. She felt this to be the 
crisis of her life. There never was a moment 
which she believed required more fully the presence 
of all her energies. Before she had addressed 
Lady Annabel, she had endeavoured to steel her 
mind to great exertion. Yet now that she held 
the letter, she could not command herself suffi- 
ciently to read it. Her breath deserted her — her 
hand lost its power ; she could not even open the 
lines on which perhaps her life depended. Sud- 
denly, with a rapid effort, she glanced at the con- 
tents. The blood returned to her cheek — her eye 
became bright with excitement — she gasped for 
breath — she advanced to Lady Annabel, " Ah ! 
mother," she exclaimed, " you will grant all that it 
desires !" 

Still gazing on the wave that laved the shore of 
the island with an almost imperceptible ripple, 
Lady Annabel continued silent, 

" Mother," said Venetia, " my beloved mother, 
you hesitate," She approached Lady Annabel, and, 
with one arm around her neck, she grasped with 
the other her mother's hand. " I implore you, by 
all that affection which you lavish on me, yield to 
this supplication. O ! mother, dearest mother, it 
has been my hope that my life has been at least a 
life of duty ; I have laboured to yield to all your 
wishes, I have struggled to make their fulfilment 
the law of my being. Yes ! mother, your memory 
will assure you, that when the sweetest emotions 
of my heart were the stake, you appealed to me to 
sacrifice them, and they were dedicated to your 
will. Have I ever murmured 1 I have sought only 
to repay your love by obedience. Speak to me, 
dearest mother ! I implore you speak to me ! Tell 
me can you ever repent relenting in this instance! 
O ! mother, you will not hesitate ; you will not in- 
deed ; you will bring joy and content to our long 
harassed hearth ! Tell me so; I beseech you tell 
me so ! I wish, O ! how I wish, that you wjuld 
comply from the mere impulse of your own heart ! 
But grant that it is a sacrifice ; grant that it may be 
unwise — that it may be vain ; — I supplicate you to 
make it! I, your child, who never deserted yuu^ 



VENETIA. 



809 



whs will never desert you, pledging my faith to 
you, in the face of Heaven; for my sake I supplicate 
you to make it. You do not hesitate — you cannot 
hesitate; mother, you cannot hesitate. Ah! you 
would not, if you knew all ; if you knew all the 
misery of my life, you would be glad — you would 
be cheerful — you would look upon this as an inter- 
position of Providence in fovour of your Venetia ; 
you would, indeed, dear mother I" 

" What evil fortune guided our steps to Italy !" 
said Lady Annabel in a solemn tone, and as if in 
soliloquy. 

" No, no, mother ; not evil fortune ; fortune the 
best and brightest," exclaimed her daughter. " We 
came here to be happy, and happiness we have at 
length gained. It is in our grasp ; I feel it. It was 
not fortune, dear mother, it was fate, it was Provi- 
dence, it was God. You have been faithful to him, 
and he has brought back to you my father, chastened 
and repentant. God has turned his heart to all your 
virtues. Will you desert him 1 No, no, mother, 
you will not, you cannot ; for his sake, for your 
own sake, and for your child's, you will not !" 

" For twenty years I have acted from an impe- 
rious sense of duty," said Lady Annabel, " and for 
your sake, Venetia, as much as for my own. Shall 
the feeling of a moment — '' 

" O ! mother, dearest mother, say not these words. 
With me, at least, it has not been the feeling of a 
moment. It haunted my infancy ; it harassed me 
while a girl ; it has brought me in the prime of 
womanhood to the brink of the grave. And with 
you, mother, has it been the feeling of a moment 1 
Ah ! you ever loved him, when his name was never 
breathed by those lips. You loved him when you 
deemed he had forgotten you ; when you pictured 
him to yourself in all the pride of health and genius, 
wanton and daring ; and now, now that he comes 
to you penitent, perhaps dying, more like a remorse- 
ful spirit than a breathing being, and humbles him- 
self before you, and appeals only to your mercy, 
ah ! my mother, you cannot reject, you could not 
reject him, even if you were alone, — even if you 
had no child !" 

" My child ! my child ! all my hopes were in my 
child," murmured Lady Annabel. 

" Is she not by your side ]" said Venetia. 

" You know not what you ask ; you know not 
what you counsel," said Lady Annabel. " It has 
been the prayer ai)d effort of my life that you should 
never know. There is a bitterness in the recon- 
ciliation which follows long estrangement, that 
yields a pang more acute even than the first disu- 
nion. Shall I be called upon to mourn over the 
wasted happiness of twenty years ] Why did he 
not hate us V 

" The pang is already felt, mother," said Venetia. 
" Reject my father, but you cannot resume the feel- 
ings of a month back. You have seen him ; you 
have listened to him. He is no longer the character 
which justified your conduct, and upheld you under 
the trial. His image has entered your soul ; your 
heart is softened. Bid him quit Venice without 
seeing you, and you will remain the most miserable 
of women." 

" On his head, then, be the final desolation," 
said Lady Annabel ; " it is but a part of the lot that 
he has yielded me." 

" I am silent," said Venetia, relaxing her grasp ; 
" I see that your child is not permitted to enter into 
your consideration." She turned away. 
102 



" Venetia !" said her mother. 

"■ Mother !" said Venetia, looking back, but not 
returning. 

" Return one moment to me." 

Venetia slowly rejoined her. Lady Annabel 
spoke in a kind and gentle, though very serious 
tone. 

" Venetia," she said, " what I am about to speak 
is not the impulse of the moment, but has been long 
revolved in my mind ; do not, therefore, misappre- 
hend it. I express without passion what I believe 
to be truth. I am persuaded that the presence of 
your father is necessary to your happiness ; nay, 
more, to your life. I recognise the mysterious in- 
fluence which he has ever exercised over your 
existence. I feel it impossible for me any longer 
to struggle against a power to which I bow. Be 
happy, then, my daughter, and live. Fly to your 
father, and be to him as matchless a child as you 
have been to me." She uttered these last words in 
a choking voice. 

" Is this, indeed, the dictate of your calm judg- 
ment, mother V said Venetia. 

" I call God to witness, it has of late been more 
than once on my lips. The other night, when I 
spoke of Rovigo, I was about to express this." 

" Then, mother," said Venetia, " I find that I 
have been misunderstood. At least I thought my 
feelings towards yourself had been appreciated. 
They have not ; and I can truly say, my life does 
not now afford a single circumstance to which I can 
look back with content. Well will it indeed be for 
me to die !" 

" The dream of my life," said Lady Annabel, in 
a tone of infinite distress, " was that she, at least, 
should never know unhappiness. It was indeed a 
dream." 

There was now a silence of several minutes. 
Lady Annabel remained in exactly the same posi- 
tion. Venetia standing at a little distance from her, 
looking resigned and sorrowful. 

" Venetia," at length said Lady Annabel, " why 
are you silent?" 

" Mother, I have no more to say. I pretend not 
to act in this life ; it is my duty to follow you." 

" And your inclination !" inquired I,ady Annabel. 

" I have ceased to have a wish upon any subject," 
said Venetia. 

" Venetia," said Lady Annabel with a great ef- 
fort, " I am miserable." 

Tills unprecedented confession of suffering from 
the strong mind of her mother, melted Venetia to 
the heart. She advanced, and threw her arms 
round her mother's neck, and buried her weeping 
face in Lady Annabel's bosom. 

" Speak to me, my daughter," said Lady Anna- 
bel ; " counsel me, for mj'^ mind trembles ; anxiety 
has weakened it. Nay, I beseech you, speak. 
Speak, speak, Venetia. What shall I do 1" 

" Mother, I will never say any thing again but 
that I love you." 

" I see the holy father in the distance. Let us 
walk to him, my child, and meet him." 

Accordingly Lady Annabel, now leaning on Ve- 
netia, approached the monk. About five minutes 
elapsed before they reached him, during which not 
a word was spoken. 

"Holy father," said Lady Annabel in a tone of 
firmness that surprised her daughter and made her 
tremble with anticipation, "you know the writer 
of this letter 1" 

3 i2 



810 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



"Ho is my frien(l of mary years, lady," replied 
die Armenian: "I know him in America. I owe 
to him my life, and more than my life. There 
breathes not his equal among men." 

A tear started to the eye of Lady Annabel ; she 
recalled the terms in which the household at Arqua 
had spoken of Herbert. " He is in Venice 1" she 
inquired. 

" He is within these walls," the monk replied. 

Venetia, scarcely able to stand, felt her mother 
start. After a momentary pause, Lady Annabel 
said, " Can I speak with him, and alone?" 

Nothing but the most nervous apprehension of 
throwing any obstacle in the way of the interview 
could have sustained Venetia. Quite pale, with her 
disengaged hand clenched, not a word escaped her 
lips. She hung upon the answer of the monk. 

" You can see him, and alone," said the monk. 
" He is now in the sacristy. Follow me." 

"Venetia," said Lady Annabel, "remain in this 
garden. I will accompany this holy man. Stop ! 
embrace me before I go, and," she added, in a whis- 
per, " pray for me." 

It needed not the admonition of her mother to 
induce Venetia to seek refuge in prayer, in this 
agony of her hfe. But for its salutary and stilling 
influence, it seemed to her that she must have for- 
feited all control over her mind. The suspense 
was too terrible for human aid to support her. 
Seated by the sea-side, she covered her face with 
her hands, and invoked the Supreme assistance. 
More than an hour passed away. Venetia looked 
up. Two beautiful birds, of strange form and spot- 
less plumage, that perhaps had wandered from the 
Egean, were hovering over her head, bright and 
glancing in the sun. She accepted their appearance 
as a good omen. At this moment she heard a 
voice, and, looking up, observed the monk in the 
distance, beckoning to her. She arose, and with a 
trembling step, approached him. He retired, still 
motioning to her to follow him. She entered, by a 
low portal, a dark cloister; it led to an ante-chapel, 
through which he passed ; her car caught the solemn 
chorus of the brethren. Her step faltered ; her 
sight was clouded ; she was as one walking in a 
dream. The monk opened a door, and retiring 
waved his hand, as for her to enter. There was a 
spacious and lofty chamber, scantily furnished, some 
huge chests, and many sacred garments. At the 
extreme distance her mother was reclined on a 
bench, her head supported by a large crimson 
cushion, and her father kneeling by her mother's 
side. With a soundless step, and not venturing 
even to breathe, Venetia approached them, and, 
she knew not how, found herself embraced by both 
her parents. 



BOOK VL 



CHAPTER L 

In a green valley of the Apennines, close to the 
sea-coast between Genoa and Spezzia, is a marine 
villa, that once belonged to the Malaspina family, 
n olden time the friends and patrons of Dante. It 
is rather a fantastic pile, painted in fresco, but spa- 
cious, in good repair, and convenient. Although 
little more than a mile from Spezzia, a glimpse of 
the blue sea can only be caught from one particu- 



lar spot, so completely is the land locked with hills^ 
covered with groves of chestnut and olive orchards. 
From the heights, however, you enjoy magnificent 
prospects of the most picturesque portion of the 
Italian coast; a lofty, undulating, and wooded 
shore, with an infinite variety of bays and jutting 
promontories ; while the eye, wandering from Leg 
horn on one side towards Genoa on the other, 
traces an almost uninterrupted line of hamlets and 
casinos, gardens and orchards, terraces of vines, and 
groves of olive. Beyond them, the broad and blue 
expanse of the midland ocean, glittering in the me- 
ridian blaze, or about to receive perhaps in its 
glowing waters, the red orb of sunset. 

It was in the month of May, in Italy, at least, the 
merry month of May, and Marmion Herbert came 
forth from the villa Malaspina, and throwing him- 
self on the turf, was soon lost in the volume of 
Plato, which he bore with him, he did not move 
until in the course of an hour he was roused by the 
arrival of servants, who brought seats and a table, 
when, looking up, he observed Lady Annabel and 
Venetia in the portico of the villa. He rose to 
greet them, and gave his arm to his wife. 

" Spring in the Apennines, my Annabel," said 
Herbert, " is a happy combination. I am more in 
love each day with this residence. The situatiorj 
is so sheltered, the air so soft and pure, the spot so 
tranquil, and the season so delicious, that it realizes 
all my romance of retirement. As for you, I never 
saw you look so well ; and as for Venetia, I can 
scarcely believe this rosy nymph could have been 
our pale-eyed girl, who cost us such anxiety !" 

" Our breakfast is not ready. Let us walk to 
our sea view," said Lady Annabel. "Give me 
your book to carry, Marmion." 

"There let the philosopher repose," said Herbert, 
throwing the volume on tjie turf. " Plato dreamed 
of what I enjoy." 

"And of what did Plato dream, papal" said Vb- 
netia. 

" He dreamed of love, child." 

Venetia took her father's disengaged arm. 

They had now arrived at their sea view, a glimpse 
of the Mediterranean between two tall crags. 

"A sail in the oiting!" said Herbert. "How 
that solitary sail tells, Annabel !" 

" I feel the sea breeze, mother. Does not it re- 
mind you of Weymouth 1" said Venetia. 

" Ah ! Marmion," said Lady Annabel, " I would 
that you could see Mashani once more. He is the 
only friend that I regret." 

" He prospers, Annabel ; let that be our consola- 
tion: I have at least not injured him." 

They turned their steps ; their breakfast was 
now prepared. The sun had risen above the hill, 
beneath whose shades they rested, and the opposite 
side of the valley sparkled in light. It was a cheer 
tul scene. " I have a passion for living in the air," 
said Herbert ; " I always envied the shepherds in 
Don Quixote. One of my youthful dreams was 
living among mountains of rosemary, and drinking 
only goal's milk. After breakfast I will read you 
Don Quixote's description of the golden age. I have 
often read it until the tears came into my eyes." 

" We must fancy ourselves in Spain," said Lady 
Annabel ; "it is not dilhcult in this wild green val- 
ley ; and if we have not rosemaiy, we have scents 
as sweet. Nature is our garden here, Venetia; 
and I do not envy even the statues and cypresses 
of our villa of the lake." 



VENETIA. 



811 



« We must make a pilgrimage some day to the 
jMaggiore, Annabel," said Herbert. " It is hallowed 
ground to me now." 

Their meal was finished, the servants brought 
their work, and books, and drawings ; and Herbert, 
resummg his natural couch, reopened his Plato, 
but Venetia ran into the villa, and returned with a 
volume. " You must read us the golden age, papa," 
she said, as she offered him, with a smile, his favour- 
ite Don Qiuxote. 

" You must fancy the Don looking earnestly up- 
on a handful of acorns," baid Herbert, opening the 
book, "while he exclaims, 'O! happy age which 
our first parents called the age of gold ! not because 
gold, so much adored in this iron age, was then ea- 
sily purchased, but because those two fatal words, 
meuni and tuum, were distinctions unknown to the 
people of these fortunate times ; for all things were 
in common in that holy age; men, for their suste- 
nance, needed only to lift their hands, and take it 
from the sturdy oak, whose spreading arms liberally 
invited them to gather the wholesome savoury fruit : 
while the clear springs, and silver rivulets, with 
luxuriant plenty, afforded them their pure refresh- 
ing water. In hollow trees, and in the clefts of 
rocks, the labouring and industrious bees erected 
their little commonwealths, that men might reap 
with pleasure and with ease the sweet and fertile 
harvest of their toils. The tough and strenuous 
cork-trees did, of themselves, and without other art 
than their native hberality, dismiss and impart their 
broad light bark, which served to cover those lowly 
huts, propped up with rough hewn stakes, that were 
first biilt as a shelter against the inclemencies of 
the air. All then was union, all peace, all love and 
friendship in the world. As yet no rude plough- 
share presumed with violence to pry into the pious 
bowels of our mother earth, for she without com- 
pulsion kindly yielded from every part of her fruit- 
ful and spacious bosom, whatever might at once 
satisfy, sustain, and indulge her frugal children. 
Then was the time when innocent, beautiful young 
shepherdesses went tripping over the hills and vales; 
their lovely hair sometimes plaited, sometimes loose 
and Howing, clad in no other vestment but what the 
modesty of nature might require. The Tyrian die, 
the rich glossy hue of silk, martyred and dissembled 
into every colour, which are now esteemed so fine 
and magnificent, were unknown to the innocent 
simplicity of that age; yet, bedecked with more 
becoming leaves and flowers, they outshone the 
proudest of the vain-dressing ladies of our times, 
arrayed in the most magnificent garbs and all the 
most sumptuous adornings which idleness and 
luxury have taught succeeding pride. Lovers then 
expressed the passion of their souls in the unaffected 
language of the heart, with the native plainness 
and sincerity in which they were conceived, and 
divested of all that artificial contexture which ener- 
vates what it labours to enforce. Imposture, deceit, 
and malice had not yet crept in, and imposed them- 
selves unbribed upon mankind in the disguise of 
truth: justice, unbiassed either by favour or inter- 
est, which now so fatally pervert it, was equally and 
impartially dispensed ; nor was the judge's fancy 
law, for then there were neither judges nor causes 
to be judged. The modest maid might then walk 
alone. But, in this degenerate age, fraud and a 
legioij of ills infecting the world, no virtue can be 
safe, rw> honour be secure; while wanton desires 



diffused into the hearts of men, corrupt the strictest 
watches and closest retreats, which, though as in- 
tricate and unknown as the labyrinth of Crete, are 
no security for chastity. Thus, that primitive in- 
nocence being vanished, the oppression daily pre- 
vailing, there was a necessity to oppose the torrent 
of violence ; for which reason the order of knight- 
hood errant was instituted, to defend the honour of 
virgins, protect widows, relieve orphans, and assist 
all that are distressed. Now I myself am one of 
this order, honest friends ; and, though all people 
are obliged by the law of nature to be kind to per- 
sons of my character, yet since you, without know- 
ing any thing of this obligation, have so generously 
entertaii»ed me, I ought to pay you my utmost 
acknowledgment, and accordingly return you my 
most hearty thanks.' 

" There," said Herbert, as he closed the book, in 
a fit of enthusiasm. " In my opinion, Don Quixote 
was the best man that ever lived." 

" But he did not ever live," said Lady Annabel, 
smiling. 

" He lives to us," said Herbert. " He is the same 
to this age as if he had absolutely wandered ove. 
the plains of Castile and watched in the Sierra 
Morcna. We cannot, indeed, find his tomb ; but 
he has left us his great example. In his hero, Cer- 
vantes has given us the picture of a great and 
benevolent philosopher, and in his Sancho a com- 
plete personification of the world, selfish and cun- 
ning, and yet overawed by the genius that he can- 
not comprehend : alive to all the material interests 
of existence, yet sighing after the ideal ; securing 
his four young foals of the she ass, yet indulging 
in dreams of empire." 

" But what do you think of the assault on the 
windmills, Marmionl" said Lady Annabel. 

" In the outset of his adventures, as in the outset 
of our lives, he was misled by his enthusiasm," re- 
plied Herbert, " without which, after all, we can do 
nothing. But, the result is, Don Quixote was a 
redresser of wrongs, and therefore the world esteemed 
him mad." 

In this vein, now conversing, now occupied with 
their pursuits, and occasionally listening to some 
passage which Herbert called to their attention, and 
which ever served as the occasion for some critical 
remarks, that were ever as striking from their original- 
ity as they were happy in their expression, the fresh- 
ness of the morning disappeared , the sun now 
crowned the valley with his meridian beam, and 
they re-entered the villa. The ladies returned to 
their cool saloon, and Herbert to his study. 

It was there he amused himself by composing 
the following lines : — 

SPRING IN THE APENNINES. 

I 

Spring in the Apennine now holds her court 

Within an amphilhealre nf hills, 

CloUied with ihe blooming chestnut; musical 

With murmuring pines, waving Uieir light green cones, 

Lilie ynuthful Bacchants; while the ilewy grass, 

The myrtle and the mountain violet. 

Blend iheir bright odours with the fragrant treea, 

And sweeten the soil air. Above us spreads 

The purple sky, bright with the unseen sun 

The hills yet screen, although the golden beam 

Touches the topmost boughs, and lints with li|ht 

The gray and sparkling crags. The brealli of morn 

Still lingers in the valley ; but the bee 

With restless passion liovers on the wing. 

Waiting the opening flower, of whose embrace 

The sun shall be the signal. Poised in air, 



813 



D ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



The winged minstrpl of the liquid dawn, 
The larli pours forth his lyric, and responds 
To the fresli chorus of the sylvan doves, 
Tlie siir of branches and the fall of streams : 
The harmonies of nature ! 

II. 

Gentle Spring! 
Once more, O ! yes ! once more I feel thy breath, 
And charm of renovation ! To the sl;y 
Thou bringesl light, and to the glowing earth, 
A garb of grace : but sweeter than the sliy 
That haih no cloud, and sweeter than the earth 
With all its pageantry, the peerless boon 
Thou bearest to me— a temper like tliine own ; 
A spring-like spirit, beautiful and glad ' 
Long years — long years of suiiering and of thought 
Deeper than wo, had dimmed the eager eye 
Once quick to catch thy brightness, and the ear 
That lingered on thy music, the harsh world 
Had jarred. The freshness of my life was gone. 
And hope no more an omen in thy bloom 
Found of a fertile future ! There are minds 
Like lands but with one season, and that drear; 
Mine was eternal winter! 

III. 

A dark dream, 
Of hearts estranged, and of an Eden lost 
Entranced my being, one absorbing thought. 
Which, if not torture, was a dull despair 
That agony were light to. But while sad 
Within the desertoTmy life I roamed. 
And no sweet springs of love gushed forth to greet 
My wearied heart -behold two spirits came 
Floating in light, seraphic ministers, 
The semblance of whose splendour on me fell 
As on some dusky stream"the matin ray 
Touching the gloomy waters with its life. 
And both were fond and one was merciful ! 
And to my home long forfeited they bore 
My vagrant spirit, and the gentle hearth 
I reckless fled, received me with its shade 
And pleasant refuge. And our softened hearts 
Were like the twilight, when our very bliss 
Calls tears to soothe our rapture ; as the stars 
Steal forth, then shining smiles their trembling ray 
Mixed with our tenderness ; and love was there 
In all his manifold forms ; the sweet embrace, 
And thrilling pressure of the gentle hand. 
And silence speaking with the melting eye ! 

IV^. 
And now again I feel thy breath, O Spring ! 
And now the seal hath fallen from my gaze, 
And thy wild music in my reaily ear 
Finds a quick echo ! The discordant world 
Mars not thy melodies; thy blossoms now 
Are emblems of my heart ; and through my veins 
The flow of youthful feeling long pent up 
Glides like thy sunny streaHis! In this fair scene, 
On forms still fairer I my blessing pour; 
On her the beautiful, the wise, the good. 
Who learned the sweetest lesson to forgive ; 
And on the bright-eyed daughter of our love, 
Wli'j soothed a mother, and'a father saved ! 



CHAPTER II. 

Between the reconciliation of Lady Annabel 
Herbert with her husband, at the Armenian con- 
vent at Venice, and the spring morning in the 
Apennines, which we have just described, half a 
year had intervened. The political position of 
Marmion Herbert rendered it impossible for him to 
remain in any city where there was a representa- 
tive of his Britannic Majesty. Indeed it was 
scarcely safe for him to be known out of America. 
He hatj quitted that country shortly after the strug- 
gle was over, chiefly frotn considerations for his 
health. His energies had been fast failing him ; 
and a retired life and change of climate had been 
recommended by his physicians. His own feelings 
induced him to visit Italy, wnere he h;id once in- 
tended to pass his life, and where he now repaired 
to await death. Assuming a feigned name, and 
living in strict seclusion, it is probable that his jire- 



sence would never have been discovered ; or if de 
tected, would not have been noticed. Once more 
united with his wife, her personal influence at the 
court of St. James', and her powerful connexions 
might secure him from annoyance ; and Venetia 
had even indulged in a vague hope of returning to 
England. But Herbert could only have found 
himself again in his native country as a prisonei 
on parole. It would have been quite impossible 
for him to mix in the civil business of his native 
land, or enjoy any of the rights of citizenship. If 
a mild sovereign in his mercy had indeed accorded 
him a pardon, it must have been accompanied with 
rigorous and mortifying conditions; and his pre- 
sence, in ali probability, would have been confined to 
his country residence and its immediate neighbour- 
hood. The pride of Lady Annabel herself recoiled 
from this suftbrance ; and although Herbert — keenly 
conscious of the sacrifice which a permaner't es- 
trangement from England entailed upon his wife 
and child — would have submitted to any restric- 
tions, however liumiliating, provided they were not 
inconsistent with his honour, it must be confessed 
that, when he spoke of this painful subject to his 
wife, it was with no slight self-congratulation that 
he had found her resolution to remain abroad under 
any circumstances was fixed with her habitual de- 
cision. She communicated, indeed, both to the 
Bishop of ****** and to her brother, the unexpect- 
ed change that had occurred in her condition, and 
she had reason to believe that a representation of 
what had happened would be made to the royal 
family. Perhaps both the head of her liouse and 
her reverend friend anticipated that time might re- 
move the barrier that presented itself to Herbert's 
immediate return to England: they confined tlieir 
answers, however to congratulations on the recon- 
ciliation, to their confidence in the satisfaction it 
would occasion her, and to the expression of their 
faithful friendship ; and neither alluded to a result 
which both, if only for her sake, desired. 

The Herberts had quitted Venice a very few 
days after the meeting on the Island of St. Lazaro ; 
had travelled by slow journeys, crossing the Apen- 
nines, to Genoa ; and only remained in that city 
until they engaged their present residence. It com- 
bined all the advantages which they desired : se- 
clusion, beauty, comfort, and the mild atmosphere 
that Venetia had seemed to require. It was not, 
however, the genial air that had recalled the rose to 
Venetia's cheek and the sunny smile to her bright 
eye, or had inspired again that graceful fortn with 
all its pristine elasticity. It was a heart content; 
a spirit at length at peace. The contemplation of 
the happiness of those most dear to her, that she 
hourly witnessed ; and the blissful consciousness 
that her exertions had mainly contributed to, if 
not completely occasioned, all this felicity, were re- 
medies of far more efficacy than all the consulta- 
tions and prescriptions of her physicians. The 
condnjct of her father repaid her for all her suflcr- 
ings, and realized all her dreams of domestic ten- 
derness and delight. Tender, grateful, and affec- 
tionate, Herbert hovered round her mother like a 
delicate spirit who had been released by some kind 
mortal from a tedious and revolting thraldom, and 
who believed he could never sufficiently testily his 
devotion. There was so much respect blended 
with his fondness, that the spirit of her mother was 
utterly subdued by his irresistible demeanour. All 
her sadness and icserve, her distrust and her fea» 



V E N E T I A. 



813 



nad vaiiishecl ; and rising confidence mingling with 
the love she had ever borne to him, she taught her- 
self even to seek his opinion, and be guided by his 
advice. She could not refrain, indeed, from occa- 
sionally feeling — in this full enjoyment of his love — 
that she might have originally acted with too 
much precipitation ; and that, had she only bent 
for a moment to the necessity of conciliation, and 
condescended to the excusable artifices of affection, 
their misery might have been prevented. Once 
when they were alone, her softened heart would 
have confessed to Herbert this painful conviction, 
but he was too happy and too generous to permit 
her for a moment to indulge in such a remorseful 
retrospect. All the error, he insisted, was his own ; 
and he had been fool enough to have wantonly for- 
feited a happiness which time and experience had 
now taught him to appreciate. 

" We married too young, Marmion," said his 
wife. 

" It shall he that then, love," replied Herbert ; 
" but for all that I have suffered, I would not have 
avoided my fate on the condition of losing the ex- 
quisite present !" 

It is perhaps scarcely necessary to remai-k, that 
Herbert avoided with the most scrupulous vigi- 
lance the slightest allusion to any of those peculiar 
opinions, for which he was unhappily too celebrated. 
Musing over the singular revolutions which had 
already occurred in his habits and his feelings to- 
wards herself. Lady Annabel indeed did not de- 
spair that his once self-sufircient soul might ulti- 
mately bow to that blessed faith which to herself 
had ever proved so great a support and so exquisite 
a solace. It was, indeed, the inexpressible hope 
that lingered at the bottom of her heart ; and some- 
times she even indulged in the delightful fancy that 
his mild and penitent spirit had by the gracious 
mercy of Providence, been already touched by the 
bright sunbeam of conviction. At all events, his 
subdued and chastened temperament was no un- 
worthy preparation for still greater blessings. It 
was this hallowed anticipation which consoled, and 
alone consoled. Lady Annabel for her own estrange- 
ment from the communion of her national church. 
Of all the sacrifices which her devotion to Herbert 
entailed upon her, this was the one which she felt 
most constantly and most severely. Not a day 
elapsed but the Chapel at Cherbury rose before her ; 
and when she remembered that neither herself nor 
her daughter might again kneel round the altar of 
their God, she almost trembled at the step which 
she had taken, and almost esteemed it a sacrifice 
of heavenly to earthly duty, which no considera- 
tions perhaps warranted. This apprehension, in- 
deed, was the cloud in her life, and one which Ve- 
netia, who felt all its validity, found difficulty in 
combating. 

Otherwise, when Venetia beheld her parents, she 
felt ethereal, and seemed to move in air ; for her 
life, in spite of its apparent tranquillity, was to her 
all excitement. She never looked upon her father, 
or heard his voice, without a thrill. His society 
was as delightful as his heart was tender. It seemed 
to her that she could listen to him forever. Every 
word he spoke was different to the language of 
other men ; there was not a subject on which 
his richly cultivated mind could not pour forth in- 
Btantaneously a flood of fine fancies and deep in- 
telligence. He seemed to have read every book in 
every language, and to have mused over every line he 



had read. She could not conceive how one, the 
tone of "whose mind was so original that it sug- 
gested on every topic some conclusion that struck 
instantly by its racy novelty, could be so saturated 
with the learning and the views of other men. AL 
though they lived in unbroken solitude, and were 
almost always together, not a day pass;ed that she 
did not find herself musing over some thought or 
expression of her father, and which broke from his 
mind without effort, and as if by chance. 

Literature to Herbert was now only a source of 
amusement and engaging occupation. All thought 
of fame had long fled his soul. He cared not for 
being disturbed ; and he would throw down his 
Plato for Don Quixote, or close his ^Eschylus and 
take up a volume of Madame do Sevigne without a 
murmur, if reminded by any thing that occurred 
of a passage which might contribute to the amuse- 
ment and instruction of his wife and daughter. In- 
deed, his only study now was to contribute to their 
happiness. For him they had given up their country 
and society, and he sought by his vigilant attention, 
and his various accomplishments, to render their 
hours as light and pleasant as, under such circum- 
stances, was possible. His muse, too, was only 
dedicated to the celebration of any topic which 
their life or themselves suggested. He loved to lie 
under the trees, and pour forth sonnets to Lady An- 
nabel ; and encouraged Venetia, by the readiness and 
interest with which he invariably complied with 
her intimations, to throw out every fancy which 
occurred to her for his verse. A life passed with- 
out the intrusion of a single evil passion, without a 
single expression that was not soft, and graceful, 
and mild, and adorned with all the resources of a 
most accomplished and creative spirit, required not 
the distractions of society. It would have shrunk 
from it — from all its artificial excitement and vapid 
reaction. The days of the Herberts flowed on in 
one bright, continuous stream of love, and literature, 
and gentle pleasures. Beneath them was the green 
earth, above them the blue sky. Their spirits were 
as clear, and their hearts as soft as the clime. 

The hour of twilight was approaching, and the 
Herberts were preparing for their daily walk. Their 
simple repast was finished, and Venetia held the 
verses which her father had written in the morn- 
ing, and which he had presented to her. 

" Let us descend to Spezzia," sa>id Herbert to 
Lady Annabel ; " I love an ocean sunset." 

Accordingly they proceeded through their valley 
to their craggy path which led down to the bay. 
After passing through a small ravine, the magnifi- 
cent prospect opened before them. The sun was 
yet an hour above the horizon, and the sea was like 
a lake of molten gold ; the colour of the sky nearest 
to the sun of a pale green, with two or three bur- 
nished streaks of vapour, quite still, and so thin you 
could almost catch the sky through them, fixed, as 
it were, in this gorgeous frame. It was now a 
dead calm, but the sail that had been hovering the 
whole morning in the ofiing, had made the harbour 
in time, and had just cast anchor near some coast- 
ing craft and fishing boats, all that now remained 
where Napoleon had projected forming one of the 
arsenals of the world. 

Tracing their way down a mild declivity, covered 
with spreading vineyards, and quite fragrant with 
the .blossom of the vine, the Herberts proceeded 
through a wood of olives, and emerged on a terrace 
raised directly above the shore, leading to Spezzia, 



814 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



and studded here and there with rugged groups of 
aloes. 

"I have often observed here," said Venetia, 
" about a mile out at sea — there now, where I point 
— the water rise. It is now a calm, and yet it is 
more troubled, I think, than usual. Tell me the 
cause, dear father, for I have often wished to know." 
" It passes my experience," said Herbert ; " but 
here is an ancient fisherman ; let us inquire of 
him." 

He was an old man, leaning against a rock, and 
smoking his pipe in contemplative silence ; his face 
bronzed with the sun and the roughness of many 
seasons, and his gray hairs not hidden by his long 
blue cap. Herbert saluted him, and pointing to 
the phenomenon, requested an explanation of it. 

" 'Tis a fountain of fresh water, signor, that 
rises in our gulf," said the old fisherman, " to the 
height of twenty feet." 

" And is it constant 1" inquired Herbert. 
" 'Tis the same in sunshine and in storm, in 
summer and in winter, in calm or in breeze," said 
the old fisherman. 

" And has it always been so V 
" It came before my time." 
" A philosophic answer," said Herbert, " and 
deserves a paul. Mine was a crude question. Adio, 
good friend." 

" I should like to drink of that fountain of fresh 
water, Annabel," said Herbert. " There seems to 
me something wondrous fanciful in it. Some day 
we will row there. It shall be calm like this." 

" We want a fountain in our valley," said Lady 
Annabel. 

" We do," said Herbert ; " and I think we 
must make one ; we must inquire at Genoa. I am 
curious in fountains. Our fountain should, I think, 
be classical ; simple, compact, with a choice in- 
scription, the altar of a Naiad." 

" And mamma shall make the design, and you 
shall write the inscription," said Venetia. 

" And you shall be the nymph, child," said Her- 
Dert. 

They were now within a bowshot of the harbour, 
and a jutting cliflf of marble, more graceful from a 
contiguous bed of myrtles, invited them to rest, 
and watch the approaching sunset. 

" Say what they like," said Herbert, " there is a 
spell in the shores of the Mediterranean Sea which no 
others can rival. Never was such a union of natural 
loveliness and magical associations ! On these 
shores have risen all that interests us in the past : — 
Eg3'pt and Palestine, Greece, Eorae, and Carthage, 
Moorish Spain, and feodal Italy. These shores 
have yielded us our religion, our arts, our literature, 
and our laws. If all that we have gained from the 
shores of the Mediterranean was erased from the 
memory of man, we should be savages. Will the 
Atlantic ever be as memorable 1 Its civilization 
will be more rapid, but will it be as refined 1 and, 
far more important, will it be as permanent 1 Will 
it not lack the racy vigour and the subtle spirit of 
aboriginal genius 1 Will not a colonial character 
cling to its society ! Feeble, inanimate, evanescent. 
What America is deficient in, is creative intellect. 
It has no nationality. Its intelligence has been 
imported like its manufactured goods. Its inhabi- 
tants are a people, but are they a nation 1 I wish 
that the empire of the Incas, and the kingdom of 
Montezuma, had not been sacrificed. I wish that 



the republic of the Puritans had blended with 
the tribes of the wilderness." 

The red sun was now hovering over the horizon; 
it quivered for an instant, and then sank. Imme- 
diately the high, and undulating coast was covered 
with a crimson flush ; the cliffs, the groves, the 
bays and jutting promontories, each straggling sail 
and tall white tower, sufiused with a rosy light 
Gradually that rosy tint became a bright violet, and 
then faded into purple. But the glory of the sun- 
set long lingered in the glowing wett, streaming 
with every coloTir of the Iris — while a solitary star 
glittered with silver light amid the shifting splen- 
dour. 

" Hesperus rises from the sunset like the fountain 

of fresh water from the sea," said Herbert. " The 

sky and the ocean have two natures like .ourselves." 

At this moment the boat of the vessel, that had 

anchored about an hour back, put to shore. 

" That seems an English brig," said Herbert 
" I cannot exactly make out its trim ; it scarcely 
seems a merchant vessel." 

The projection of the shore hid the boat from 
their sight as it landed. The Herberts rose, and 
proceeded towards the harbour. There v^'as some 
rude steps cut in the rock which led from the im- 
mediate shore to the terrace. As they approached 
these, two gentlemen in sailors' jackets mounted 
suddenly. Lady Annabel and Venetia simulta- 
neously started as they recognised Lord Cadurcisand 
his cousin. They were so close, that neither party 
had time to prepare themselves. Venetia found her 
hand in that of Plantagenet, while Lady Annabel 
saluted George. Infinite were their mutual inquiries 
and congratidations, but it so happened that, with 
one exception, no name was mentioned. It was 
quite evident, however, to Herbert, that these were 
very familiar acquaintances of his family, for, in 
the surprise of the moment. Lord Cadurcis had 
saluted his daughter by her christian name. There 
was no slight emotion, too, displayed on all sides. 
Indeed, independent of the agitations which so un- 
expected a rencounter was calculated to produce, 
the presence of Herbert, after the first moments of 
recognition, not a little excited the curiosity of the 
young men, and in some degree occasioned the 
embarrassment of all. Who was this stranger 
on whom Venetia and her mother were leaning 
with such fondness 1 He was scarcely too old 
to be the admirer of Venetia, and if there were a 
greater disparity of years between them than is 
usual, his distinguished appearance might well re- 
concile the lady to her lot, or even justify her 
choice. Had, then. Cadurcis again met Venetia 
only to find her the bride or the betrothed of 
another 1 — a mortifying situation, even an intoler- 
able one, if his feelings remained unchanged ; and 
if the eventful year that had elapsed since they 
parted, had not replaced her image in his susceptible 
mind by another more cherished, and, perhaps, less 
obdurate. Again, to Lady Annabel the moment 
was one of great awkwardness, for the introduction 
of her husband to those with whom she was re- 
cently so intimate, and who were then aware that 
the name of that husband was never even mentioned 
in her presence, recalled the painful past with a 
disturbing vividness. Venetia, indeed, did not 
share these feelings fully, but she thought it un 
gracious to anticipate her mother in the announce 
ment. 



VENETIA. 



815 



The Herberts turned with Lord Cadurcis and 
his cousin ; they were about to retrace their steps 
on the terrace, when Lady Annabel, taking advan- 
tage of the momentary silence, and summoning all 
her energy, with a pale cheek, and a voice that 
slightly faltered, said, " Lord Cadurcis, allow me 
lo introduce you to Mr. Herbert, my husband," she 
added, with emphasis, 

" Good God !" exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, starting; 
and then outstretching his hand, he contrived to 
add, " have I, indeed, the pleasure of seeing one I 
have so long admired 1 " 

" Lord Cadurcis !" exclaimed Herbert, scarcely 
less surprised. " Is it Lord Cadurcis 1 This is a 
welcome meeting." 

Every one present felt overwhelmed with confu- 
sion or astonishment ; Lady Annabel sought refuge 
in presenting Captain Cadurcis to her husband. 
This ceremony, though little noticed even by those 
more immediately interested in it, nevertheless 
served, in some degree, as a diversion. Herbert, 
who was only astonished, was the first who rallied. 
Perhaps Lord Cadurcis was the only man in exist- 
ence whom Herbert wished to know. He had read 
his works with rapture ; at least those portions 
which foreign journals had afforded him. He was 
deeply impressed with his fame and genius ; but 
what perplexed him at this moment, even more than 
his unexpected introduction to him, was the singu- 
lar, the very extraordinary circumstances, that the 
name of their most celebrated countryman should 
never have escaped the lips either of his wife or his 
daughter, although they appeared, and Venetia 
especially, to be on terms with him of even domes- 
tit intimacy. 

■• Vou arrived here to-day. Lord Cadurcis 1" said 
Herbert. " From whence ?" 

"Immediately from Naples, where we last touch- 
ed," replied his lordship ; " but I have been residing 
dt Athens." 

" I envy you," said Herbert. 

" It would be a fit residence for you," said Lord 
Cadurcis. " You were, however, in some degree 
my companion, for a volume of your poems was one 
of the few books I had with me. I parted with all 
the rest, but I retained that. It is in my cabin; and 
full of my scribblement. If you would condescend 
to accept it, I would offer it you." 

Mr. Herbert and Lord Cadurcis maintained the 
conversation along the terrace. Venetia, by whose 
side her old companion walked, was quite silent. 
Once her eyes met those of Cadurcis ; his expres- 
sion of mingled harshness and astonishment was 
irresistible. His cousin and Lady Annabel carried 
on a more suppressed conversation, but on ordinary 
topics. When they had reached the olive grove, 
Herbert said, " Here lies our way homeward, my 
lord. If you and your cousin will accompany us, 
it will delight Lady Annabel and myself." 

"Nothing I am sure will give George and myself 
greater pleasure," he replied. " We had, indeed, 
no purpose when you met us, but to enjoy our es- 
cape from imprisonment ; little dreaming we should 
meet our kindest and oldest friends," he added. 

" Kindest and oldest friends!" thought Herbert 
to himself. " Well, this is strange indeed." 

" It is but a slight distance," said Lady Annabel, 
who thought it necessary to enforce the invitation. 
" We live in the valley, of which yonder hill forms 
a part." 

"And there we have passed our winter and our | 



spring," added Venet'ia, " almost as delightfully as 
you could have done at Athens." 

" Well !" thought Cadurcis to himself, " I have 
seen many of the world's marvels, bat this day is 
a miracle." 

When they had proceeded through the olive 
wood, and mounted the acclivity, they arrived at a 
path which permitted the ascent of only one person 
at a time. Cadurcis was last, and followed Vene- 
tia. Unable any longer to endure the suspense, he 
was rather irritated that she kept so close to her 
father ; he himself loitered a few paces behind, and 
breaking off a branch of laurel, he tossed it at her. 
She looked round and smiled; he beckoned to her 
to fall back. " Tell me, Venetia," he said, " what 
does all this meanl" 

" It means that we are at last all very happy," she 
replied. "Do you not see my father"!" 

" Yes ; and I am very glad to see him, but this 
company is the very last in which I expected to 
have that pleasure." 

" It is too long a story to tell now ; you must 
imagine it." 

" But are you glad to see me 1" 

" Very." 

" I don't think you care for me the least." 

" Silly Lord Cadurcis !" she said, smiling 

" If you call me Lord Cadurcis, I shall im- 
mediately go back to the brig, and set sail this night 
for Athens." 

" Well then, silly Plantagenet I" 

He laughed, and they ran on. 



CHAPTER III. 

" Weil, I am not surprised that you should have 
passed your time delightfully here," said Lord Ca- 
durcis to Lady Annabel, when they had entered 
the villa ; " for I never beheld so delightful a re- 
treat. It is even more exquisite than your villa on 
the lake, of which George gave me so glowing a 
description. I was almost tempted to hasten to you. 
Would you have smiled on me 1" he added, rather 
archly, and in a coaxing tone. 

" I am more gratified that we have met here," 
said Lady Annabel. 

" And thus," added Cadurcis. 

" You have been a great traveller since we last 
metl" said Lady Annabel, a little embarrassed. 

" My days of restlessness are over," said Cadur- 
cis. "I desire nothing more dearly than to settle 
down in the bosom of these green hills as you have 
done." 

" This life suits Mr. Herbert," said Lady Anna- 
bel. " He is fond of seclusion, and you know I am 
accustomed to it." 

" Ah ! yes," said Cadurcis, mournfully. " When 
I was in Greece, I used often to wish that none of 
us had ever left dear Cherbury ; but I do not now." 

" We must forget Cherbury," said Lady Anna- 
bel. 

" I cannot — I cannot forget her who cherished 
my melancholy childhood. Dear Lady Annabel," 
he added in a voice of emotion, and offering her his 
hand, " forget all my follies, and remember that I 
was your child, once as dutiful as you were affec- 
tionate." 

Who could resist this appeal 1 Lady Annabel, 
not without agitation, yielded him her hand, which 



bl6 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



he pressed to his lips. " Now I am again happy," 
said Cadurcis; " now we are all happy. Sweetest 
of friends, you have removed in a moment the bit- 
terness of years." 

Although lights were in the saloon, the windows 
opening on the portico were not closed. The even- 
ing air was soft and balmy, and, though the moon 
had not risen, tlie distant hills were clear in the 
tarlight. Venetia was standing in the portico con- 
versing with George Cadurcis. 

" I suppose you are too much of a Turk to drink 
our coflee, Lord Cadurcis," said Herbert. Cadur- 
cis turned and joined them, together with Lady 
Annabel. 

" Nay," said Lord Cadurcis, in a joyous tone, 
" Lady Annabel will answer for me that I always 
find every thing perfect under her roof 

Captain Cadurcis and Venetia now re-entered 
the villa • they clustered round the table, and seated 
themselves. 

" Why, Venetia," said Cadurcis, " George met 
me in Sicily, and quite frightened me about you. 
It is the air of the Apennines that has worked these 
marvels, for really you appear to me exactly the 
same as when we learned the French vocabulary 
together ten years ago." 

"'The French vocabulary together, ten years 
ago!'" thought Herbert ; " not a mere London ac- 
quaintance, then. This is very strange." 

" Why, indeed, Plantagenet," rephed Venetia, "I 
was very unwell when George visited us ; but I 
really have quite forgotten that I ever was an in- 
valid, and I never mean to be again." 

" ' Plantagenet !' " soliloquized Herbert. " And 
this is the great poet of whom I have heard so 
much ! My daughter is tolerably familiar with 
him." 

" I have brought you all sorts of buffooneries from 



ed," said Herbert; " for you have had tke happiest 
inspiration in the climes in which you have resided ; 
not only are they essentially poetic, but they offer 
a virgin vein." 

" I have written a little," replied Cadurcis ; " I 
will give it you, if you like, some day to turn over 
Yours is the only opinion that I really care for. I 
have no great idea of the poetry ; but I am very 
strong in my costume. I feel very confident about 
that. I fancy I know how to hit off a pasha, or 
touch in a Greek pirate now. As for all the things? 
I wrote in England, I really am ashamed of them. 
I got up my orientalism from books, and sultans 
and sultanas at masquerades," he added, archly. 
" I remember I made my heroines always wear 
turbans ; only conceive my horror when I found 
that a Turkish woman would as soon think of put- 
ting my hat on as a turban, and that it was an 
article of dress entirely confined to a Bond-street 
milliner." 

The evening passed in interesting and diverting 
conversation ; of course, principally contributed by 
the two travellers, who had seen so much. Inspirit- 
ed by his interview with Lady Annabel, and her 
gracious reception of his overtures. Lord Cadurcis 
was in one of those frolic humours, which we have 
before noticed was not unnatural to him. He had 
considerable powers of mimicry, and the talent that 
had pictured to Venetia, in old days, with such live- 
liness, the habits of the old maids of Morpeth, was 
now engaged on more considerable topics ; an in- 
terview with a pasha, a peep into a harem, a visit 
to a pirate's isle, the slave market, the bazaar, the 
barracks of the janissaries ; all touched with irresisti- 
ble vitality, and coloured with the rich phrases of 
unrivalled force of expression. The laughter was 
loud and continual; even Lady Annabel joined 
zealously in the glee. As for Herbert, he thought 



Stamboul," continued Cadurcis ; " sweetmeats, and Cadurcis by far the most hearty and amusing per- 
slippers, and shawls, and daggers worn only by ; son he had ever known, and could not refrain from 
sultanas, and with which if necessary they can keep j contrasting him with the picture which his works 



■ the harem's lord' in order. I meant to have sent 
them with George to England, for really I did not 
anticipate our meeting here." 

" ' Sweetmeats and slippers,' " said Herbert to 
himself, " ' shawls and daggers !' What next V 

"And has George been with you all the time 1" 
inquired Venetia. 

" ! we quarrelled now and then, of course. He 
found Athens dull, and would stay at Constanti- 
nople, chained by the charms of a fair Perote, to 
whom he wanted me to write sonnets in his name. 
I would not, because I thought it immoral. But, on 
the whole, we got on very well ; a sort of Pylades 
and Orestes, I assure you ; we never absolutely 
fought." 

" Come, come," said George, " Cadurcis is al- 
ways ashamed of being amiable. We were together 
much more than I ever intended or anticipated. 
You know mine was a sporting tour ; and there- 
fore, of course, we were sometimes separated. But 
he was exceedingly popular with all parties, espe- 
cially the Turks, whom he rewarded for their cour- 
tesy by writing odes to the Greeks to stir them up 
to revolt." 

" Well, they never read them," said Cadurcis. 
" All we, poor fellows, can do," he added, turning 
to Herbert, " is to wake the Hellenistic raptures of 
May-fair ; and that they call fame ; as much like 
fame as a toadstool is like a truffle." 

" Nevertheless, I hope the muse has not slumber- 



and the report of the world had occasionally enabled 
him to sketch to his mind's eye ; the noble, young, 
and impassioned bard, pouring forth the eloquent 
tide of his morbid feehngs to an idolizing world, 
from whose applause he nevertheless turned with 
an almost misanthropic melancholy. 

It was now much past the noon of night, and the 
hour of separation, long postponed, was inevitable. 
Often had Cadurcis risen to depart, and often, 
without regaining his seat, had he been tempted by 
his friends, and especially Venetia, into fresh nar- 
ratives. At last, he said, " Now we must go. Lady 
Annabel looks good night. I remember the look," 
he said, laughing, "when we used to beg for a 
quarter of an hour more. I Venetia, do not you 
remember that Christmas, when dear old Masham 
read Julius Ca3sar, and we were to sit up until it 
was finished. When he got to the last act I hid 
his spectacles. I never confessed it until this mo- 
ment. Will you pardon me, Lady Annabel V and 
he pressed his hands together in a mockery of sup- 
plication. 

" Will you come and breakfast with us to-mor- 
row 1" said Lady Annabel. 

" With delight," he answered. " I am used, you 
know, to walks before breakfast. George — I do not 
think George can do it, though. George likes his 
comforts; he is a regular John Bull. He was al- 
ways calling for tea when we were in Turkey !" 

At this moment Mistress Pauncefort entered thd 



V E N E T I A. 



817 



room, ostensibly on some little affair of her mistress, 
but really to reconnoitre. 

"Ah ! Mistress Pauncefort; my old friend. Mis- 
tress Paunceforf, how do you do!" exclaimed his 
lordship. 

"Quite well, my lord, please your lordship; and 
very glad to see your lordship again, and looking 
so well too." 

" Ah ! Mistress Pauncefort, you always flattered 
me!" 

"0! dear, my lord, your lordship, no," said 
Mistress Pauncefort, with a simper. 

"But you, Pauncefort," said Cadurcis, "why 
there must be some magic in the air here. I have 
been complimenting your lady and Miss Venetia , 
but really, you, I should almost have thought it "ids 
some younger sister." 

" O ! my lord, you have such a way," sai-' Mis- 
tress Pauncefort, retreating with a slow step that 
still lingered for a remark. 

" Pauncefort, is that an Italian cap?" said Lord 
Cadurcis; "you know, Pauncefort, you were al- 
ways famous for your caps." Mistress Pauncefort 
disappeared in a fluster of delight. 

And now they had indeed departed. There was 
a pause of complete silence after they had disap- 
peared, the slight and not painful reaction after the 
mirthful excitement of the last few hours. At length 
Herbert, dropping, as was his evening custom, a 
few drops of orange-flower into a tumbler of water, 
said, "Annabel, my love, I am rather surprised that 
neither you nor Venetia, should have mentioned to 
me that you knew so intimately, a man like Lord 
Cadurcis." 

Lady Annabel appeared a little confused ; she 
looked even at Venetia, but Venetia's eyes were on 
the ground. At length she said, "In truth, Marmion, 
since we met we have thought only of you." 

" Cadurcis Abbey, papa, is close to Cherbury," 
said Venetia. 

" Cherbury !" said Herbert, with a faint blush, " I 
have never seen it, and now I shall never see it. 
No matter, my country is your mother and your- 
self. Some find a home in their country, I find a 
country in my home. Well," he added, in a gayer 
tone, " it has gratified me much to meet Lord Ca- 
durcis. We were happy before, but now we are 
even gay. I like to see you smile, Annabel, and 
hear Venetia laugh. I feel, myself, quite an un- 
usual hilarity. Cadurcis! It is very strange how 
often I have mused over that name. A year ago it 
was one of my few wishes to know him ; my wishes 
then, dear Annabel, were not very ambitious. They 
did not mount so high as you have since permitted 
them. And now I do know him, and under what 
circumstances ? Is not life strange ? But is it not 
happy 1 I feel it so. Good night, sweet wife ; my 
darling daughter, a happy, happy night !" He em- 
braced them ere they retired ; anil opening a volume 
composed his mind after the novel excitement of 
the evening. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Cadtthcis left the brig early in the morning 
alone, and strolled towards the villa. He met Her- 
bert halfway to Spezzia, who turned back with him 
towards home. They sat down on a crag opposite 
103 



the sea; there was a light breeze, the fishing boats 
were out, and the view was as animated as the fresh 
air was cheering. 

" There they go," said Cadurcis, smiling, "catch- 
ing John Dory, as you and I try to catch John Bull. 
Now if these people could understand what two 
great men were watching them, how they would 
stare ! But they don't care a sprat for us, not 
they ! They are not part of the world — the three 
or four thousand civilized savages for whom we 
sweat our brains, and whose fetid breath perfumed 
With musk is fame. Pah !" 

Herbert smiled. " I have not cared much my- 
self for this same world, my lord." 

" Why, no ; you have done something, and 
shown your contempt for them. No one can deny 
that. I will some day, if I have an opportunity. I 
owe it them ; I think I can show them a trick or 
two still.* I have got a Damascus blade in store 
for their thick hides. I will turn their flanks yet." 

" And gain a victory where conquest brings no 
glory. You are worth brighter laurels. Lord Ca- 
durcis." 

" Now is not it the most wonderful thing in the 
world that you and I have met V said Cadurcis. 
" Now I look upon ourselves as something like, 
eh ! Fellows with some pith in them. By Jove, 
if we only joined together, how we could lay it on. 
Crack, crack, crack ! I think I see them wincing 
under the thong; the pompous poltroons ! If you 
only knew how they behaved to me ! By Jove, sir, 
they hooted me going to the House of Lords, and 
nearly pulled me off my horse. The ruffians would 
have massacred me if they could ; and then they 
all ran away from a drummer-boy and a couple of 
grenadiers, who were going the rounds to change 
guard. Was not that good 1 Fine, eh ] A brut- 
ish mob in a fit of morality about to immolate a gen- 
tleman, and then scampering off from a sentry. I 
call tiiat human nature !" 

" As long as they leave us alone, and do not burn 
us alive, I am content," said Herbert, "I am cal- 
lous to what they say." 

" So am I," said Cadurcis, " I made out a list 
the other day of all the persons and things I have 
been compared to. It begins well, with Alcibiades, 
but it ends with the Swiss giantess or the Polish 
dwarf, I forget which. Here is your book. Yon 
see it has been well thumbed. In fact, to tell the 
truth, it was my cribbing book, and I always kept 
it by me when I was writing at Athens, like a gradus, 
a gradus ad Parnussum, you know. But al- 
though I crib, I am candid, and you see I fairly own 
it to you." 

" You are welcome to all I have ever written," 
said Herbert. "Mine were but crude dreams. I 
wished to see man noble and happy ; but if he will 
persist in being vile and miserable, I must even be 
content. I can struggle for him no more." 

" Well, you open my mind," said Cadurcis, "1 
owe you every thing ; but I quite agree with you 
that nothing is worth an effort. As for philosophy 
and freedom, and all that, they tell devilish well in 
a stanza ; but men have always been fools and 
slaves, and fools and slaves they always will be." 

"Nay," said Herbert, " I will not believe that. I 
will not give up a jot of my conviction of a great 
and glorious future for human destinies; but if* 

* "I ihink I know a trick or two would turn yjtl 
lanks.''— Don Jua.n. 

3Z 



,818 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



consummation will not be as rapid as I once thought, 
and in the mean time I die." 

" Ah ! Death," said Lord Cadurcis, " that is a 
botherer. What can you make of death? There 
are those poor fishermen now ; there will be a 
white squall some day, and they will go down with 
those lalteen sails of theirs, and be food for the very 
prey they were going to catch ; and, if you con- 
tinue living here, you may eat one of your neigh- 
bours in the shape of a snoal of red mullets, when 
it is the season. The great secret — we cannot pene- 
trate that with all our philosophy, my dear Herbert. 
'AH that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Barren, barren, barren ! And yet what a grand 
world it is ! Look at this bay, these blue waters, 
the mountains, and these chestnuts — devilish fine! 
The fact is, truth is veiled, but, like the Shechinah 
over the tabernacle, the veil is of dazzling light !" 

" Life is the great wonder," said Herbert, " in 
which all that is strange and startling resolves it- 
self. The mist of lamiliarity obscures from us the 
miracle of our being. Mankind arp constantly 
starting at events which they consider extraordi- 
nary. But a philosopher acknowledges only one 
miracle, and that it is life. Political revolutions, 
changes of empire, wrecks of dynasties and the 
opinions that support them, these are the marvels 
of the vulgar, but these are only transient modifica- 
tions of life. The origin of existence is, therefore, 
the first object which a true philosopher proposes 
te himself. Unable to discover it, he accepts cer- 
tain results from his unbiassed observation of its 
obvious nature, and on them he establishes certain 
principles to be our guides in all social relations, 
whether they take the shape of laws or customs. 
Nevertheless, un.til the principle of life be discover- 
ed, all theories and all systems of conduct founded 
on theory must be considered provisional." 

" And do you believe that there is a chance of its 
being discovered V inquired Cadurcis. 

" I cannot, from any reason in my own intelli- 
gence, find why it should not," said Herbert. 

" You conceive it possible that a man may attain 
earthly immortality ?" inquired Cadurcis. 
" Undoubtedly." 

"By Jove," said Cadurcis, "if I only knew how, 
I would purchase an immense annuity directly." 

" When I said undoubtedly," said Herbert, smil- 
ing, " I meant only to express that I know no in- 
vincible reason to the contrary. I see nothing 
inconsistent with the existence of a supreme Crea- 
tor in the annihilation of death. It appears to me 
an achievement worthy of his omnipotence. I be- 
lieve in the possibility, but I believe in nothing 
more. I anticipate the final result, but not by in- 
dividual means. It will of course, be produced by 
some vast, and silent, and continuous operation of 
nature, gradually effecting some profound and com- 
prehensive alteration in her order — a change of 
climate, for instance, the great enemy of life — so 
that the inhabitants of the earth may attain a patii- 
archal age. This renovated breed may in turn pro- 
duce a still more vigorous offspring, and so we may 
ascend the scale from the three score and ten of the 
Psalmist, to the immortality of which we speak. 
Indeed I, for my own part, believe the operation 
has already commenced, although thousands of 
centuries may elapse before it is consummated ; the 
threescore and ten of the Psalmist is already obso- 
lete; the whole world is talking of the general 
change of its seasons and its atmosphere. If the 



origin of America were such as many profound 
philosophers suppose, viz., a sudden emersion of a 
new continent from the waves, it is impossible to 
doubt that such an event must have had a very 
great influence on the climate of the world. Besides, 
why should we be surprised that the nature of man 
should change 1 Does not every thing change? 
Is not change the law of nature? My skin changes 
every year, my hair never belongs to me a month, 
the nail on my hand is only a passing possession. 
I doubt whether a man at fifty is the same material 
being that he is at twenty-five." 

" I wonder," said Lord Cadurcis, " if a creditor 
brought an action against you at fifty for goods de- 
livered at five-and-twenty, one could set up the 
want of identity as a plea in bar. It would be a 
consolation to an elderly gentleman." 

"I am afraid mankind are too hostile to philoso- 
phy," said Herbert, smiling, "to permit so desirable 
a consummation." 

"Should you consider a long life a blessing ?" 
said Cadurcis. " Would you like, for instance, to 
live to the age of Methusalem?" 

"Those whom the gods love die young," said 
Herbert. " For the last twenty years I have wishf 
ed to die, and I have sought death. But my feel 
ings, I confess, on that head are at present very 
much modified." 

" Youth, glittering youth !" said Cadurcis, in a 
musing tone ; " I remember when the prospect of 
losing my youth frightened me out of my wits ; I 
dreamed of nothing but gray hairs, a paunch, and 
the gout or the gravel. But I fancy every period 
of life has its pleasures, and as we advance in life 
the exercise of power and the possession of wealth 
must be great consolations to the majority ; we bully 
our children and hoard our cash." 

" Two most noble occupations!" said Herbert; 
" but I think in this world there is just as good a 
chance for being bullied by our children first, and 
paying their debts afterwards." 

" Faith ! you are right," said Cadurcis, laughing, 
"and lucky is he who has neither creditors nor off- 
spring, and who owes neither money nor affection ; 
after all, the most difficult to pay of the two." 

"It cannot be commanded, certainly," said Her- 
bert. "There is no usury for love." 

" And yet it is very expensive, too, sometimes," 
said Cadurcis, laughing. " For my part sympathy 
is a puzzler." 

" Yo» should read Cabanis," said Herbert, " if, 
indeed, you have not. I thmk I may find it here ; 
I will lend it you. It has, from its subject, many 
errors, but it is very suggestive." 

" Now, that is kind, for I have not a book here, 
and, after all, there is nothing like reading. I wish I 
had read more, but it is not too late. I envy you your 
learning, besides so many other things. However, 
I hope we shall not part in a hurry ; we have met 
at last," he said, extending his hand, " and we were 
always friends." 

Herbert shook his hand very warmly. " I can a»- 
sureyou. Lord Cadurcis, you have not a more sincere 
admirer of your genius. I am happy in your society. 
For myself, I now aspire to be nothing better than 
an idler in life, turning over a page, and sometimea 
noting down a fancy. You have, it appears, known 
my family long and intimately, and you were, 
doubtless, surprised at finding me with them. I 
have returned to my hearth, and I am content. 
Once I sacrificed my happiness to my philosophy 



VENETIA. 



819 



and now I hare sacrificed my philosophy to my 
happiness." 

" Dear friend !" said Cadurcis, putting his arm 
utTectionately in Herbert's, as they walked along — 
"for, indeed, you must allow me to style you so — 
all the happiness and all the sorrow of my life alike 
flow from your roof!" 

In the mean time Lady Annabel and Venetia 
came forth from the villa to their morning meals in 
their amphitheatre of hills. Marmion was not there 
to greet them as usual. 

" Was not Plantagenet amusing last night 1" 
said Venetia : " and are not you happy, dear mother, 
to see him once more ?" 

" Indeed I am now always happy," said Lady An- 
nabel. 

"And George was telling me last night, in this 
portico, of all their life. He is more attached to 
Plantagenet than ever. He says it is impossible for 
any one to have behaved with greater kindness, or 
to have led, in every sense, a more calm and ra- 
tional life. When he was alone at Athens, he did 
nothing but write. George says that all his former 
works are nothing to what he has written now." 

" He is very engaging," said Lady Annabel. 

"I think he will be such a delightful companion 
for papa. I am sure papa must like him. I hope 
he will stay some time; for, after all, poor dear 
papa, he must require a little amusement besides 
our society. Instead of being with his books, he 
might be walking and talking with Plantagenet. 
I think, dearest mother, we shall be happier than 
ever!" 

At this moment Herbert, with Cadiircis leaning 
on his arm, and apparently speaking with great 
earnestness, appeared in the distance. " There 
they are," said Venetia ; " I knew they would be 
friends. Come, dearest mother, let us meet them." 

" You see. Lady Annabel," said Lord Cadurcis, 
" it is just as I said : Mr. George is not here ; he is 
having tea and toast on board the brig, I warrant him." 

" I do not believe it," said Venetia, smiling. 

They seated themselves at the breakfast-table. 

"You should have seen our Apennine break- 
fasts in the autumn, Lord Cadurcis," said Herbert; 
" every fruit of nature seemed crowded before us. 
It was indeed a meal for a poet or a painter like 
Paul Veronese ; our grapes, our figs, our peaches, 
our mountain strawberries — they made a glowing 
picture. For my part, I have an original prejudice 
against animal food which I have never quite over- 
come, and I believe it is only to please Lady Anna- 
bel that I have relapsed into the heresy of cutlets." 

" Do you think I have grown fatter. Lady Anna- 
beH" said Lord Cadurcis, starting up; I brought 
myself down at Athens to bread and olives, but I 
have been committing terrible excesses lately, but 
only fish." 

"Ah ! here is George !" said Lady Annabel. 

And Captain Cadurcis appeared, followed by a 
couple of sailors, bearing a huge case. 

"George," said Venetia, " I have been defending 
you against Plantagenet; he said you would not 
come." 

" Never mind, George, it was only behind your 
back," said Lord Cadurcis ; " and under those 
legitimate circumstances, why, even our best friends 
cannot expect us to spare them." 

" I have brought Venetia her toys," said Captain 
Cadurcis, " and she was right to defend me, as I 
have been working for her." 



The top of the case was knocked off, and all th« 
Turkish buffooneries, as Cadurcis called them, 
made their appearance : slippers, and shawls, and 
bottles of perfumes, and little hand-mirrors, beau- 
tifully embroidered; and fanciful daggers, and rosa- 
ries, and a thousand other articles, of which they 
had plundered the bazaars of Constantinople. 

"And here is a Turkish volume of poetry, beau- 
tifully illuminated ; and that is for you," said Lord 
Cadurcis, giving it to Herbert. " Perhaps it is a 
translation of one of our works. Who knows ? 
We can always say it is." 

" This is the second present you have made me 
this morning. Here is a volume of my works," 
said Herbert, producing the book that Cadurcis had 
before given him, " and precious from your auto- 
graph. I never expected that any thing I wrote 
would be so honoured. This, too, is the work of 
which I am the least ashamed, for my wife ad- 
mired it. There, Annabel, even though Lord Ca- 
durcis is here, I will present it to you; 'tis an old 
friend." 

Lady Annabel accepted the book very graciously, 
and, in spite of all the temptations of her toys, 
Venetia could not refrain from peeping over her 
mother's shoulder at its contents. — " Mother," she 
whispered, in a voice inaudible save to Lady Anna- 
bel, " I may read this !" 

Lady Annabel gave it her. 

" And now we must send for Pauncefort, I 
think," said Lady Annabel, " to collect and take 
care of our treasures." 

" Pauncefort," said Lord Cadurcis, when that 
gentlewoman appeared, "I have brought you a 
shawl, hut I could not bring you a turban, because 
the Turkish ladies do not wear turbans ; but if I 
had thought we should have met so soon, I would 
have had one -made on purpose for you." 

" La! my lord, you always are so polite !" 



CHAPTER V. 

When the breakfast was over, they wandered 
about the valley, which Cadurcis could not suffi- 
ciently admire. Insensibly he drew Venetia from 
the rest of the party, on the pretence of showing 
her a view at some little distance. They walked 
along by the side of a rivulet, which glided through 
the hills, until they were nearly a mile from the 
villa, though still in sight. 

" Venetia," he at length said, turning the con- 
versation to a more interesting topic, "your father 
and myself have disburdened our minds to each 
other this morning ; I think we know each other 
now as well as if we were as old acquaintances as 
myself and his daughter." 

" Ah ! I knew that you and papa must agree," 
said Venetia ; " I was saying so this morning to 
my mother." 

" Venetia," said Cadurcis, with a laughing eye, 
" all this is very strange, is it noti" 

" Very strange, indeed, Plantagenet ; I should 
not be surprised if it appeared to you as yet even 
incredible." 

" It is miraculous," said Cadurcis, " but not in- 
credible; an angel interfered, and worked the mi- 
racle. I know all." 

Venetia looked at him with a faint flush upon 



820 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



her cheek ; she gathered a flower and plucked it to 
pieces. 

" What a singular destiny ours has been, Ve- 
neiia!" said Cadurcis. "Do you know lean sit 
for an hour together and muse over it?" 

" Can you, Plantagenet ?" 

"I have such an extraordinary memory; I do 
not think I ever forgot any thing. We have had 
some very remarkable conversations in our time — 
eh, Venetia 1 Do you remember my visit to Cher- 
bury before I went to Cambridge, and the last time 
I saw you before I left England 1 And now it all 
ends in this! What do you think of it, Vene- 
tia ?" 

"Think of what, Plantagenet ■?" 

"Why, of this reconciliation !" 

" Dear Plantagenet, what can I think of it but 
what I have expressed ? — that it is a very wonder- 
ful event, but the happiest in my life." 

" You are quite happy now?" 

"Quite." 

" I see you do not care for me the least 1" 

" Plantagenet, you are perverse. Are you not 
here ?" 

" Did you ever think of me when I was away?" 

" You know very well, Plantagenet, that it is 
impossible for me to cease to be interested in you. 
Could I refrain from thinking of such a friend V 

"Friend! Poh ! I am not your friend; and as 
for that, you never once mentioned my name to 
your father. Miss Venetia." 

" You might easily conceive that there were 
reasons for such silence," said Venetia. " It could 
not arise on my part from forgetfulness or indifler- 
ence ; for even if my feelings were changed to- 
wards you, you are not a person that one would, or 
even could, avoid speaking of, especially to papa, 
who must have felt such interest in you ! I am sure, 
even if I had not known you, there were a thou- 
sand occasions which would have called your name 
to my lips, had they been uncontrolled by other 
considerations. 

" Come, Venetia, I am not going to submit to 
compliments from you," said Lord Cadurcfs; "no 
blarney. I wish you only to think of me as you 
did ten years ago. I will not have our hearts pol- 
luted by the vulgarity of fame. I want you to feel 
for me as you did when we were children. I will 
not be an object of interest, and admiration, and 
fiddlestick, to you ; I will not submit to it." 

" Well, you shall not," said Venetia, laughing. 
" I will not admire you the least ; I will only think 
of you as a good little boy." 

" You do not love me any longer, I see that," 
said Plantagenet. 

" Yes, I do, Plantagenet." 

"You do not love me as much as you did the 
night before I went to Eton, and we sat over the 
fire? Ah! how often I have thought of that night 
when I was at Athens!" he added, in atone of 
iKlotion. 

"Dear Plantagenet," said Venetia, "do not be 
silly. I am in the very highest spirits in the world ; 
I am quite gay with happiness, and all because you 
have returned. Do not spoil my pleasure." 

"Ah! Venetia, I see how it is; you have for- 
gotten me, or worse than forgotten me." 

" Well, I am sure I do not know what to say to 
satisfy you," said Venetia. " I think you very un- 
reasonable, and very ungrateful too, for I have 
always been your friend, Plantagenet, and I am 



sure you know it. You sent me a message before 
you went abroad." 

" Darling !" said Lord Cadurcis, seizing her 
hand, "I am not ungrateful, I am not unreason- 
alile. I adore you. You were very kind then, 
when all the world was against me. You shall seo 
how I will pay them off, the dogs ! and worse than 
dogs, their betters far ; dogs are faithful. Do yon 
remember poor old Marmion ! How we were mys- 
tified, Venetia! Little did we think then who was 
Marmion's god-father." 

Venetia smiled ; but she said, "I do not like this 
bitterness of yours, Plantagenet. You have no 
cause to complain of the world, and you magnify 
a petty squabble with a contemptible coterie into a 
quarrel with a nation. It is not a wise humour, 
and, if you indulge it, it will not be a happy one." 

" I will do exactly what you wish on every sub- 
ject," said Cadurcis, " if you will do exactly what 
I wish on one." 

" Well !" said Venetia. 

"Once you told me," said Cadurcis, "that you 
would not marry me without the consent of your 
father; then, most unfairly, you added to your con- 
ditions the consent of your mother. Now both 
your parents are very opportunely at hand ; let us 
fall down upon our knees and beg their blessing." 

"0! my dear Plantagenet, I think it will be 
much better for me never to marry. We are both 
happy now; let us remain so; You can live here 
and I can be your sister. Will not that do ?" 

" No, Venetia, it will not." 

" Dear Plantagenet !" said Venetia, with a falter 
ing voice, " if you knew how much I had suffered, 
dear Plantagenet!" 

" I know it ; I know all," said Cadurcis, taking 
her arm and placing it tenderly in his. "Now lis- 
ten to me, sweet girl ; I loved you when a child, 
when I was unknown to the world, and unknown 
to myself; I loved you as a youth not utterly inex- 
perienced in the world, and wlien my rising pas- 
sions had taught me to speculate on the character 
of woiden ; I loved you as a man, Venetia, with 
that world at my foot, that world which I scorn, but 
which I will command ; I have been constant, 
Venetia ; your heart assures you of that. You are 
the only being in existence who exercises over me 
any influence; and the influence you possess is 
irresistible and eternal. It springs from some d(!ep 
and mysterious sympathy of blood which I cannot 
penetrate. It can neitherbe increased nordiminished 
by time. It is entirely independent of its action. 
I pretend not to love you more at this moment than 
when I first saw you, when you entered the ter- 
race-room at Cherbury and touched my cheek. 
From that moment I was yours. I declare to you, 
most solemnl}' I declare to you, that I know not 
what love is except to you. The world has called 
me a libertine ; the truth is, no other woman can 
command my spirit for an hour. I see through 
them at a glance, I read all their weakness, frivolity, 
vanity, affectation, as if they were touched by the 
revealing rod of Asmodeus. You were born to be 
my bride. Unite yourself with me, control my 
destiny, and my course shall be like the sun of 
yesterday ; but reject me, reject me, and I devote 
ail my energies to the infernal gods ; I will poui 
my lava over the earth until all that remains of 
my fetal and exhausted nature is a black and bareec 
cone, surrounded by bitter desolation." 

" Plantagenet, be calm !" 



VENETIA. 



821 



«' I am perfectly calm, Venetia. You talk to me i 
•f your sufferings. What has occasioned them 1 
A struggle against nature. Nature has now. tri- 
umphed, and you are happy. What necessity was 
there for all the misery that has fallen on your 
nouse? Why is your father an exile 1 Do you 
aot think that if your mother had chosen to exert 
ner influence she might have prevented the most 
fatal part of his careeerl Undoubtedly despair 
impelled his actions as much as philosophy, though 
I give him credit for a pure and lofty spirit, to no 
man more. But not a murmur against your mother 
from me! She received my overtures of reconcilia- 
tion last night with more than cordiality. She is 
your mother, Venetia, and she once was mine. 
Indeed, I love her; indeed, you would find that I 
would study her happiness. For after all, sweet, is 
there another woman in existence better qualified 
to fill the position of my mother-in-law? I could 
not behave unkindly to her; I could not treat her 
with neglect or harshness; not merely for the sake 
of her many admirable qualities, but from other 
considerations, Venetia, — considerations we never 
can forget. By heavens! I love your mother; I do, 
indeed, V^enetia; I remember so many things — her 
last words to me, when I went to Eton. If she 
would only behave kindly to me, you would see 
what a son-in-law I should make. You would be 
jealous, that you should, Venetia. I can bear any 
thing from you, Venetia, but with others, I cannot 
forget who I am. It makes me bitter to be treated 
as Lady Annabel 'treated me last year in London ; 
but a smile and a kind word, and I recall all her 
maternal love; I do, indeed, Venetia; last night 
when she was kind I could have kissed her !" 

Poor Venetia could not answer, her tears were 
flowing so plenteously. " I have told your father 
all, sweetest," said Cadurcis: " I concealed nothing." 

"And what said hel" murmured Venetia. 

" It rests with your mother. After all that has 
passed, he will not attempt to control your fate. 
And he is right. Perhaps his interference in my 
favour might even injure me. But there is no 
cause for despair; all I wanted was to come to an 
understanding with you ; to be sure you loved me 
as you always have done. I will not be impatient. 
I will do every thing to soothe, conciliate, and gratify 
Lady Annabel; you will see how I will behave! As 
you say, too, we are happy because we are together ; 
and therefore, it would be unreasonable not to be 
patient. I never can be sufficiently grateful for 
this meeting. I concluded you would be in Eng- 
land, though we were on our way to Milan to 
inquire after you. George has been a great com- 
fort to me in all this affair, Venetia ; he loves you, 
Venetia, almost as much as I do. I think I should 
have gone mad during that cursed affair in Eng- 
land, had it not been for George. I thought you 
would hate me, but when George brought me your 
message, I cared for nothing ; and then his visit to 
the lake was so devilish kind ! He is a noble fel- 
low and a true friend. My sweet, sweet Venetia, 
dry your eyes. Let us rejoin them with a smile. 
We have not been long away; I will pretend we 
have been violet hunting," said Cadurcis, stooping 
down and plucking up a handful of flowers. "Do 
you remember our violets at home, Venetia. Do 
you know, Venetia, I always fancy every human 
being is like some object in nature; and you always 
put me in mind of a violet, so fresh, and sweet, and 
delicate ' 



CHAPTER VI . 

"We have been exploring the happy valley," 
said Lord Cadurcis to Lady Annabel, " and here is 
our plunder," and he gave her the violets. 

" You were always fond of flowers," said Lady 
Annabel. 

" Yes, I imbibed the taste from you," said Ca- 
durcis, gratified by the gracious remark. 

He seated himself at her feet, examined and 
admired her work, and talked of old times, but with 
such infinite discretion, that he did not arouse a 
single painful association. Venetia was busied 
with her father's poems, and smiled often at the 
manuscript notes of Cadurcis. Lying, as usual, on 
the grass, leaning his head on his left ami, Herbert 
was listening to Captain Cadurcis, who was en- 
deavouring to give him a clear idea of the Bospho- 
rus. Thus the morning wore away, until the sun 
drove them into the villa. 

" I will show you my hbrary, Lord Cadurcis," 
said Herbert. 

Cadurcis followed him into a spacious apartment, 
where he found a collection so considerable that he 
could not suppress his surprise. "Italian spoils 
chiefly," said Herbert; "a friend of mine purchased 
an old library at Bologna for me, and it turned out 
richer than 1 imagined: the rest are old friends that 
have been with me, many of them at least, at col- 
lege. I brought them back with me from America, 
for then they were my only friends." 

" Can you find Cabanisl" said Lord Cadurcis. 

Herbert looked about. " It is in this neighbour- 
hood, I imagine," he said. Cadurcis endeavoured 
to assist him. "What is this?" he said; "Plato!" 

"I should like to read Plato at Athens," said 
Herbert. " My ambition now does not soar beyond 
such elegant fortune." 

" We are all under great obligations to Plato," 
said Cadurcis. "I remember, when I was in Lon- 
don, I always professed myself his disciple, and it 
is astonishing what results I experienced. Platonic 
love was a great invention." 

Herbert smiled ; but, as he saw Cadurcis knew 
nothing about the subject, he made no reply. 

" Plato says, or at least I think he says, that life 
is love," said Cadurcis. " I have said it myself in 
a very grand way too ; I believe I cribbed it from 
you. But what does he mean? I am sure I meant 
nothing ; but, I dare say, you did." 

" I certainly had some meaning," said Herbert, 
stopping in his search, and laughing; "but I do 
not know whether I expressed it. The principle 
of every motion, that is, of all life, is desire or love: 
at present, I am in love with the lost volume of 
Cabanis, and, if it were not for the desire of obtain- 
ing it, I should not now be affijrding any testimony 
of my vitality by looking after it." 

"That is very clear," said Cadurcis, " but I was 
thinking of love in the vulgar sense, in the shape 
of a petticoat. Certainly, when I am in love with 
a woman, I feel love is life ; but when I am out of 
love, which often happens, and generally very soon, 
I still contrive to live." 

" We exist," said Herbert, "because we sympa 
thize. If we did not sympathize with the air, we 
should die. But, if we only sympathized with the 
air, we should be in the lowest order of brutes, 
baser than the sloth. Mount from the sloth to the 
poet. It is sympathy that makes you a poet. It is 
your desire that the airy children of your brain 
3x2 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



should be born anew within another's, that makes 
you create; therefore, a misanthropical, poet is a 
contradiction in terms." 

"But when he writes a lampoon 1" said Cadur- 
cis. 

"He desires that the majority, who are not lam- 
pooned, should share his hale," said Herbert. 

"But Swift lampooned the species," said Cadur- 
cis. "For my part, I think life is hatred." 

"But Swift was not sincere; for he wrote the 
Drapier's Letters at the same time. Besides, the 
very flict of your abusing mankind proves that you 
do not hate them ; it is clear that you are desirous 
of obtaining their good opinion of your wit. You 
value them, you esteem them, you love them. 
Their app1"obation causes you to act, and makes 
j'ou hapi'.y. As for sexual love," said Herbert, 
"of which you were speaking, its quality and du- 
ration depend upon the degree of .symjiathy that 
subsists between the two persons interested. Plato 
lielieved, and I believe with him, in the existence 
of a spiritual aiitctype of the soul, so that when we 
are born, there is something within us, which, from 
the instant we live and move, thirsts after its like- 
ness. This propensity developcs itself with the 
developement of our nature. The gratification of 
the senses soon becomes a very small part of that 
profound and complicated sentiment, which we call 
love. Love, on the contrary, is a universal thirst 
for a communion, not merely of the senses, but of 
our whole nature — intellectual, imaginative, and 
sensitive. He who finds his antetype, enjoys a 
love perfect and enduring; time cannot change it, 
distance cannot remove it; the sympathy is com- 
plete. He who loves an object that approaches his 
antetype, is proportionately happy, the .sympathy 
is feeble or strong, as it may be. If men were 
properly educated, and their faculties fully deve- 
loped," continued Herbert, "the discovery of the 
antetype would be easy ; and when the day arrives 
that it is a matter of course, the perfection of civili- 
zation will be attained." 

"I believe in Plato," said Lord Cadurcis, "and 
I think I have found my antetype. His theory ac- 
counts for what I could never understand." 



CHAPTER Vn. 

In the course of the evening. Lady Annabel re- 
quested Lord Cadurcis and his cousin to take up 
their quarters at the villa. • Independent of the 
delight which such an invitation occasioned him, 
Cadurcis was doubly gratified by its being given by 
her. It was indeed her unprompted solicitation ; 
for neither Herbert nor even Venetia, however 
much they desired the arrangement, were aiixious 
to appear eager for its fulfilment. Desirous of 
pleasing her husband and her daughter ; a little 
penitent as to her previous treatment of Cadurcis, 
now that time and strange events had combined to 
soften her feelings ; and won by his engaging de- 
meanour towards herself, Lady Annabel had of her 
mere impulse resolved upon the act; and she was 
repaid by the general air of gayety and content 
which it dilfu.sed through the circle. 

Few weeks indeed passed ere her ladyship taught 
herself even to contemplate the possibility of a 
onion between her daughter and Lord Cadurcis. 
'i'he change which had occurred in her own feel- 



ings and position, had, in her estimation, removed 
very considerable barriers to such a result. It 
would not become her again to urge the peculiarity 
of his temperament as an insuperable objection to 
the marriage ; that was out of the question, even 
if the conscience of Lady Annate! herself, now 
that she was so happy, were perfectly free from any 
participation in the causes which occasioned the 
original estrangement between Herbert and herselt 
Desirous, too, as all mothers are, that her daughterr 
should be suitably married. Lady Armabel could 
not shut her eyes to the very great improbability 
of such an event occurring, now that Vt-netia had 
as it were resigned all connexion with her native 
country. As to her daughter marrying a foreigner, 
the very idea was intolerable to her ; and Venetia 
appeared therefore to have resumed that singular 
and delicate position which she occupied at Cher- 
bury in earlier years, when Lady Annabel had es- 
teemed her connexion with Lord Cadurcis as so 
fortunate and auspicious. Moreover, while Lord 
Cadurcis, in birth, rank, country, and consideration, 
offered in every view of the case so gratifying an 
alliance, he was perhaps tlie only Englishman whose 
marriage into her family would not deprive her of 
the society of her child. His lordship had a great 
distaste for England, which he seized every oppor- 
tunity to express. He continually declared that he 
would never return there ; and his habits of seclu- 
sion and study so entirely accorded with those of 
her husband, that Lady Aimabel did not doubt they 
would continue to form only one family ; a prospect 
so engaging to her, that it would perhaps have 
alone removed the distrust which she had so un- 
fortunately cherished against the admirer of her 
daughter; and although some of his reputed opi- 
nions occasioned her doubtless considerable anxiety, 
he was nevertheless very young, and far from 
emancipated from the beneficial influence of his 
early education. She was sanguine that this sheep 
would yet return to the fold where once he had 
been tended with so much solicitude. When too 
she called to mind the chastened spirit of her hus- 
band, and could not refrain from feeling that had 
she not quilted him, he might at a much earlier 
period have attained a mood so full of promise, and 
to her so cheering, she could not resist the persua- 
sion that, under the influence of Venetia, Cadurcis 
might speedily free himself from the dominion of 
that arrogant genius to which, rather than to any 
serious conviction, the result of a studious philoso- 
phy, she attributed his indifference on the most im- 
portant of subjects. On the whole, however, it 
was with no common gratification that Lady An- 
nabel observed the strong and intimate friendship 
that arose between her husband and Cadurcis. 
They were, indeed, inseparable companions. In- 
dej)endent of the natural sympathy between two 
highly imaginative minds, there were in the supe- 
rior experience, the noble character, the vast know 
ledge, and refined taste of Herbert, charms of which 
Cadurcis was very susceptible. Cadurcis had not 
been a great reader himself, and he liked the com- 
pany of one whose mind was at once so richly cul- 
tivated and so deeply meditative: thus he obtained 
matter and spirit distilled through the alembic of 
another's brain. Jealousy had never had a place 
in Herbert's temperament ; now he was insensible 
even to emulation. He spoke of Cadurcis as he 
thought — with the highest admiration; as one with- 
out a rival, and in whose power it was to obtain aa 



VENETIA. 



823 



Imperishahle fame. It was his liveliest pleasure 
to assist the full developement of such an intellect, 
and to pour to him, with a lavish hand, all the trea- 
sures of his taste, his learning, his fancy, and his 
meditation. His kind heart, his winning manners, 
his subdued and perfect temp^^r, and the remem- 
brance of the relation which he bore to Venetia, 
completeti the spell which bound Cadurcis to him 
witTl all the finest feelings of his nature. It was, 
indeed, an intercourse peculiarly beneficial to Ca- 
durcis, whose career had hitherto tended rather to 
the developement of the power, than the refinement 
of his genius ; and to whom an active communion 
with an equal spirit of a more matured intelligence 
was an incident rather to be desired than expected. 
Herbert and Cadurcis, therefore, spent their morn- 
ings together, sometimes in the library, sometimes 
wandering in the chestnut woods, sometimes sail- 
ing in the boat of the brig, for they were both fond 
of the sea: in these excursions, George was in ge- 
neral their companion. He had become a great 
favourite with Herbert, as with everybody else. 
No one managed a boat so well, although Cadurcis 
prided himself also on his skill in this respect; and 
George was so frank and unaffected, and so used to 
his cousin's habits, that his presence never embar- 
rassed Herbert and Cadurcis, and they read or con- 
versed quite at their ease, as if there were no third 
person to mar, by his want of sympathy, the full 
communion of their intellect. The whole circle 
met at dinner, and never again parted until at a 
late hour of night. This was a most agreeable 
life; Cadurcis himself, good humoured because he 
was happy, doubly exerted himself to ingratiate 
himself with Lady Annabel, and felt every day 
that he was advancing. Venetia always smiled 
upon him, and praised him delightfully for his de- 
lightful conduct. 

In the evening, Herbert would read to them the 
manuscript poem of Cadurcis, the fruits of his 
Attic residence and Grecian meditations. The poet 
would sometimes affect a playful bashfulness on 
this head, perhaps not altogether affected, and 
amuse Venetia, in a whisper, with his running 
comments ; or exclaim with an arch air, " I say, 
Venetia, what would Mrs. Montague and the Blues 
give for this, eh 1 I can fancy Hannah More in 
decent ecstacies!" 



CHAPTER VIII. 

"It is an odd thing, my dear Herbert," said Ca- 
durcis to his friend, in one of these voyages, " that 
destiny should have given you and me the same 
tutor." 

•' Masham !" said Herbert, smiling. " I tell you 
what is much more singular, my dear Cadurcis; it 
is, that notwithstanding being our tutor, a mitre 
should have fallen upon his head." 

" I am heartily glad," said Cadurcis. " I like 
Masham very much ; I really have a sincere affec- 
tion for him. Do you know, during my infernal 
affair abou* those accursed Monteagles, when I 
went to the House of Lords, and was cut even by 
my own party, — think of that, the polished ruf- 
fians! — Masham was the only person who came 
forward and shook hands with me, and in the most 
marked manner. A bishop, too ! and the other 
side' that was good, was it not! But he would 



not see his old pupil snubbed ; if he had waited 
ten minutes longer, he might have had a chance of 
seeing him massacred. And then they complain 
of my abusing England, my mother country ; a 
step-dame, I take it." 

" Masham is in politics a tory, in religion ultra- 
orthodox," said Herbert. " He has nothing about 
him of the latitudinarian; and yet he is the most 
amiable man with whom I am acquainted. Nature 
has given him a kind and charitable heart, which 
even his absurd opinions have not succeeded in 
spoiling." 

" Perhaps that is exactly what he is saying of 
us two at this moment," said Cadurcis. " After 
all, what is truth 1 It changes as you change your 
clime or your country, it changes with the century. 
Tiie truth of a hundred years ago is not the truth 
of the present day, and yet it may have been 
as genuine. Truth at Rome is not the truth of 
London, and both of them difl'er from the truth 
of Constantinople. For my part, I believe every 
thing." 

"Well, that is practically prudent, if it be meta- 
physically possible," said Herbert, laughing. "Do 
you know that I have alwaj-s been of opinion, that 
Pontius Pilate has been greatly misrepresented by 
Lord Bacon in the quotation of his celebrated ques- 
tion. 'What is truth?' said jesting Pilate, and 
would not wait for an answer. Let us be just to 
Pontius Pilate, who has sins enough surely to an- 
swer for. There is no authority for the jesting 
humour given by Lord Bacon. Pilate was evi- 
dently of a merciful and clement disposition ; pro- 
bably an Epicurean. His question referred to a 
declaration immediately preceding it, that he who 
was before him came to bear witness to the truth. 
Pilate inquired what truth]"' 

" Well, I always have a prejudice against Pontius 
Pilate," said Lord Cadurcis ; " and I think it is 
from seeing him when I was a child, on an old 
Dutch tile fireplace at Marringhurst, dressed like a 
burgomaster. One cannot get over one's early im- 
pressions ; but when you picture hiur to me as 
an Epicurean, he assumes a new character. I 
fancy him young, noble, elegant, and accomplished; 
crowned with a wreath and waving a goblet, and 
enjoying his government vastly." 

" Before the introduction of Christianity," said 
Herbert, " the philosophic schools answered to our 
present religious sects. You said of a man that 
he was a Stoic or an Epicurean, as you say of a 
man now that he is a Calvinist or a Wesleyan." 

" I should have liked to have known Epicurus," 
said Cadurcis. 

" I would sooner have known him and Plato 
than any of the ancients," said Herbert. " I look 
upon Plato as the wisest and the protbundest of 
men, and upon Epicurus as the most humar:^ and 
gentle." 

" Now, how do you account for the great popu- 
larity of Aristotle in modern ages!" said Cadurcis; 
"and the comparative neglect of these, at least 
his equals. Chance, I suppose, that settles every 
thing." 

" By no means," said Herbert. " If you mean 
by chance an absence of accountable causp, I do 
not believe such a quality as chance exists. Every 
incident that happens, must be a link in a chain. 
In the present case, the monks monopolized litera- 
ture, such as it might be, and they exercised their 
intellect only in discussing words. They, there- 



834 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



fore, adopted Aristotle and the Peripatetics. Plato 
interfered with their heavenly knowledge, and 
Epicurus, who maintained the rights of man to 
pleasure and happiness, would have afforded a 
dangerous and seducing contrast to their dark and 
miserable code of morals." 

"I think of the ancients," said Cadurcis, "Al- 
cibiades and Alexander the Great are my favourites. 
They were young, beautiful, and conquerors : a 
great combination." 

"And among the moderns?" inquired Herbert. 

"Tiiey don't touch my fancy," said Cadurcis. 
" Who are your heroes ?" 

" O ! I have many ; but I confess I should like 
to pass a day with Milton, or Sir Philip Sidney." 

"Among mere literary men," said Cadurcis, "I 
should say, Bayle." 

" And old Montaigne for me," said Herbert. 

" Well, I would fain visit him in his feudal cha- 
teau," said Cadurcis. " His is one of the books 
which give a spring to the mind. Of modern times, 
the feudal ages of Italy most interest me. I think 
that was a springtide of civilization; all the fine 
arts flourished at the same moment." 

"They ever will," said Herbert. "All the in- 
ventive arts maintain a sympathetic connexion 
between each other, for, after all, they are only va- 
rious expressions of one internal power, modified 
by different circumstances either of the individual 
or of society. It was so in the age of Pericles ; I 
mean the interval which intervened between the 
birth of that great man and the death of Aristotle; 
undoubtedly, whether considered in itself, or with 
reference to the effects which it produced upon the 
subsequent destinies of civilized man, the most 
memorable in the history of the world." 

" And yet the age 'of Pericles has passed away," 
said Lord Cadurcis, mournfully, "and I have gazed 
upon the mouldering Parthenon. O! Herbert, you 
are a great thinker and muse deeply ; solve me the 
problem why so unparalleled a progress was made 
during that period in literature and the arts, and 
why that progress, so rapid and so sustained, so 
80on received a check and became retrograde?" 

" It is a problem left to the wonder and conjec- 
ture of posterity," said Herbert. " But its solution, 
perhaps, may principally be found in the weak- 
ness of their political institutions. Nothing of the 
Athenians remains except their genius : but they 
fulfilled their purpose. The wrecks and fragments 
of their subtle and profound minds obscurely sug- 
gest to us the grandeur and perfection of the whole. 
Their language excels every other tongue of the 
western world ; their sculptures bafHe all subse- 
quent artists; credible witnesses assure us that their 
paintings were not inferior ; and we are only ac- 
customed to consider the painters of Italy as those 
who have brought the art to its highest perfection, 
because none of the ancient pictures have been 
preserved. Yet of all their fine arts, it was music 
of which the Greeks were themselves most proud. 
Its traditionary elfects were far more powerful than 
any which we experience from the compositions 
of our times. And now for their poetry, Cadurcis. 
It is in poetry, and poetry alone, that modern na- 
tions have maintained the majesty of genius. Do 
we equal the Greeks? Do we even excel them?" 

" Let us prove the equality first," said Cadurcis. 
" The Greeks excelled in every species of poetry. 
In some we do not even attempt to rival them. 
We have not a single modem ode or a single 



modern pastoral. We have no one to place by 
Pindar, or the exquisite Theocritus. As for the 
epic, I confess myself a heretic as to Homer; I look 
upon the Iliad as a remnant of national songs ; the 
wise ones agree that the Odyssey is the work of a 
later age. My instinct agrees with the result of 
their researches. I credit their conclusion. The 
Paradise Lost is, doubtless, a great production, but 
the subject is monkish. Dante is national, but he 
has all the faults of a barbarous age. In general 
the modern epic is framed upon the assumption 
that the Iliad is an orderly composition. They are 
indebted for this fallacy to Virgil, who called order 
out of chaos; but the yEneid, all the same, appears 
to me an insipid creation. And now for the drama. 
You will adduce Shakspeare ?" 

" There are passages in Dante," said Herbert, 
"not inferior, in my opinion, to any existing literary 
composition, but, as a whole, I will not make my 
stand on him ; I am not so clear that, as a lyric 
poet, Petrarch may not rival the Greeks. Shak- 
speare I esteem of ineffable merit." 

"And who is Shakspeare!" said Cadurcis. "We 
know of him as much as we do of Homer. Did 
he write half the plays attributed to him ? Did he 
ever write a single whole play ? I doubt it. He 
appears to me to have been an inspired adapter for 
the theatres, which were then not as good as barns. 
I take him to have been a botcher up of old plays. 
His popularity is of modern date, and it may not 
last ; it would have surprised him marvellously. 
Heaven knows, at present, all that bears his name 
is alike admired, and a regular Shakspearean falls 
into ecstacies with trash which deserves a niche in 
the Dunciad. For my part, I abhor your irregular 
geniuses, and I love to listen to the little nightin- 
gale of Twickenham." 

" I have often observed," said Herbert, " that 
writers of a very unbridled imagination themselves, 
admire those whom the world erroneously, in my 
opinion, and from a confusion of ideas, esteems 
correct. I am myself an admirer of Pope, though 
I certainly should not ever think of classing him 
among the great creative spirits. And you, you 
are the last poet in the world, Cadurcis, whom one 
would have fancied his votary." 

" I have written like a boy," said Cadurcis, " I 
found the public bite, and so I baited on with tainted 
meat. I have never written for fame, only for no- 
toriety; but I am satiated; I am going to turn over 
a new leaf." 

" For myself," said Herbert, " if I ever had the 
power to impress my creations on my fellow-men, 
the inclination is gone, and perhaps the faculty is 
extinct. My career is over; perhaps a solitary 
echo from my lyre may yet, at times, linger about 
the world like a breeze that has lost its way. But 
there is a radical fault in my poetic mind, and I am 
conscious of it. I am not altogether void of the 
creative faculty, but mine is a fragmentary mind ; 
I produce no whole. Unless you do this, you can- 
not last ; at least, you cannot materially affect your 
species. But what I admire in you, Cadurcis, is 
that, with all the faults of youth, of which you 
will free yourself, your creative power is vigorous, 
prolific, and complete ; your creations rise fast and 
fair, like perfect worlds." 

" Well, we will not compliment each other," 
said Cadurcis ; " for, after all, it is a miserable craft. 
What is poetry but a lie, and what are poets but 
liars V 



VENETIA. 



825 



"You are wrong, Cadurcis," said Herbert; " poets 
are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." 

" I see the towers of Porto Venere," said Ca- 
durcis, directing the sail ; " we shall soon be on 
shore. I think, too, I recognise Venetia. Ah ! 
my dear Herbert, your daughter is a poem that 
beats all our inspiration !" 



CHAPTER IX. 

One circumstance alone cast a gloom over this 
happy family, and that was the approaching depar- 
ture of Captain Cadurcis for England. This had 
been often postponed, but it could be postponed no 
longer. Not even the entreaties of those kind 
friends could any longer prevent what was inevi- 
table. The kind heart, the sweet temper, and the 
lively and companionable qualities of Captain Ca- 
durcis, had endeared him to every one; all (elt that 
his departure would occasion a blank in their life, 
impossible to be supplied. It reminded the Her- 
berts also painfully of their own situation, in re- 
gard to their native country, which the}' were ever 
unwilling to dwell upon. George talked of re- 
turning to them, but the prospect was necessarily 
vague; they felt that it was only one of those 
fanciful visions with which an affectionate spirit 
attempts to soothe the pang of separation. His 
position, his duties, all the projects of his life, 
bound h?m to England, from which, indeed, he had 
been too long absent. It was selfish to wish that, 
for their sake, he should sink down into a mere 
idler in Italy ; and yet, when they recollected how 
little his future life could be connected with their 
own, every one felt dispirited. 

" I shall not go boating to-day," said George to 
Venetia; "it is my last day. Mr. Herbert and 
Plantagenet talk of going to Lavenza ; let us take 
a stroll together." 

Nothing can be refused to those we love on the 
last day, and Venetia immediately acceded to his 
request. In the course of the morning, therefore, 
herself and George quitted the valley, in the direc- 
tion of the coast towards Genoa. Many a white 
sail glittered on the blue waters; it was a lively 
and cheering scene ; but both Venetia and her 
companion were depressed. 

"I ought to be happy," said George, and sighed. 
" The fondest wish of my heart is attained. You 
remember our conversation on the Lago Maggiore, 
Venetia ? You see I was a prophet, and you will 
be Lady Cadurcis yet." 

" We must keep up our spirits," said Venetia ; 
" I do not despair of our all returning to England 
yet. So many wonders have happened, that I can- 
not persuade myself that this marvel will not also 
occur I am sure my uncle will do something ; I 
have a secret idea that the bishop is all this time 
working for papa , I feel assured I shall see Cher- 
bury and Cadurcis again, and Cadurcis will be your 
home." 

" A year ago you appeared dying, and Planta- 
genet was the most miserable of men," said Cap- 
tain Cadurcis. "You are both now perfectly well 
and perfectly happy, living even under the same 
voof, soon, I feel, to be united, and with the cordial 
approbation of Lady Annabel. Your father is re- 
stored to you. Every blessing in the world seems 
104 



to cluster round your roof. It is selfish for me to 
wear a gloomy countenance." 

" Ah ! dear George, you never can be selfish," 
said Venetia. 

" Yes, I am selfish, Venetia. What else can 
make me sad V 

" You know how much you contribute to our 
happiness," said Venetia, " and you feel for our 
sutterings at your absence." 

" No, Venetia, I feel for myself," said Captain 
Cadurcis with energy ; " I am certain that I never 
can be happy, except in your society and Planta- 
genet's. I cannot express to you how I love you 
both. Nothing else gives me the slightest interest." 

"You must go home and marry," said Venetia, 
smiling. " You must marry an heiress," 

" Never," said Captain Cadurcis. " Nothing 
shall ever induce me to marry. " No ! all my 
dreams are confined to being the bachelor uncle of 
the family." 

" Well, now, I think," said Venetia, " of all the 
persons I know, there is no one so qualified for do- 
mestic happiness as yourself. I think your wife, 
George, would be a very fortunate woman, and I 
only wish I had a sister, that you might marry her." 

"I wish you had, Venetia; I would give up my 
resolution against marriage directly." 

" Alas !" said Venetia, " there is always some 
bitter drop in the cup of fife. Must you indeed go, 
George 1" 

" My present departure is inevitable," he replied ; 
" but I have some thoughts of giving up my pro- 
fession and Parliament, and then I will return, 
never to leave you again." 



V/hat will Lord 



say 1 That will never 



do," said Venetia. " No ; I should not be content 
unless you prospered in the world, George. You 
are made to prosper, and I should be miserable if 
you sacrificed your existence to us. You must go 
home, and you must marry, and write letters to us 
by every post, and tell us what a happy man you 
are. The best thing for you to do, would be to live 
with your wife at the abbey : or Cherbury, if you 
liked. You see I settle every thing." 

"I never will marry," said Captain Cadurcis, 
seriously. 

" Yes you will," said Venetia, laughing. 

" I am quite serious, Venetia. Now, mark my 
words and remember this day. I never will marry. 
I have a reason, and a strong and good one, for my 
resolution." 

"What is it 1" 

" Because my marriage will destroy the intimacy 
that subsists between me and yourself^ — and Plan 
tagenet," he added. 

" Your wife should be my friend," said Venetia, 
laughing. 

" Happy woman !" said George. 

"Let us indulge for a moment in a dream of do- 
mestic bliss," said Venetia, gay ly. "Papa and mam- 
ma at Cherbury : Plantagenet and myself at the 
abbey, where you and your wife must remain until 
we could build you a house; and Dr. Masham 
coming down to spend Christmas with us. Would 
it not be delightful ] I only hope Plantagenet would 
be tame. I think he would burst out a little some- 
times." 

"Not with you, Venetia, not with you," said 
George; "you have a hold over him which no- 
thing can ever shake. I could always put liim in 



«s« 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



an amiable mood in an instant by mentioning your 
name." 

" I wish you knew the abbey, George," said Ve- 
netia. " It is the most interesting of all old places. 
I love it. You must promise me when you arrive 
m England to go on a pilgrimage to Cadurcis and 
Cherbury, and write me a long account of it." 

" I will indeed ; I will write to you very often." 

" You shall find me a most faithful correspond- 
ent, which I dare say Plantagenet would not 
prove." 

" O ! I beg your pardon," said George, " you 
tiave no idea of the quantity of letters he wrote me 
when he first quitted England. And such delight- 
ful ones I I do not think there is a more lively 
letter-writer in the world ! His descriptions are so 
vivid ; a few touches give you a complete picture ; 
and then his observations, they are so playful ! I 
jtssure you there is nothing in the world more easy 
and diverting than a letter of Plantagenet." 

" If you could only see his first letter from Eton 
to me!" said Verietia. "I have always treasured 
it. It certainly was not very diverting; and if by 
easy you mean easy to decipher," she added, laugh- 
ing, " his handwriting must have improved very 
much lately. Dear Plantagenet, I am always afraid 
I never pay him sufficient respect ; that I do not 
feel sufficient awe in his presence; but I cannot 
disconnect him from the playfellow of my infancy: 
and do you know it seems to me, whenever he ad- 
dresses me, his voice and air change and assume 
quite the tone and manner of childhood." 

" I have never known him but as a great man," 
said Captain Cadurcis, " but he was so frank and 
simple with me from the very first, that I cannot 
t)elieve that it is not two years since we first met." 

"Ah! I shall never forget that night at Rane- 
lagh," said Venetia, half with a smile, and half 
with a sigh. " How interesting he looked ! I loved 
to see the people stare at him, and to hear them 
whisper his name." 

Here they seated themselves by a fountain, over- 
shadowed by a plane tree, and for a while talked 
only of Plantagenet. 

"All the dreams of my life have come to pass," 
said Venetia. " I remember when I was at Wey- 
mouth, ill, and not very happy, I used to roam 
about the sands, thinking of papa, and how I 
wished Plantagenet was like him, a great man, a 
great poet, whom all the world admired. Little did 
I think that before a year had passed, Plantagenet, 
my unknown Plantagenet, would be the admiration 
©f England ; little did I think another year would 
pass, and I would be living with my father and 
Plantagenet together, and they should be bosom 
friends. You see, George, we must never despair." 

" Under this bright sun," said Captain Cadurcis, 
" one is naturally sanguine, but think of me alone 
and in gloomy England." 

" It is indeed a bright sun," said Venetia; "how 
wonderful to wake every morning and be sure of 
meeting its beam !" 

Captain Cadurcis looked around him with a 
Bailor's eye. Over the Apennines towards Genoa, 
there was a ridge of dark clouds piled up with such 
compactness, that they might have been mistaken 
in a hasty survey for part of the mountains them- 
selves. 

" Bright as is the sun," said Captain Cadurcis, 
" we may have yet a squall before night." 

" I was delighted with Venice," said his compa- 



nion, not noticing his observation ; " I think of a)! 
places in the world it is the one which Plantagenet 
would most admire. I cannot believe but that even 
his delicious Athens would yield to it." 

" He did "lead the oddest life at Athens you can 
conceive," said Captain Cadurcis. " The people 
did not know what to make of him. He lived in 
the Latin Convent, a fine building, which he had 
almost to himself, for there are not half a dozen 
monks. He used to pace up and down the terrace, 
which he had turned into a garden, and on which 
he kept all sorts of strange animals. He wrote con- 
tinually there, indeed he did nothing but write. 
His only relaxation was a daily ride to Piraeus, 
about five miles over the plain ; he told me it was 
the only time in his life he was ever contented with 
himself, except when he was at Cherbury. He 
always spoke of London with disgust." 

" Plantagenet loves retirement and a quiet life," 
said Venetia ; " but he must not be marred with 
vulgar sights, and commonplace duties. That is 
the secret with him." 

" I think the wind has just changed," said Cap 
tain Cadurcis. " It seems to me that we shall have 
a sirocco. There, it shifts again ! We shall have 
a sirocco for certain." 

"What did you think of papa when you first 
saw him?" said Venetia. "Was he the kind of 
person you expected to see?" 

" Exactly," said Captain Cadurcis. " So very 
spiritual ! Plantagenet said to me, as we went 
home the first night, that he looked like a golden 
phantom. I think him very like you, Venetia ; ii>- 
deed there can be no doubt you inherited your face 
from your father." 

"Ah! if you had seen his portrait at Cherbury, 
when he was only twenty!" said Venetia. "That 
was a golden phantom, or rather he looked like 
Hyperion. What are you staring at so, George?" 

" I do not like this wind," muttered Captain Ca- 
durcis. " There it goes." 

" You cannot see the wind, George?" 

" Yes, I can, Venetia, and I do not like it at d'L 
Do you see that black spot flitting like a shade over 
the sea. It is like the reflection of a cloud on the 
water; but there is no cloud. Well, that is th« 
wind, Venetia, and a very wicked wind, too." 

" How strange ! Is that indeed the wind !" 

" We had better return home," said Captain Ca- 
durcis. " I wish they had not gone to Lavenza." 

" But there is no danger ?" said Venetia. 

" Danger ? No ! no danger, but they may get 
a wet jacket." 

They walked on ; but Captain Cadurcis was 
rather distrait : his eye was always watching the 
wind ; at last he said, " I tell you, Venetia, we must 
walk quick ; for, by Jove, we are going to have a 
white squall." 

They hurried their pace, Venetia mentioned her 
alarm again about the boat, but her companion re- 
assured her: yet his manner was not so confident 
as his words. 

A white mist began to curl above the horizon, 
the blueness of the day seemed suddenly to fade, 
and its colour became gray ; there was a swell on 
the waters that hitherto had been quite glassy, and 
they were covered with a scurfy foam. 

" I wish I had been with them," said Captain 
Cadurcis, evidently very anxious. 

"George, you are alarmed," said Venetia, ear- 
nestly, " I am sure there is danger." 



VENETIA. 



821 



Dang'er! How can there be danger, Venetia" 
Perhaps they are in port by this time. I dare say 
we shall find them at Spezzia. I will see you home 
and run down to them. Only hurry, for your own 
sake, for you do not know what a white squall in 
the Mediterranean is. We have but a few mo- 
ments." 

And even at this very instant, the wind came 
roaring and rushing with such a violent gust that 
Venetia could scarcely stand ; George put his arm 
round her to support her. The air was filled with 
thick white vapour, so that they could no longer 
see the ocean, only the surf rising very high all 
along the coast. 

" Keep close to me, Venetia," said Captain Ca- 
durcis ; " hold my arm and I will walk fast, for we 
shall not be able to see a yard before us in a mi- 
nute. I know where we are. We are above the 
olive wood, and we shall soon be in the ravine. 
These Mediterranean white squalls are nasty 
things; I had sooner by half be in a south-wester; 
for one cannot run before the wind in this bay, the 
reefs stretch such a long way out." 

The danger, and the inutility of expressing fears 
which could only perplex her guide, made Venetia 
silent, but she was terrified. She could not divest 
herself of apprehension about her father and Plan- 
tagenet. In spite of all he said, it was evident that 
her companion was alarmed. 

They had now entered the valley: the mountains 
had in some degree kept off the vapour; the air 
Was more clear. Venetia and Captain Cadurcis 
stopped a moment to breathe. " Now, Venetia, 
you are safe," said Captain Cadurcis. " I will not 
come in ; I will run down to the bay at once." He 
wiped the mist off his face ; Venetia perceived him 
deadly pale. 

"George," said she, "conceal nothing from me; 
there is danger, imminent danger. Tell me at 
once." 

" Indeed, Venetia," said Captain Cadurcis, " I 
am sure every thing will be quite right. There is 
some danger, certainly, at this moment, but, of 
course, long ago, they have run into harbour. I 
have no doubt they are at Spezzia at this moment. 
Now, do not be alarmed : indeed there is no cause. 
God bless you !" he said, and bounded away. 
" No cause," thought he to himself, as the wind 
sounded like thunder, and the vapour came rushing 
up the ravine. " God grant I may be right : but 
neither between the Tropics nor on the Line have 
I witnessed a severer squall than this ! What open 
boat can live in this weather ! ! that I had been 
with them ! I shall never forgive myself!" 



CHAPTER X. 

Vejtktia found her mother walking up and 
down the room, as was her custom when she was 
agitated. She hurried to her daughter. " You 
must change your dress instantly, Venetia," said 
Lady Atmabel ; " where is George 1" 

" He has gone dovyn to Spezzia to papa and 
Plantagenet ; it is a white squall ; it comes on 
very suddenly in this sea. He ran down to Spezzia 
instantly, because he thought they would be wet," 
said the agitated Venetia, speaking with rapidity 
and trying to appear calm. 



"Are they at Spezzia?" inquired Lady Annabel, 
quickly 

"George has no doubt they are, mother," said 
Venetia. 

" No doubt!" exclaimed Lady Annabel, in great 
distress : "God grant they may be only wet." 

" Dearest mother," said Venetia, approaching 
her, but speech deserted her. She had advanced 
to encourage Lady Annabel, but her own fear 
checked the words on her lips. 

" Change your dress, Venetia," said Lady Anna- 
bel ; " lose no time in doing that. I think I will 
send down to Spezzia at once." 

" That is useless now, dear mother, for George 
is there." 

" Go, dearest," said Lady Annabel ; " I dare say 
we have no cause for fear, but I am exceedingly 
alarmed about your father, about them : I am, in- 
deed. I do not like these sudden squalls, and I 
never liked this boating ; indeed, I never did. 
George being with them reconciled me to it. Now, 
go, Venetia, go, my love." 

Venetia quitted the room. She was so agitated 
that she made Pauncefort a confidant of her appre- 
hensions. 

"La! my dear miss," said Mistress Pauncefort, 
" I should never have thought of such a thing ! 
Do not you remember what the old man said at 
Weymouth, ' there is many a boat will live in a 
rougher tide than a ship ;' and it is such an un- 
likely thing, it is indeed. Miss Venetia. I am cer- 
tain sure my lord can manage a boat as well as a 
common sailor, and master is hardly less used to it 
than he. La ! miss, don't make yourself nervous 
about any such preposterous ideas. And I dare say 
you will find them in the saloon when you go 
down again. Really, I should not wonder. I think 
you had better wear your twill dress; I have put 
the new trimming on." 

They had not returned when Venetia joined her 
mother. That, indeed, she could scarcely expect. 
But in about half an hour, a message arrived from 
Captain Cadurcis that they were net at Spezzia, 
but from something he had heard, he had no doubt 
they were at Sarzana, and he was going to ride on 
thene at once. He felt sure, however, from what 
he had heard, they were at Sarzana. This commu- 
nication aftbrded Lady Annabel a little ease, but 
Venelia's heart misgave her. She recalled the 
alarm of George in the morning, which it was in> 
possible for him to disguise, and she thought she 
recognised in this hurried message and vague as- 
surances of safety something of the same appre- 
hension, and the same fruitless efforts to conceal it. 

Nowcame the time of terrible suspense. Sar- 
zana was nearly twenty miles distant from Spez- 
zia. The evening must arrive before they could 
receive intelligence from Captain Cadurcis. In 
the mean time the squall died away ; the heavens 
became again bright, and though the waves were 
still tumultuous, the surf was gieatly decreased. 
Lady Annabel had already sent down more than 
one messenger to the bay, but they brought no 
intelligence — she resolved now to go herself, that 
she might have the satisfaction of herself cross-ex- 
amining the fishermen who had been driven in 
from various parts by stress of weather. She would 
not let Venetia accompany her, who, she feared 
might already suffer from the exertions and rough 
weather of the morning. This was a most anxious 
hour, and yet the absence of her mother was uj 



828 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



some degree a relief to Venetia ; it at least freed 
her from the perpetual effort of assunicd compo- 
sure. Wiiile her mother remained, Venetia had 
attempted to read, though her eye wandered list- 
lessly over the page, or to draw, though the pencil 
trembled in her hand ; any thing which might 
guard her from conveying to her mother that she 
shared the apprehensions which had already dar- 
kened her mother's mind. But now that Lady 
Annabel was gone, Venetia muffling herself up in 
her shawl, threw herself on a sofa, and there she 
remained without a thought, her mind a chaos of 
terrible images. 

Her mother returned, and with a radiant counte- 
nance. Venetia sprang from the sofa. " There is 
good news, mother ! have they returned 1" 

" They are not at Spezzia," said Lady Annabel, 
throwing herself into a chair panting for breath ; 
" but there is good news. You see I was right to 
go, Venetia. These stupid people we send only 
ask questions, and take the first answer. I have 
seen a fisiierman, and he says he heard that two 
persons. Englishmen, he believes, have put into 
Lerici in an open boat." 

" God be praised !" said Venetia. " O mother, 
I can now confess to you the terror I have all along 
felt." 

" My own heart assures me of it, my child," said 
Lady Annabel weeping; and they mingled their 
tears together, but tears not of sorrow. 

" Poor George !" said Lady Annabel, " he will 
have a terrible journey to Sarzana, and be feeling 
so much for us ! Perhaps he may meet them." 

" I feel assured he will," said Venetia ; " and 
perhaps ere long they will all three be here again. 
Joy ! joy !" 

" They must never go in that boat again," said 
Lady Annabel. 

"O ! they never will, dearest mother, if you ask 
them not," said Venetia. 

" We will send to Lerici," said Lady Annabel. 

" Instantly," said Venetia; " but I dare say they 
have already sent us a messenger." 

" No !" said Lady Annabel ; " men treat the 
danger that is past very lightly. We shall not heai- 
from them except in person." ♦ 

Time now flew more lightly. They were both 
easy in their minds. The messenger was despatch- 
ed to Lerici ; but even Lerici was a considerable 
distance, and hours must elapse before his return. 
Still there was the hope of seeing them, or hearing 
from them in the interval. 

" I must go out, dear mother, said Venetia. " Let 
us both go out. It is now very fine. Let us go 
just to the Ravine, for indeed it is impossible to 
remain here." 

Accordingly they both went forth, and took up 
a position on the coast which commanded a view 
on all sides. All was radiant again, and compa- 
ratively calm. Venetia looked upon the sea, and 
said, " Ah ! I never shall forget a white squall in 
the Mediterranean, for all this splendour." 

It was sunset : they returned home. No news 
yet from Lerici. Lady Annabel grew uneasy 
again. The pensive and melancholy hour encou- 
raged gloom ; but Venetia, who was sanguine, en 
couraged her mother. 

" Suppose they were not Englishmen in the 
boat," said Lady Annabel. 

" It is impossible, mother What other two per- 



sons in this neighborhood could have been in an 
open boat 1 Besides, the man said Englishmen. 
You remember, he said Englishmen. You are 
quite sure he did 1 It must be they. I feel as con- 
vinced of it as of your presence. ' 

" I think there can be no doubt," said Lady 
Annabel. " I wish that the nressenger would re- 
turn." 

They messenger did return. No two persons in 
an open boat had put into Lerici ; but a boat, like 
the one described, with every stitch of canvass set, 
had passed Lerici just before the squall com- 
menced, and, the people there doubted not, had 
made Sarzana " 

Lady Annabel turned pale, but Venetia was 
still sanguine. " They are at Sarzana," she said ; 
" they must be at Sarzana ; you see George was 
right. He said he was sure they were at Sarzana. 
Besides, dear mother, he heard they were at Sar- 
zana." 

" And we heard they were at Lerici," said Lady 
Annabel, in a melancholy tone. 

" And so they were, dear mother ; it all agrees. 
The accounts are very consistent. Do not you see 
how very consistent they are 1 They were seen 
at Lerici, and were ofl" Lerici, but they made Sar- 
zana ; and George heard tliey were at Sarzana. I 
am certain they are at Sarzana. I feel quite easy ; 
I feel as easy as if they were here. They are safe 
at Sarzana. But it is too far to return to-night. 
We shall see them at breakfast to-morrow, — all 
three." 

" Venetia, dearest ! do not you sit up," said her 
mother. " I think there is a chance of George re- 
turning ; I feel assured he will send to-night ; but 
late, of course. Go, dearest, and sleep." 

" Sleep !" thought Venetia to herself; but to 
please her mother she retired. 

" Good-night, my child," said Lady Annabel. 
" The moment any one arrives, you shall be 
aroused." 



CHAPTER XL 

Vexetia, without undressing, lay down on ha 
bed, watching for some sound that might give hei 
hope of George's return. Dwelling on every in- 
stant, the time dragged heavily along, and she 
thought that the night had half passed when 
Pauncefort entered her room, and she learned, to 
her surprise, that only an hour had elapsed since 
she had parted from her mother This entrance 
of Pauncefort had given Venetia a momentary 
hope that they had returned. 

" I assure you, Miss Venetia, it is only an hour," 
said Pauncefort, " and nothing could have happen- 
ed. Now do try to go to sleep, that is a dear young 
lady, for I am certain sure that they will all return 
in the morning, as I am here. I was telling my 
lady just now, I said, says I, I dare say they are all 
very wet, and very fatigued." 

" They would have returned, Pauncefort," said 
Venetia, " or they would have sent. They are not 
at Sarzana." 

" La ! Miss Venetia, why should they be at 
Sarzana, why should they not have gone much 
farther on! For, as Vicenzo was just saying 
to me, and Vicenzo knows all about the coast. 



VENETIA. 



829 



with such a wind as this, I should not be surprised unbroken silence, at a moment when anxiety waa 
if they were at Leghorn." | universally diflused among the dwellers beneath 

« ! Pauncefort," said Venctia, " I am sick at that roof, and the heart of more than one of them 
heart '" was throbbing with all the torture of the most awful 

" Now really, Miss Venctia, do not take on so !" suspense, that fell upon Venetia's excited nerves 



said Pauncefort ; " for do you not remember when 
his lordship ran away from the abbey, and went a 
gipsying, nothing would persuade poor Mrs. Ca- 
durcis, that he was not robbed and murdered, and 
yet you see he was as safe and sound all the time, 
as if he had been at Cherbury." I 

'' Does Vicenzo really think they could have 
readied Leghorn]" said Venetia, clinging to every 
fragment of hope. 

" He is morally sure of it. Miss Venetia," said 
Pauncefort, " and I feel quite as certain, for Vicenzo 
is always right." 

" I had confidence about Sarzana," said Venetia ; 
" I really did believe they were at Sarzana. If only 
Captain Cadurcis would return ; if he only would 
return, and say they were not at Sarzana, I would 
try to believe they were at Leghorn." 

" Now, Miss Venetia," said Pauncefort, " I am 
certain sure that they are quite safe ; for my lord 
is a very good sailor ; he is, indeed ; all the men 
say so ; and the boat is as seaworthy a boat as 
boat can be. There is not the slightest fear, I do 
assure you, Miss." 

" Do the men say that Plantagenet is a good sai- 
lor 1" inquired Venetia. 

" Quite professional !" said Mistress Pauncefort ; 
*' and can command a ship as well as the best of 
them. They all say that." 

" Hush ! Pauncefort, I liear something." 
" It's only my lady, Miss. I know her step." 
"Is my mother going to bedl" said Venetia. 
" Yes," said Pauncefort, " my lady sent me here 
to see after you. I wish I could tell her you were 
asleep," 

" It IS impossible to sleep," said Venetia, rising up 
from bed, withdrawing the curtain, and looking at 
the sky. " V^"hat a peaceful night ! I wish my 
heart were like the sky. I think I will go to mam- 
ma, Pauncefort !" 

" O ! dear, Miss Venetia, I am sure I think you 
had better not. If you and my lady, now, would 
just go to sleep, and forget every thing till morn- 
ing, it would be much better for you. Besides, I 
am sure if my lady knew you were not gone to bed 
already, it would only make her doubly anxious. 
Now, really Miss Venetia, do take my advice, and 
just lie dov?n again. You may be sure the mo- 
ment any one arrives I will let you know. Indeed 
I shall go and tell my lady that you are lying 
down, as it is, and very drowsy ;" and, so saying. 
Mistress Pauncefort caught up her candle, and 
bustled out of the room. 

Venetia took up the volume of her father's 
poems, which Cadurcis had filled with his notes. 
How little did Plantagenet anticipate, when he 
tiius expressed at Athens the passing impressions 
of his mind, that ere a year had glided away, his 
fate would be so intimately blended with that of 
Herbert! It was impossible, however, for Venetia 
to Jose heiself in a volume which under any other 
circumstances might have compelled her spirit ; 
the very associations with the writers added to the 
terrible restlessness of her mind. She paused each 
instant to listen for the wished-for sound, but a 
mute stillness reigned throughout tlie house and 
household. There was somethmg in this deep 



with a very painful and even insulTerable influ- 
ence. She longed for sound — for some noise that 
might assure her she was not the victim of a 
trance. She closed her volume with energy 
and she started at tlie sound . she had herself 
created. She rose and opened the door of her 
chamber very softly, and walked into the vestibule. 
There were caps, and cloaks, and whips, and canes 
of Cadurcis and her father, lying about in fa7nUiar 
confusion. It seemed impossible but that they 
were sleeping, as usual, under the same roof. And 
where were they 1 That she should live and be 
unable to answer that terrible question ! When 
she felt the utter helplessness of all her strong sym- 
pathy towai-ds them, it seemed to her that she 
must go mad. She gazed around her with a wild 
and vacant stare. At the bottom of her heart there 
was a fear maturing into conviction too horrible 
for expression. She returned to her own chamber, 
and the exhaustion occasioned by her anxiety, and 
the increased coolness of the night, made her at 
length drowsy. She threw herself on the bed, and 
slumbered. 

She started in her sleep — she awoke — she 
dreamed they had come home. She rose and 
looked at the progress of the night. The night 
was waning fast ; a gray light was on the land- 
scape ; the point of day approached. Venetia 
stole softly to her mother's room, and entered it 
with a soundless step. Lady Annabel had not re- 
tired to bed. She had sat up the whole night, 
and was now asleep. A lamp on a small table 
was burning at her side, and she held, firmly 
grasped in her hand, the letter of her husband, 
which he had addressed to her at Venice, and 
which she had been evidently reading. A tear 
glided down the cheek of Venetia as she watched 
her mother retaining that letter with fondness even 
in her sleep, and when she thought of all the mi- 
sery, and heartaches, and hanowing hours that 
had preceded its receipt, and which Venetia be- 
lieved that letter had cured for ever. What misery 
awaited them now 1 Why were they watchers of 
the night 1 She shuddered when these dreadful 
questions flitted through her mind. She shud- 
deretl and sighed. Her mother started, and woke. 

" Who is there 1" inquhed Lady Annabel. 

" Venetia." 

"My child, have you not slept?" 

" Yes, mother, and I woke refreshed as I hopfl 
you do." 

" I wake with trust in God's mercy," said Lady 
Annabel. " Tell me the hourl" 

" It is just upon dawn, mother." 

" Dawn ! no one has returned, or come 1" 

" The house is still, mother." 

" I would you were in bed, my child." 

" Mother, I can sleep no more. I wish lo be 
with you ;" — and Venetia seated herself at her 
mothers feet, and reclined her head upon her mo- 
ther's knee. 

" I am glad the night has passed, Venetia," said 
Lady Annabel, in a suppressed yet solemn tone. 
" It has been a trial." And here she placed the 
letter in her bosom. Venetia could only answer 
with a sigh. 

4 A 



830 



D'lSRAELI'S NOVELS. 



"I wish Pauncefort would come," said Lady 
Annabel ; " and yet I do not like to rouse her, she 
Was up so late, poor creature ! If it be the dawn 
I should like to send out messengers again ; some- 
thing may be heard at Spezzia." 

" Vicenzo thinks they have gone to Leghorn, 
mother." 

"Has he heard any thing]" said Lady Annabel, 
eagerly. 

" No, but he is an excellent judge," said Vene- 
tia, repeatmg all Pauncefort's consolatory chatter ; 
" he knows the coast so well. He says he is sure 
the wind would carry them on to Leghorn ; and 
that accounts, you know, mother, for George not 
returning. They are all at Leghorn." 

" Would that George would return," murmured 
Lady Annabel ; " I wish I could see again that 
sailor wlio said they were at Lerici. He was an 
mtelligent man." 

" Perhaps if we send down to the bay he may 
be there," said Venetia. 

" Hush ! I hear a step !" said Lady Annabel. 
Venetia sprung up and opened the door, but it 
was only Pauncefort in the vestibule. 

" The household are all up, my lady," said that 
important personage entering; "'tis a beautiful 
morning. Vicenzo has run down to the bay, my 
lady ; I sent him off immediately. Vicenzo says 
he is certain sure they are at Leghorn, my lady — 
and this time three years, the very same thing 
happened. They were fishing for anchovies, my 
lady, close by, my lady, near Sarzana — two young 
men, or rather one about the same age as master, 
and one like my lord — cousins, my lady, and just 
in the same sort of boat, my lady ; and there came 
ou a squall, just the same sort of a squall, my lady, 
and they did not return home ; and every one was 
frightened out of their wits, my lady, and their 
wives and families quite distracted — and after all 
they were at Leghorn ; for this sort of wind always 
takes your open boats to Leghorn, Vicenzo says." 
The sun rose, the household were all stirring, 
and many of them abroad ; the common routine 
of domestic duty seemed, by some general yet 
not expressed understanding to have ceased. The 
ladies descended below at a very early hour, and 
went forth into the valley, once the happy valley. 
What was to be its future denomination 1 Vicenzo 
returned from the bay, and he contrived to return 
with cheering intelligence. The master of a fe- 
lucca who, in consequence of the squall had put 
in at Lerici, and in the evening dropped down to 
Spezzia, had met an open boat an hour before he 
reached Sarzana, and was quite confident that if it 
had put into port, it must have been, from the speed 
at which it was going, a great distance down the 
coast. No wrecks have been heard of in the neigh- 
bourhood. This intelligence, the gladsome time 
of day, and the non-arrival of Captain Cadurcis, 
which according to their mood was always a cir- 
cumstance which counted either for good or for 
evil, and the sanguine feelings which makes us 
always cling to hope, altogether reassured our 
friends ; Venetia dismissed from her mind the dark 
thought which for a moment had haunted her in 
the noon of night ; and still it was a suspense, a 
painful agitating suspense, but only suspense that 
yet influenced them. 

" Time !" said Lady Annabel. " Time ! we must 
wait." 

Venetia consoled her mother ; she affected even 



a gayety of spirit ; she was sure that V tenzo 
would turn out to be right, after all ; Pauncefort 
said he always was right, and that they were at 
Leghorn. 

The day wore apace ; the noon arrived and 
passed ; it was even approaching sunset. Lady 
Annabel was almost afraid to counter-order the 
usual meals, lest Venetia should comprehend her 
secret terror ; the very same sentiment influenced 
Venetia. Thus they both had submitted to the 
ceremony of breakfast, but, when the hour of din- 
ner approached, they could neither endure the 
mockery. They looked at each other, and, almost 
at the same time, they proposed that, instead of 
dining, they should walk down to the bay. 

" I trust we shall at least hear something before 
the night," said Lady Annabel. " I confess I dread 
the coining night. I do not think I could endure 
it." 

" The longer we do not hear, the more certain I 
am of their being at Leghorn," said Venetia. 

'• I have a great mind to travel there to-night,' 
said Lady Annabel. 

As they were stepping into the portico, Venetia 
recognised Captain Cadurcis in the distance. She 
turned pale ; she would have fallen had she not 
leaned on her mother, who was not so advanced 
and wlio had not seen him. 

" What is the matter, Venetia 1" said Lady Ah' 
nabel, alarmed. 

" He is here, he is here !" 
"Marmioni" 

" No, George. Let me sit down." 
Her mother tried to support her to a chair. Lady 
Annabel took off her bonnet. She had not strength 
to walk forth. She could not speak. She sat 
down opposite Venetia, and her countenance pic- 
tured distress to so painful a degree, that at any 
other time Venetia would have flown to her, but, 
in this crisis of suspense, it was impossible. George 
was in sight; he was in the portico ; he was in the 
room. 

He looked wan, haggard, and distracted. More 
than once he essayed to sjjcak, but failed. 

Lady Annabel looked at him with a strange, 
delirious expression. Venetia rushed forward and 
seized his arm, and gazed intently on his face. He 
shrank from her glance ; his frame trembled. 



CHAPTER XIL 

Let us return to Captain Cadurcis at the mo- 
ment he quitted Venetia on the morning of the 
white squall. In the heart of the tempest he traced 
his way in a sea of vapour with extreme danger 
and ditficulty to the shore. On his arrival at 
Spezzia, however, scarcely a house was visible, 
and the only evidence of the situation of the place 
was the cessation of an immense white surf which 
otherwise indicated the line of the sea, but the ab- 
sence of which proved his contiguity to a harbour. 
In the thick fog he heard tlie cries and shouts of 
the returning fishermen, and of their wives and 
children responding from the land to their excla- 
mations. He was forced, therefore, to wait at 
Spezzia in an agony of impotent suspeirse until 
the fury of the storm \vas over, and the sky was 
partially cleared. At length the objects became 
gradually less obscure; he could trace the outline 



VENETIA. 



831 



of the houses, and catch a glimpse of the water 
half a mile out ; and soon the old castles which 
guard the entrance of the strait that leads into the 
gulf, looming in the distance, and now and then a 
group of human beings in the vanishing vapour. 
Of tliese he made some inquiries, but in vain, re- 
specting the boat and his friends. He then made 
the brig, but could learn nothing, except their de- 
parture in the morning. He at length obtained a 
horse and galloped along the coast towards Lerici, 
keeping a sharp look out as he proceeded, and 
stopping at every village in his progress for intelli- 
gence. When he had arrived in the course of 
three hours at Lerici, the storm had abated, the 
sky was clear, and no evidence of the recent squall 
remained except the agitated state of the waves. 
At Lerici he could hear nothing, so he hurried on 
to Sarzana, where he learned for the first time that 
an open boat, with its sails set, had past more than 
an hour before the squall commenced. From Sar- 
zana he hastened on to Lavenza, a little port, the 
nearest sea-point to Massa, and where the Carrara 
marble is shipped for England. Here also his 
inquiries were fruitless, and exhausted by his exer- 
tions ; he dismounted and rested at the inn, not 
only for repose but to consider over the course 
which he should now pursue. The boat had not 
been seen off Lavenza, and the idea that they had 
made the coast towards Leghorn now occurred to 
him. His horse was so wearied that he was 
obliged to stop some time at Lavenza, for he could 
procure no other conveyance ; the night also was 
fast coming on, and to proceed to Leghorn by this 
dangerous route at this hour was impossible. At 
Lavenza therefore he remained, resolved to hasten 
to Leghorn at break of day. This was a most 
awful night. Although physically exhausted, 
Captain Cadurcis could not sleep, and after some 
vain efforts, he quitted his restless bed on which 
he had laid down undressed, and walked forth to 
the harbour. Between anxiety for Herbert and 
his cousin, and for the unhappy women whom he 
had left behind, he was nearly distracted. He 
gazed on the sea, as if some sail in sight might give 
him a chance of hope. His professional experience 
assured him of all the danger of the squall. He 
could not conceive how an open boat could live in 
such a sea, and an instant return to port as soon 
as the squall commenced appeared the only chance 
of its salvation. Could they have reached Leg- 
horn 1 It seemed impossible. There was no hope 
they could now be at Sarzana or Lerici. When 
he contemplated the full contingency of what 
might have occurred, his mind wandered, and re- 
fused to comprehend the possibility of the terrible 
conclusion. He thought the morning would never 
break. 

There was a cavernous rock by the sea-shore, 
that jutted into the water, like a small craggy pro- 
montory. Captain Cadurcis climbed to its top, 
and then descending, reclined himself upon an in- 
ferior portion of it, which formed a natural couch, 
with the wave on each side. There, lying at his 
length, he gazed upon the moon and stars, whose 
brightness he thought would never dim. The 
Mediterranean is a tideless sea, but the swell of 
the waves, which still set into the shore, bore occa- 
sionally masses of sea-weed and other marine for- 
mations, and deposited them around him, plashing, 
as it broke against the shore, with a melancholy 
and monotonous sound. The abstraction of the 



scene, the hour, and the surrounding circumstan- 
ces brought, however, no refreshment to the ex- 
hausted, spirit of George Cadurcis. He could not 
think, indeed he did not dare to think ; but the 
villa of the Appennines and the open boat in the 
squall flitted continually before him. His mind 
was feeble, though excited, and he fell into a rest- 
less, and yet unmeaning revery. As long as he 
had been in action, as long as he had been hurry 
ing along the coast, the excitement of motion, the 
constant exercise of his senses, had relieved or dis- 
tracted the intolerable suspense. But this pause — 
this inevitable pause overwhelmed him. It ofH 
pressed his spirit, like eternity. And yet what 
might the morning bring 1 He almost wished 
that he might remain for ever on this rock, watch- 
ing the moon and stars, and that the life of the 
world might never recommence. 

He started, he had fellen into a light slumber, 
he had been dreaming, he thought he had heard 
the voice of Venetia calling him ; he had forgotten 
where he was ; he stared at the sea. and sky, and 
recalled his dreadful consciousness. The wave 
broke with a heavy plash that attracted his atten- 
tion ; it was, indeed, that sound that had awakened 
him. He looked around ; there was some object ; 
he started wildly from his resting-place, sprang 
over the cavern, and bounded on the beach. It 
was a corpse ; he is kneeling by its side. It is the 
corpse of his cousin ! Lord Cadurcis was a fine 
swimmer, and had evidently made strong efforts 
for his life, for he was partly undressed. In all 
the insanity of hope, still wilder than despair, 
George Cadurcis seized the body and bore it some 
yards upon the shore. Life had been long extinct. 
The corpse was cold and stark, the eyes closed, an 
expression of energy, however, yet lingering in the 
fixed jaw, and the hair sodden with the sea. Sud- 
denly Captain Cadurcis rushed to the inn, and 
roused the household. With a distracted air, and 
broken speech, and rapid motion, he communicated 
the catastrophe. Several persons, some bearing 
torches, others blankets and cordials, followed him 
instantly to the fatal spot. They huiTied to the 
body, they applied all the rude remedies of the 
moment, rather from the impulse of nervous ex- 
citement than with any practical purposes ; for the 
case had been indeed long hopeless. While Cap- 
tain Cadurcis leaned over the body, chafing -the 
extremities in a hurried frenzy, and gazing intently 
on the countenance, a shout was heard from one 
of the stragglers, who had recently arrived. The 
sea had washed on the beach another corpse : the 
form of Marmion Herbert ! It would appear that 
he had made no struggle to save himself, for his 
hand was locked in his waistcoast, where, at the 
moment, he had thrust the Phsedo, showing that 
he had been reading to the last, and was meditat- 
ing on immortality when he died. 



BOOK VII. 



CHAPTER I. 

Let us return from those beautiful and cele- 
brated scenes in which we have of late been wan- 
dering to the once peaceful bowers of Cherbury. 
The journals of Europe had circulated the tragical 
end of Herbert and Cadurcis ; and the household 



832 



D'lSRAELl'S NOVELS, 



at Cherbury were in daily expectation of the return to welcome her, the household bowed and courte- 
i)f their unhappy mistress and her disconsolate sied. She smiled on them for a moment graciously 
daughter, i and kindly, but her countenance immediately re- 

It was the commencement of autumn. The ' assumed a serious air, and whispering one word to 
verdure of summer still lingered on the trees, the the strange gentleman, she entered the hall alone, 



sky if not as cloudless was almost as refulgent as 
Italy ; and the pigeons bright and glancing, clus- 
tered on the roof of the hall. The steward was in 
attendance ; the household all in deep mourning 
were assembled ; every thing was in readiness 
for the immediate arrival of Lady Annabel Her- 
bert. 

" 'Tis nearly foiir years come Martinmas," said 
the gray-headed butler, " since ray lady left us." 

" And no good has come of it," said the house- 
keeper. " And for my part I never heard of good 
coming from going to foreign parts." 

" I shall hke to see Miss Vcnetia again," said a 
housemaid. " Bless her sweet face !" 

" I never expected to see her, Miss Venetia, again 
from all we heard," said a footman. 

" God's will be done !" said the gray -headed but- 
ler, " but I hope she will find happiness at home. 
'Tis nigh on twenty years since I first nursed her 
in these arms." 

" I wonder if theie is any new Lord Cadurcis," 
said the footman. " I think he was the last of the 
line.' 

It would have been a happy day if I had lived 
to have seen the poor young lord marry Miss Ve- 
netia," said the housekeeper. " I always thought 
that match was made in heaven." 

" He was a sweet-spoken young gentleman," 
said the housemaid. 

" For my part," said the footman, " I should like 
to have seen our real master, Squire Herbert. He 
was a famous gentleman by all accounts." 

" I wish they had lived quietly at home," said 
the housekeeper. 

" I shall never forget the time when my lord 
returned," said the gray-headed butler. " I must 
say I thought it was a match." 

" Mistress Pauncefort seemed to think so," said 
the housemaid. 

" And she understands those things," said the 
footman. 

" { see the carriage," said a sei-vant who was at 
a window in the hall. All immediately bustled 
aboiit, fifid the housekeeper sent a message to the 
steward. 

The carriage might be just discovered at the end 
of the avenue. It was some time before it entered 
the iron spates that were thrown open for its recep- 
tion. Th«! steward stood on the steps with his hat 
off, the servants were ranged in order at the en- 
trance. Touching their horses with the spur, and 
cracking their whips, the postilions dashed round 
the circular plot and stopped at the hall-door. Un- 
der any circumstances a return home after an in- 
terval of years is rather an awful moment ; there 
was not a servant who was not visibly affected. 
On the outside of the carriage was a foreign ser- 
vant and Mistress Pauncefort, who was not so 
profuse as might have been expected in her recog- 
nitions of her old friends; her countenance was 
graver than of yore. Misfortune and misery had 
subdued even Mistress Pauncefort. The foreign 
servant opened the door of the carriage ; a young 
man, who was a stranger to the household but 
who was in deep mourninu:, alighted, and then 
f^ady Annabel appeared. The steward advai^"^^ 



mvitmg the steward to follow her. 

" I hope your ladyship is well — welcome home, 
my lady — welcome again to Cherbury — a welcome 
return, my lady — hope Miss Venetia is quite well 
happy to see your ladyship amongst us again, 
and Miss Venetia too, my lady." Lady Annabel 
acknowledged these salutations with kindness, and 
then saying that Miss Herbert was not very well 
and was fatigued with her journey, she dismissed 
her humble but trusty friends. Lady Annabel then 
turned and nodded to her fellow traveller. 

Upon this Lord Cadurcis — if we must, indeed, 
use a title from which he himself shrank — carried 
a shrouded form in his arms into the hall, where 
the steward alone lingered, though withdrawn to 
the back part of the scene ; and Lady Annabel, 
advancing to meet him, embraced his treasured 
burthen — her own imhappy child. 

" Now, Venetia, dearest Venetia," she said, " 'tis 
past ; we are at home." 

Venetia leaned upon her motlier, but made no 
reply. 

" Up stairs, dearest," said Lady Annabel ; " a 
little exertion, a very little." Leaning on her mo- 
ther and Lord Cadurcis, Venetia ascended the 
staircase, and they reached the terrace-room. Ve- 
netia looked around her as she entered the cham- 
ber, — that scene of her former life, endeared to her 
by so many happy hours and so many sweet inci- 
dents ; that chamber where she had first seen 
Plantagenet. Lord Cadurcis supported her to a 
chair, and then, overwhelmed by irresistible emo- 
tion, she sank back in a swoon. 

No one was allowed to enter the room but 
Pauncefort. They revived her; Lord Cadurcis 
holding her hand, and touching, with a watchful 
finger, her pulse. Venetia opened her eyes, and 
looked around her. Her mind did not wander* 
she immediately recognised where she was, and 
recollected all that had happened. She faintly 
smiled, and said, in a low voice, " You are all too 
kind, and I am very weak. After our trials, what 
is this 1 George," she added, struggling to appear 
animated, " you are at length at Cherbury." 

Once more at Cherbury ! It was, indeed, an 
event that recalled a thousand associations. In the 
wild anguish of her first grief, when the dreadful 
intelligence was broken to her, if any one had 
whispered to Venetia that she would yet find her- 
self once more at Cherbury, she would have es- 
teemed the intimation as mockery. But time and 
hope will struggle with the most poignant afiliction, 
and their infiuenee is irresistible and inevitable- 
From her darkened chamber in their Mediterranean 
villa, Venetia had again come forth, and crossed 
mountains, and traversed immense plains, and 
journeyed through many countries. She could 
not die, as she had supposed at first that she must, 
and therefore sb.e had exerted herself to qiait. and 
to quit speedily, a scene so terrible as their late 
abode. She was the veiy first to propose their 
return to England, and to that spot where she had 
passed her early life, and where she now wished 
to fulfil, in quiet and seclusion, the allotment of 
her remaining years ; to meditate over the man.-el- 
. lous past, and cherish its sweet and bitter recoUec- 



VENETIA. 



833 



fions. The native firmness of Lady Annabel, her 
long exercised conti'ol over her emotions, the sad- 
ness and subdued tone which the early incidents 
of her career had cast over her character, her pro- 
found sympathy with her daughter, and that reli- 
gious consolation which never deserted her, had 
alike impelled and enabled her to bear up against 
the catastrophe with more fortitude than her child. 
Tho arrow, indeed, had struck Venetia with a 
double barb. She was the victim ; and all the 
cares of Lady Annabel had been directed to soothe 
and support this stricken lamb. Yet perhaps these 
unhappy women must have sunk under their un- 
paralleled calamities, had it not been for the devo- 
tion of their companion. In the despair of his 
first emotions, George Cadurcis was nearly phmg- 
ing himself headlong into the wave that had 
already proved so fatal to his house. But when 
he thought of Lady Annabel and Venetia in a 
foreign land, without a single friend in their deso- 
lation, and pictured them to himself with the dread- 
ful news abruptly communicated by some unfeeling 
stranger; and called upon, in the midst of their 
overwhelming agony, to attend to all the heart- 
rending arrangements which the discovery of the 
bodies of the beings to whom they were devoted, 
and in whom all their feelings were centred, must 
necessarily entail upon them — he recoiled from 
what he contemplated, as an act of infamous deser- 
tion. He resolved to live, if only to preserve them 
from all their impending troubles, and with the 
hope that his exertions might tend, in however 
slight a degree^ not to alleviate — for that was im- 
possible — but to prevent, the increase of that terri- 
ble wo, the very conception of which made his 
brain stagger. He carried the bodies, therefore, 
with him to Spezzia, and then prepared for that 
fatal interview, the commencement of which we 
first indicated. Yet it must be confessed that, 
though the bravest of men, his courage faltered as 
he entered the accustomed ravine. He stopped 
and looked down on the precipice below ; he felt 
it utterly impossible to meet them ; his mind nearly 
deserted him. Death, some great and universal 
catastrophe, an earthquake, a deluge, that would 
have buried them all in an instant and a common 
fate, would have been hailed by George Cadurcis, 
at that moment, as good fortune. 

He lurked about the ravine for nearly three 
hours before he could summon up heart for the 
awful interview. The position he had taken as- 
sured him that no one could approach the villa, to 
which he himself dared not advance. At length, 
in a paroxysm of energetic despair, he had rushed 
forward, met them instantly, and confessed with a 
whirling brain, and almost unconscious of his ut- 
terance, that " they could not hope to see them 
again in this world." 

What ensued must neither be attempted to be 
described, nor even remembered. It was one of 
those tragedies of life which enfeeble the most 
faithful memories at a blow, shatter nerves beyond 
the faculty of revival, cloud the mind for ever, or 
turn the hair gray in an instant. They carried 
Venetia delirious to her bed. The very despair, 
and almost madness of her daughter, forced Lady 
Annabel to self-exertion, of which it was difficult 
to suppose that even she was capable. And 
George, too, was obliged to leave them. He stayed 
only the night. A few words nassed between 
105 



Lady Annabel and himself; she wished thebodiet 
to be embalmed, and borne to England. There was 
no time to be lost, and there was no one to be in- 
trusted except George. He had to hasten to Ge- 
noa to make all these preparations, and for two 
days he was absent from the villa. When he re- 
turned Lady Annabel saw him, but Venetia was 
for a long time invisible. The moment she grew 
composed, she expressed a wish to her mother in- 
stantly to return to Cherbury. All the an-ange- 
ments necessary devolved upon George Cadurcis. 
It was his study that Lady Annabel should be 
troubled upon no point. The household were dis- 
charged, all affairs wound up, the felucca hired 
which was to bear them to Genoa, and in readi- 
ness, before he notified to them that the hour of 
departure had arrived. The most bitter circum- 
stance was looking again upon the sea. It seemed 
so intolerable to Venetia, that their departure was 
delayed more than one day in consequence ; but it 
was inevitable ; they could reach Genoa in no 
other manner. George carried Venetia in his arms 
to the boat, with her face covered with a shawl, 
and bore her in the same manner to the hotel at 
Genoa, where their travelling can'iage awaited 
them. 

They travelled home rapidly. All seemed to be 
impelled as it were by a restless desire for repose. 
Cherbury was the only thought in Venetia's mind. 
She observed nothing; she made no remark dur- 
ing their journey ; they travelled often throughout 
the night ; but no obstacles occuiTcd, no inconve- 
niences. There was one in this miserable society 
whose only object in life was to support Venetia 
under her terrible visitation. Silent, but with an 
eye that never slept, George Cadurcis watched 
Venetia, as a nurse might a child. He read her 
thoughts, he anticipated her wishes without in- 
quiring them ; every arrangement was unobtru- 
sively made that could possibly consult her com- 
fort. 

They passed through London without stopping 
there. George would not leave them for an in- 
stant ; nor would he spare a thought to his own 
affairs, though they urgently required his atten- 
tion. The change in his position gave him no con- 
solation ; he would not allow his passport to be 
made out with his title ; he shuddered at being 
called Lord Cadurcis ; and the only reason that 
made him hesitate about attending them to Cher- 
bury was its contiguity to his ancestral seat, which 
he resolved never to visit. There never in the 
world was a less selfish and more single hearted 
man than George Cadurcis. Though the death of 
his cousin had invested him with one of the most 
ancient coronets in England, a noble residence, and 
a fair estate, he would willingly have sacrificed his 
life to have recalled Plantagenet to existence, and 
to have secured the happiness of Venetia Hert«rt. 



CHAPTER n. 

The reader must not suppose from the irresisti ■ 
ble emotion that overcame Venetia at the very 
moment of her return, that she was entirely proi*- 
trated by her calamities. On the contrary, her 
mind had been employed during the whole of hei 
journey to England, in jj silent effort to endur« 

4a2 



834 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS, 



hei lot with resignation. She had resolved to bear 
up against her misery with fortitude, and she in- 
herited from her mother sufficient firmness of 
mind to enable her to achieve her purpose. She 
came back to Cherbury to live with patieii'e and 
submission ; and though her dreams of happiness 
might be vanished for ever, to contribute as 
much as was in her power to the content of that 
dear and remaining relative who was yet spared to 
her, and who depended in this world only upon 
the affection of her child. The return to Cherbury 
was a pang, and it was over. Venetia struggled 
to avoid the habits of an invalid : she purposed re- 
suming, as far as was in her power, all the pursuits 
and duties of her life ; and if it were neither possi- 
ble nor even desirable to forget the past, she dwelt 
upon it neither to sigh nor to murmur, but to che- 
rish in a sweet and musing mood the ties and 
affections round which all her feelings had once ga- 
thered with so much enjoyment and so much hope. 

She rose, therefore, on the morning after her re- 
turn to Cherbury, calm, if not cheerful ; and she 
took an early opportunity, when George and her 
mother were engaged, and absent from the terrace- 
room, to go forth alone, and wander amid her old 
haunts. There was not a spot about the park and 
gardens, which had been favourite resorts of her- 
self and Pianlagenet in their childhood, that she 
did not visit. They were unchanged ; as green, 
and bright, and still, as in old days, but what was 
she 1 The freshness, and brilliancy, and careless 
happiness of her life, were fled for ever. And here 
he lived, and here he roamed, and here his voice 
sounded, now in glee, now in melancholy, now in 
wild and fanciful amusement, and now pouring 
into her bosom all hiis domestic sorrows. It was 
but ten years since he first arrived at Cherbury, 
and who could have anticipated that little silent, 
resented boy should, ere ten years had passed, have 
filled a wide and lofty space in the world's thought : 
that his existence should have influenced the mind 
of nations, and his death eclipsed their gaycty ! 
His death ! Terrible and disheartening thought! 
Plantagenet was no more. But he had not died 
without a record. His memory was embalmed in 
immortal verse, and he had breathed his passion 
to his Venetia in language that lingered in the ear, 
and would dwell for ever on the lips, of his fellow 
men. 

Among these woods, too, had Venetia first mused 
over her father ; before her rose those mysterious 
chambers, whose secret she had penetrated at the 
risk of her life There were no secrets now. Was 
she happier 1 Now she felt that even in her early 
mystery there was delight, and that hope was 
veiled beneath its ominous shadow. There was 
now no future to ponder over ; her hope was gone, 
and memoiy alone remained. All the dreams of 
those musing hours of her hidden reveries had 
been realised. She had seen her father, that sur- 
passing parent, who had satisfied alike her heart 
and her imagination ; she had been clasped to 
his bosom ; she had lived to witness even her 
mother yield to his penitent embrace. And he 
too was gone ; she could never meet him again in 
this world — in this world in which they had expe- 
rienced such exquisite bliss ! And now she was 
once more at Cherbury ! O ! give her back her 
girlhood, with all its painful mystery and harassing 
doubt ! Give her again a future ! 

She returned to the hall ; she metGeorge on the 



terrace, she welcomed him with a sweet, yet mourn- 
ful smile. " I have been very selfish," she said, 
" for I have been walking alone. I mean to in- 
troduce you to Cherbury, but I could not resist 
visiting some old spots." Her voice faltered at these 
last words. They re-entered the terrace-room to- 
gether, and joined her mother. 

" Nothing is changed, mamma," said Venetia, in 
a more cheerful tone. " It is pleasant to find sqfne- 
thing that is the same." 

Several days passed, and Lord Cadurcis evinced 
no desire to visit his inheritance. Yet Lady An- 
nabel was anxious that he should do so, and had 
more than once impressed upon him the propriety. 
Even Venetia at length said to him, " It is very 
selfish in us keeping you here, George. Your 
presence is a great consolation, and yeP— yet, ought 
you not to visit your home!" She avoided the 
name of Cadurcis. 

" I ought, dear Venetia," said George, " and I 
will, I have promised Lady Annabel twenty times, 
but I feel a terrible disinclination. To-morrow, 
perhaps." 

" To-moiTow, and to-mon'ow, and to-morrow," 
murmured Venetia to herself, " I scarcely compre- 
hend now what to-morrow means." And then 
again addressing him, and with more liveliness, 
he said, " We have only one friend in the world 
now, George, and I think that we ought to be very 
grateful that he is our neighbour." 

" It is a consolation to me," said Lord Cadurcis, 
" for I cannot remain here, and othei-wise I should 
scarcely know how to depart." 

" I wish you would visit your liome, if only for 
one morning," said Venetia ; " if only," she added 
with a smile, " to know how very near you are to 
us." 

" I dread going alone," said Lord Cadurcis. " I 
cannot ask Lady Annabel to accompany me, he- 
cause — '' He hesitated. 

" Because 1" inquired Venetia. 

" I cannot ask or wish her to leave you." 

" You are always thinking of me, dear George," 
said Venetia, artlessly. " I assure you, I have come 
back to Cherbury to be happy. I must visit your 
home some day, and I hope I shall visit it often. 
We will all go — soon," she added. 

" Then I will postpone my visit to that day," 
said George. " I am in no humour for business, 
which I know awaits me there. Let me enjoy a 
little more repose at dear Cherbury." 

" I have become very restless of late, I thirdi," 
said Venetia, "but there is a particular spot in the 
garden that I wish to see. Come with me, 
George." 

Lord Cadurcis was only too happy to attend 
her. They proceeded through a winding walk in 
the shrubberies, until they aiTived at a small and 
open plot of turf, where Venetia stopped. " There 
are some associations," she said, "of this spot 
connected with both those friends that we have 
lost. I have a fancy that it should be in some 
visible manner consecrated to their memories. On 
this spot, George, Plantagenet once spoke to me 
of my father. I should like to raise their busts 
here ; and indeed it is a fit place for such a pur- 
pose ; for poets," she added, faintly smiling, 
" should be surrounded with laurels." 

" I have some thoughts on this head that I aia 
revolving in my fancy myself," said Lord Cadurcis, 
" but I will not speak of them now." 



VENETIA. 



835 



** Yes, now, George ; for indeed it is a satisfac- 
tion to me to speak of them, at least with you, wi(h 
one who understood them so well, and loved them 
scarcely less than I did." 

George tenderly put his arm into hers and led 
her away. As they walked along, he explained 
to her his plans, which yet were somewhat crude, 
but which greatly interested her ; but they were 
roused from their conversation by the bell of the 
hall sounding, as if to summon them, and there- 
fore they directed their way immediately to the 
terrace. A ser\ant running met them ; he brought 
a message from Ladj' Annabel. Their friend the 
Bishop of * * * * had arrived. 



CHAPTER III. 

Well, my little daughter," said the good Ma- 
sham, advancing as Venetia entered the room, 
tenderly embracing her, and affecting a cheerful- 
ness which he did not feel, but which lightened 
the first painful embarrassment of the interview. 
Venetia responded to his salutation in the same 
vein ; the kind-hearted old man maintained a con- 
versation on indifferent subjects, with animation, 
for some minutes ; and thus a meeting, the antici- 
pation of which would have cost Venetia hours of 
pain and anxiety, occurred with feelings which 
were alike easy and agreeable. 

Masham had hastened to Cherbury the moment 
he heard of the return of the Herberts to England. 
He did not come to console but to enliven. He 
was well aware that even his eloquence, and all 
the influence of his pietj% could not soften the 
irreparable past ; and knowing, from experience, 
how in solitude the unhappy brood over sorrow, 
he fancied that his arrival, and perhaps his aiTival 
only, might tend in some degree at this moment 
to their alleviation and comfort. He brought Lady 
Annabel and Venetia letters from their relations, 
with whom he had been staying, at their country 
residence, and who were anxious that their unhap- 
py kinsfolk should find change of scene under 
their roof. 

" They are very affectionate," said Lady Anna- 
bel, " but I rather think that neither Venetia nor 
myself will feel inclined to quit Cherbury at pre- 
sent." 

"Indeed, not, mamma," said Venetia. " I hope 
we shall never leave home again." 

" You must come and see me some day," said 
the bishop ; then turning to George, whom he 
was glad to find here, he addressed him in a hearty 
tone, and expressed his delight at again meeting 
him. 

Insensibly to all parties this arrival of the good 
Masham exercised a very beneficial influence on 
their spirits. They could sympathise with his 
dieerfulness, because they were convinced that he 
sympathised with their sorrow. His interesting 
conversation withdrew their minds from the pain- 
ful subject on which they were always musing. 
It seemed profanation to either of the three mourn- 
ers when they were together alone, to indulge in 
any topic bvit the absorbing one, and their utmost 
effort was to speak of the past with composure : 
but they all felt relieved, though at first uncon- 
sciously, when one, whose interest in their feel- 
ings could not be doubted, gave the signal of 



withdrawing their reflection from vicissitudes 
which it was useless to deplore. Even the social 
forms which the presence of a guest rendered in- 
dispensable, and the exercise of the comtesies of 
hospitality, contributed to this result. They with- 
drew their minds from the past. And the worthy 
bishop, whose tact was as eminent as his good 
humour and benevolence, evincing as much deli- 
cacy of feeling as cheerfulness of temper, a very 
few days had elapsed before each of his compa- 
nions was aware that his presence had contributed 
to their increased content. 

"You have not been to the abbey yet. Lord Ca- 
durcis," said Masham to him one day, as they were 
sitting together after dinner, the ladies having re- 
tired. " You should go." 

" I have been imwilling to leave them," said 
George, " and I could scarcely expect them to ac- 
company me. It is a visit that must revive painful 
recollections." 

" We must not dwell on the past," said Masham, 
" We must think only on the future." 

" Venetia has no future, I fear," said Lord Ca- 
durcis. 

" Why not 1" said Masham, " she is yet a girl, 
and with a prospect of a long life. She must have 
a future, and I hope, and I believe it will yet be a 
happy one." 

" Alas !" said Lord Cadurcis, " no one can 
form an idea of the attachment that subsisted be- 
tween Plantagenet and Venetia. They were not 
common feelings, or the feelings of common minds, 
my dear lord." 

" No one knew them both better than I did," 
said Masham, "not even yourself: they were my 
children." 

" I feel that," said George, " and therefore it is 
a pleasure to us all to see you, and to speak with 
you." 

"' But we must look for consolation," said Ma- 
sham ; " to deplore is fruitless. If we live, we 
must struggle to live happily. To tell you the 
truth, though their immediate return to Cherbury 
was inevitable, and their residence here for a xime 
is scarcely to be deprecated, I still hope they will 
not bm-y themselves here. For my part, after tiie 
necessary interval, I wish to see Venetia once 
more in the world." 

Lord Cadurcis looked very mournful and shook 
his head. 

" As for her dear mother, she is habituated to 
soiTow and disappointment," said Masham. " As 
long as Venetia lives Tiady Annabel will be con- 
tent. Besides, deplorable as may be the past, there 
must be solace to her in the reflection that she was 
reconciled to her husband before his death, and 
contributed to his happiness. Venetia is the 
stricken lamb, but Venetia is formed for happiness, 
and it is in the nature of things that she will be 
happy. We must not, however, yield unnecessa- 
rily to our feelings. A violent exertion would be 
unwise, but we should habituate ourselves gradu- 
ally to the exercise of our duties, and to our accus- 
tomed pursuits. It would be well for you to go 
to Cadurcis. If I were you I would go to-morrow. 
Take advantage of my presence ; and return and 
give a report of your visit. Habituate Venetia to 
talk of a spot with which ultimately she must re- 
new her intimacy." 

Influenced by his advice. Lord Cadurcis rose 
early on the next morning and repaired to the spst 



836 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS. 



of Ms fathers, where hitherto his foot had never 
trod. When the circle at Cherbury assembled at 
their breakfast table, he was missing, and Masham 
had undertaken the office of apprising his friends 
of the cause of his absence. He returned to din- 
ner, and the conversation fell naturally upon the 
Abbey and the impressions he had received. It 
was maintained at first by Lady Annabel and the 
Bishop, but Venetia ultimately joined in it and 
with cheerfulness. Many a trait and incident of 
former days was alluded to ; they talked of Mrs. 
Cadurcis, whom George had never seen ; they 
settled the chambers he should inhabit ; they men- 
tioned the improvements which Plantagenet had 
once contemplated, and which George must now 
accomplish. 

" You must go to London first," said the bishop ; 
" you have a great deal to do, and you should not 
delay such business. I think you had better re- 
turn with me. At this time of the year you need 
not be long absent; you will not be detained ; and 
when you return, you will find yourself much 
more at ease ; for after all, nothing is more haras- 
sing than the feeling, that there is business which 
must be attended to, and which, nevertheless, is 
neglected." 

Both Lady Annabel and Venetia enforced this 
advice of their friend ; and so it happened that ere 
a week had elapsed Lord Cadurcis, accompanying 
Mdshajn, found himself once more in London. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Ve^tetia was now once more alone with her 
mother ; it was as in old times. Their life was the 
same as before the visit of Plantagenet previous to 
his going to Cambridge, except indeed that they 
had no longer a friend at Marringhurst. They 
missed the sabbath visits of that good mair; his 
successor, indeed, performed the duties of the day, 
which had been a condition when he was pre- 
sented to the hving, but the friend who knew all 
the secrets of their hearts was absent. Venetia 
continued to bear herself with great equanimity, 
and the anxiety which she observed instantly im- 
pressed on her mother's countenance, the moment 
she fancied there was an unusual gloom on the 
brow of her child, impelled Venetia doubly to 
exert herself to appear resigned. And in truth, 
when Lady Annabel revolved in her mind the 
mournful past, and meditated over her early and 
unceasing eflforts to secure the happiness of her 
daughter, and then contrasted her aspirations with 
the result, she could not acquit herself of having 
been too often unconsciously instrumental in for- 
warding a very ditTerent conclusion than that for 
which she had laboured. This conviction preyed 
upon the mother, and the slightest evidence of 
reaction in Venetia'stranquillised demeanour occa- 
sioned her the utmost remorse and grief. The 
absence of George made both Lady Annabel and 
Venetia still more finely appreciate the solace of 
his society. Left to themselves they felt how much 
they had depended on his vigilant and considerate 
attention, and how much his sweet temper and his 
unfailing sympathy had contributed to their conso- 
lation. He wrote, however, to Venetia, by every 
post, and his letters, if possible, endeared him still 
more to their hearts. Unwilling to dwell upon 



their mutual sorrows, yet always expressing suffi 
cient to prove that distance and absence had not 
impaired his sympathy, he contrived with infinite 
delicacy even to amuse their solitude with the ad- 
ventures of his life of bustle. The arrival of the 
post was the incident of the day ; not merely let- 
ters arrived, — one day brought books, another 
music ; continually some fresh token of his thought 
and affection reached them. He was, however, 
only a fortnight absent ; but when he returned, it 
was to Cadurcis. He called upon them the next 
day ; and indeed every morning found him at 
Cherbury : but he returned to his home at night, 
and so, without an effort, from their guest he had 
become their neighbour. 

Plantagenet had left the whole of his property 
to his cousin : his mother's fortune, which, as an 
accessary fund, was not inconsiderable, besides the 
estate. And George intended to devote a portioa 
of this to the restoration of the abbey. Venetia 
was to be his counsellor in this operation, and 
therefore there were ample sources ot amusement 
for the remainder of the year. On a high ridge, 
which indeed was one of the beacons of the coun- 
ty, and which moreover marked the junction of 
the domains of Cherbury and Cadurcis, it was his 
intention to raise a monument to the united memo- 
ries of Marmion Herbert, and Plantagenet Lord 
Cadurcis. He brought down a design with him 
from London ; and this was the project wliich he 
had previously whispered to Venetia. With 
George for her companion too, Venetia was in- 
duced to resume her rides. It was her part to 
make him acquainted with the county in which he 
was so important a resident. Time, therefore, at 
Cherbury, on the whole flowed on in a tide of 
tranquil pleasure, and Lady Annabel observed 
with interest and fondness the continual presence 
beneath her roof of one who, from the first day 
she had met him, had engaged her fine feelings, 
and had since become intimately endeared to 
her. 

The end of November was, however, now ap- 
proaching, and Parliament was about to re-assem- 
ble. Masham had written more than once to Lord 
Cadurcis, impressing upon him the propriety and 
expediency of taking his seat. He had shown 
these letters, as he showed every thing, to Venetia, 
who was his counsellor on all subjects, and Vene- 
tia agreed with their friend. 

" It is right," said Venetia ; " you have a duty 
to perform, and you must perform it. Besides, I 
do not wish the name of Cadurcis to siidi again 
into obscurity. I shall look forward with interest 
to Lord Cadurcis taking the oaths and his seat. It 
will please me ; it will indeed." 

" But, Venetia," said George, " I do not like to 
leave this place. I am happy, if we may be happy. 
This life suits me. I am a quiet man. I dislike 
London. I feel alone there." 

" You can write to us ; you will have a great 
deal to say. And I shall have something to say to 
you now. I must give you a continual report how 
they go on at the abbey. I will be your steward, 
and superintend every thing." 

" Ah !" said George, "what shall I do in Lon- 
don without you — without your advice ? There 
will be something occurring every day, and 1 shall 
have no one to consult. Indeed I shall feel quite 
miserable ; I shall indeed." 

" It is quite impossible that, with your station. 



VENETIA. 



837 



and at your time of life, 3rou should bury yourself 
in the country," said Venetia. " You have the 
whole world before you, and you must enjoy it. It 
is very well for mamma and myself to lead this 
life. I look upon ourselves as two nuns. If Ca- 
durcis is an abbey, Cherbury is now a convent." 

" How can a man wish to be more than happy 1 
I am quite content here," said George. " What is 
London to me !" 

" It may be a great deal to you, more than you 
think," said Venetia. " A great deal awaits you 
yet. However, there can be no doubt you should 
take your seat. You can always return if you wish. 
But take your seat, and cultivate dear Masham. I 
have the utmost confidence in his wisdom and 
goodness. You cannot have a friend more respect- 
able. Now mind my advice, George." 

" I always do, Venetia. 



CHAPTER V. 

Tr?rE and Faith are the great consolers : and 
neither of these precious sources of solace were 
wanting to the inhabitants of Cherbury. They 
were again living alone, but their lives were cheer- 
ful ; and if Venetia no longer indulged in a world- 
ly and blissful future, nevertheless in the society 
of her mother, in the resources of art and litera- 
ture, in the diligent discharge of her duties to her 
humble neighbours, and in cherishing the memory 
of the departed, she experienced a life that was not 
without its tranquil pleasures. She maintained 
with Lord Cadurcis a constant correspondence ; he 
wrote to her, indeed, every day, and although they 
were separated, there was not an incident of his 
life, and scarcely a thought, of which she was not 
c-sgnisant. It was indeed with great difliculty 
that George could induce himself to remain in 
London ; but Masham, who soon obtained over 
him all the influence which Venetia desired, ever 
opposed his return to the abbey. The good Bishop 
was not unaware of the feelings with which Lord 
Cadurcis looked back to the Hall of Cherbui-y, and 
himself of a glad and sanguine temperament, he 
indulged in a belief in the consummation of all that 
happiness for which his young friend, rather scep- 
tically, sighed. But Masham was aware that time 
cmild alone soften the bitterness of Venetia's sor- 
row, and prepare her for that change of life which 
he felt confident would alone ensure the happiness 
both of herself and her mother. He therefore de- 
tained Lord Cadurcis in London the whole of the 
session, so that on his return to Cherbury, his so- 
ciety might be esteemed a novel and agreeable in- 
cident in the existence of its inhabitants, and not 
be associated merely with their calamities. 

It was therefore about a year after the catastro- 
phe, which had so suddenly changed the whole 
tenor of their lives, and occasioned so unexpected a 
revolution in his owrn position, that Lord Cadurcis 
arrived at his ancestral seat, with no intention of 
again speedily leaving it. He had long and fre- 
quently apprised his friends of his approaching 
presence, and arriving at the abbey late at night, 
he was at Cherbury early on the following morn- 
in?- 

Although no inconsiderable interval had elapsed 
fflnce Lord Cadurcis had parted from the Herberts, 
the continual correspondence that had been main- 



tained between himself and Venetia, divested his 
visit of the slightest embarrassment. They met 
as if they had parted yesterday, except perhaps 
with greater fondness. The chain of their feehngs 
was unbroken. He was indeed welcomed, both by 
Lady Annabel and her daughter, with warm affec- 
tion ; and his absence had only rendered him dearer 
to them by affording an opportunity of feeling how 
nmch his society contributed to their felicity. Ve- 
netia was anxious to know his opinion of the im- 
provements at the abbey, which she had superin- 
tended ; but he assured her that he would examine 
nothing without her company, and ultimately tliey 
agreed to walk over to Cadurcis. 

It was a summer day, and they walked through 
that very wood wherein we described the journey 
of the child Venetia, at the commencement of this 
very history. The blue patches of wild hyacinths 
had all disappeared, but there were flowers as 
sweet. What if the first feelings of our heart fade, 
like the first flowers of spring, succeeding years, 
like the coming summer, may bring emotions not 
less charming, and, perchance, far more fervent ! 

"I can scarcely believe," said Lord Cadurcis, 
"that I am once more with you, I know not 
what surprises me most, Venetia, that we should 
be walking once more together in the woods of 
Cherbury, or that I ever should have dared to quit 
them." 

" And yet it was better, dear George," said Ve- 
netia. " You must now rejoice that you have fulfil- 
led your duty, and yet you are here again. Besides, 
the abbey never would have been finished if you 
had remained. To complete all our plans, it re- 
quired a mistress." 

I wish it alwaj s had one," said George. "Ah 
Venetia, once you told me never to despair." 
" And what have you to despair about, George ?" 
" Heigh ho !" said Lord Cadurcis, " I never shall 
be able to live in this abbey alone." 

" You should have brought a wife from London," 
said Venetia. 

" I told you once, Venetia, that I was not a mar- 
r3dng man," said Lord Cadurcis ; " and certainly 
I never shall bring a wife from London." 

" Then j'ou cannot accustom yourself too soon 
to a bachelor's life," said Venetia. 

" Ah ! Venetia," said George, " I wish I were 
clever ; I wish I were a genius ; I wish I were a 
great man." 

" Why, George?" 

" Because, Venetia, perhaps," and Lord Cadur- 
cis hesitated, " perhaps you would think different 
ly of me 1 I mean perhaps your feelings towards 
mc might — ah ! Venetia, perhaps you might think 
me worthy of you — perhaps you might love me." 

" I am sure, dear George, if I did not love you, 
I should be the most ungrateful of beings: you are 
our only friend." • 

" And can I never be more than a friend to 
you, Venetia ]" said Lord Cadurcis, blushing very 
deeply. 

" I am sure, dear George, I should be very sorry 
for your sake, if you wished to be more," said Ve- 
netia. 

" Why V said Lord Cadurcis. 
" Because I should not like to see you unite your 
destiny with that of a very unfortunate, if not a 
very unhappy person." 

" The sweetest, the loveliest of women !" said 
Lord Cadurcis. " O ! Venetia, I dare not express 



838 



D'ISRAELI'S NOVELS 



what I feel, still less what I could hope. I think 
so little of myself, so highly of you, that I am con- 
vinced my aspirations are too arrogant for me to 
breathe them." 

" Ah ! dear George, you deserve to be happy," 
said Venetia. '' Would that it were in my power 
to make you." 

" Dearest Venetia, it is, it is," exclaimed I^ord 
Cadurcis : then checking himself, as if frightened 
by his boldness, he added in a more subdued tone, 
" I feel I am not worthy of you." 

Was it an unconscious pressure of his arm that 
emboldened Lord Cadurcis, and suddenly gifted 
him with all the flow of passionate eloquence 1 
They stood upon the breezy down that divided the 
demesnes of Cherbury and the Abbey. Beneath 



them rose, " embosomed in a valley of greets 
bowers," the ancient pile lately 'renovated under 
the studious care of Venetia. 

" Ah !" said Lord Cadurcis, " be no less kind to 
the master of these towers, than to the roof that 
you have fostered. You have renovated our halls 
— restore our happiness ! There is a union that 
will bring consolation to more than one hearth, and 
baffle all the crosses of adverse fate. Venetia, 
beautiful and noble-minded Venetia, condescend to 
fulfil it !" 

Perhaps the reader will not be surprised that 
within a few months of this morning walk, the 
hands of George, Lord Cadurcis, and Venetia 
Herbert were joined in the chapel at Cherbury by 
the good Masham. Peace be with them ! 



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